Once upon a time, In a world crowded by smog, with a society so busy it forgets what's truly important, a man-- one so despicable, so missguided-- awoke to three dogs barking before his door. Sweat covered lids, Jimmy rose from his thin cardboard bed. He knew what beckoned him out was trouble. He knew trouble, even if he knew nothing in the world, he'd still know trouble. It was in his bones, deeper than the marrow. His great aunt foretold it was his father's doing, perhaps a deal with satan himself, or some lower demon, for Jimmy's mother was barren from birth. She had no uterus. But somehow, under the starless vale, he was born a healthy boy.

"Come on out Jim-boy!" A thick smoker's call rang through the thin wispy fabric covering the entrance of Jimmy's shack. The dogs went mad. They pulled so hard they nearly suffocated. They had to take momentary breaks to regain their breath. The smoker was very encouraging to them all, he spoke kind words to his babies.

Jimmy leaned his back on the wall and lit a cigarette. "Fuck yourself Dan. I'm not going anywhere." He bent down and retrieved his belt from the floor. He grabbed from it his revolver, checked the bullets, sured the aim with a squint. 

"God dammit, you bullheaded bitch. It's been two months now with no pay, I can't do another!" The dogs took a break. The smoker coughed.

Jimmy sighed. The air in his little hut was thick, smelled like mushrooms and tobacco-smoke. He combed through his black beard, which covered his neanderthal face, his square, flat jaw, and he dragged upon his pitifully rolled cigarette. The sweat in his beard were beads of sparkling amber, reflecting the crimson glow of the joints ember in the low light. The smoke leaked out the corners of his mouth, extending his smile, the smile people have when all is lost in such a way that you can only laugh. 

"Get! I got the money coming on Tuesday! You'll get it!"

"No."The smoker coughed. "You don't have no money coming. What job you got? Who's paying you? You can't fool me Jimmy." The dogs took a break.

Jimmy snarled. He searched himself about, as if to gather up strength and pull out something worth shouting. "I won it! In a game of poker last night." Jimmy was proud of his lie.

"You won it? 'Gainst who?"

"Some kids from outta town. Thought they were big shots, can't play worth a dime. They said they got to gather the money and will have it for me by Tuesday."

"All 1800.00?"

"Every dime."

The dogs halted and the smoker petted them all and said sweet things about their good job. "I'll be here for your ass on Tuesday Jim. On my mamma's grave, I'll shoot you dead if you try and stay with no pay."

Jimmy sighed out a drag and the smoke left his mouth like an evil spirit. "I hear you."

He waited not 15 minutes before leaving his shack. He peered over his shoulder at it and wondered if life were this and only this, or if the world offered more for his kind. The sheet metal walls rusted in spots where the roof dripped acidic rain. The rust looked like little slugs crawling up and up. The windows of Jimmy's shack were of course broken and covered in cobwebs, covered in dust and pieces of debris. The door was a dirty, thin towel, the color of wet sand. It was frayed at the bottom, and nailed at its top to a board. 

Jimmy wore an aged leather jacket given to him by his older brother when they were teens. It was a tight fit, didn't quite reach the end of his arms, but that was why he wore two gold watches, and he let his arm hair grow as long as it liked. His shoes were commissioned boots he stole from a young soldier, dozed off booze and sugary delights. Those fit well.

He walked around the corner with his hands in his pocket and a bent cig smoldering in the crescent of his mouth. He stepped over the half dead laying in the walk-way, their bodies twitched and shuttered as if possessed, as if their very souls sought to leave their vessels and leave their pain on earth. They were junkies and Jimmy knew they were below him, but not in a negative way; in a way were you look down to a dying elder, with sympathy, a deep understanding of the unavoidable path which you are bound to follow, no matter your attempts to claw, so you simply smile at them; you try your best to bring about no more pain in their lives, for in the end, when you are them, in a few years or more, you would desire to be given no more suffering than what God has presented you in your last moments. And so Jimmy kept walking, nodded to those who made his eye to do no more than acknowledge their existence.

On this day, he felt particularly angry. He hated the idea of being thrown out because he lost his job and none were hiring his kind. He was fired over nothing as well; his boss, Bill Tendky, found Jimmy attempting to court his daughter and fired him faster than lightning.

"Don't matter how good he is at flipping burgers," Bill said, "my baby-girl aint ready yet."

Jimmy was just talking to the girl. She wandered into the back and wanted him to make her something for lunch. Her being a girl, no older than 13, she had very little in common with Jimmy. He was a worn old man in her eyes, worth no more than a pitiful smile, or brief conversation for his own sake, to keep the loneliness at bay enough to not ruin the overall mood of the kitchen. 

