Obscure 80s music only appropriate for karaoke blasted on the speakers.
Perspiring patrons stumble about, one eye on the flat screen, one eye on the overgrown beards inches from their faces. Except they don't care about the beards because they all have them.
A man sitting two feet away from our protagonist is hunched over the bar, collected, looking to wind down. It's assumed that he had spent the day doing manual labor, given the excess of sunscreen that engulfed his skin. Even his balding head had visible traces of sun tan lotion so vivid in the dark of the bar, it looked as though the stuff was seeping from his pores.
"YEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!", the patrons yelled as the Kings scored. I looked... I mean, our protagonist looked at the screen and saw the Kings celebrating.
"6 to 2! There's no way they're gonna catch up, now!", someone yelled.
"F*ck yeah!", said everyone else, politely.
"Look at that woman in the bleachers!", said an old, bearded fellow. He slapped the countertop. "HOOOOOOOOEEE! Oh, oh, just look at her!" He pretended to lose his balance.
"I'm going to assume you're straight", said the protagonist. But only in his mind, because the music was too loud and the old man would probably take offense to the joke. The protagonist turned to his friends and talked about beer styles. An acquaintance whom we'll call "Jim" was seated with his friends.
"Jim, right?", said the hero, respectfully.
"Yeah, Jim... I'm sorry, what's your name again?"
"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!!", shouted the patrons.
They talked about the differences between India pale ales and Belgian ales until the protagonist got tired of repeating that India pale ales were his least favorite beers.
The bartender gracefully bounced by and asked they still needed their glasses. One of them made a quip about his prescription specs and was congratulated with no recognition. They handed their glasses to her and watched as she strolled away, the three of them, leaning their not even 30 year old heads into the only walkway the bar had to offer. The farthest behind of which, was butted in the head with a tray of drinks.
"Oof", he said.
"Whoa, whoa, shit", said the barkeep, trying as hard as he could to balance the four beers on the tray.
"Whoa, oh no!", he exclaimed as he lunged forward and staggered along the way.
He stabilized the tray, but spilled some of the beer on his garments, and on the beard of a tired old man. The barkeep stared in fear, waiting for an explosive reaction.
"...I'll fun... I'll fush it later", was his response. Which we can only assume means the old man was feeling good.