The bar maintained a very merry environment which patrons enjoyed. It was an infection of the mood. The very bar air carried with it a subtle sweet scent, a subtle cinnamon and rustic cedar, and a gentleness which made one drunk in the body before enjoying a single spirit or ale. Maintaining this environment was a delicate procedure-- one that Bill had mastered over the years through dedication and the willingness to change once something stopped working. He wasn't afraid of changing things up on a dime to surprise his fellow townsfolk, his patrons, and friends, and make them all smile till their cheeks were red and sore.

To avoid devaluing the bar’s environment, and continue the patronage of people like Jimmy (the vile and reputable) Bill devised a plan. He cared about their souls, their thirst which he could quench, and in a deep part of his being, Bill loved each of them in a paternal manner. He felt, in a way, that God had put him there to hold sway over these lowly souls, these missguided creatures. And so, to ensure his people are able to get their drink, and play part in an ancient human ritual, Bill built a secret bar in the garage of the original bar. He was the only tender, and spent most of the day back there talking with the misfits. You had to enter through a secret entrance in the sewer. There was a door, at the edge of Shits creek, with a little slide view that a man with shady eyes opens when you knock the special knock. 

"Password..."He says slowly with a cough.

Jimmy, impatiently tapping his boot, "Come on Steven, you fucking know its me. I'm here everyday."

"What's...Come on man...What's the password?"

Jimmy pinched his nose, sighed. He desired to kick the door,"Thursday's Pickle Is Rather Shriveled."

The door latched and opened with a great creek. Steven sat meekly on a stool beside the entrance, he waved to Jimmy like a wet noodle. He wore a turtleneck sweater. It had stripes of black and white. 

Jimmy waved back. From the focused view of a distant hallway, the bar's light shined on Jimmy heavenly, like some great hope washing away worry. He could see the checkered backs of a few drinkers at the bar, Bill behind cleaning a glass, and the vast wall of spirits. 

"Jimmy!" Bill shouted, "don't take another step with that belt on!" He pointed with his thick arm and meaty finger at a wall full of hooks and hanging holster with guns. "You know the rule, I ain't playing!" His round face was red, steam leaked from his ears.

Jimmy put his hands up, laughed to himself, "I'm doing it, no worries Bill." He undid his belt and put it on a hook beside another. Bill simmered down quick and his face turned back to its usual complexion.

"Appreciate it Jimboi. We don't want another shooting in here." Bill threw down a coaster before Jimmy,  He got him some water. "You know, man, I'm sorry for firing you."

Jimmy drank his water, eyed the man with suspicion. "No you ain't," he said, sliding the empty glass back.

Bill shrugged and laughed, impressed at the drunk's call on his bluff. "You're right, I'm not!" Everyone found that funny and laughed with Bill for a good bit. Bill was still laughing as he poured Jimmy his first shot of whisky. "You really have a way Jimmy, of always making me laugh," and he let out a 'wooo' sound like someone decompressing from a good time. He wiped away a tear.

Jimmy drank, slid his glass over, tapped its rim. Bill knew what that meant and filled it up again. Jimmy drank, this time with a sip instead of one singular golp. He needed money and fast. He had six days to make 1800 dollars, and no legal way in sight to acquire such a sum. He could rob someone. Use his looks and gun to scare travelers into forking over what's in their pockets. Jimmy snarled, swirled his spirit. The law in this town was inept, but they knew Jimmy well, and would come to him first hearing of folks getting robbed. He put down his glass, rubbed his thick brows as if in thought.

What he would have to do, his trick, it would have to be a longer con, one that wouldn't arouse attention in a sudden manner, but in a few weeks' time. The money must be acquired in six days, or it's all worth nothing and he loses the shack. 

Jimmy contemplated, moved his rubbing to his temples, doing small rotations as if trying to conjure up a spell. He growled slightly, in a way that to others it sounded like brief, lovely, hums. Bill thought he was meditating, and out of respect, quieted the entire bar with waving arms, even getting a few patrons to join in. It was very calming. 

One of the patrons, a very dirty looking gentleman wearing a tall cap and blown out tan suit, he realized something: He didn't like his life.  In fact, he hated the life he had built. He wanted change. He looked confused after opening his eyes, as if waking from a deep sleep and seeing the world around as alien. The man relieved his bald head of its ludicrous adornment, and sullenly held it over his heart, tears filling his eyes. He left quickly, with out a word of announcement or a goodbye, just the sound of the coin left for his tab dancing on the bartop, the scooting of his stool.

"Good bye Daniel!"Bill said in a whisper.