I was the kind of fucked that holds it together in polite company because polite company doesn’t understand quite how fucked fucked can be.
The barman was a taciturn fucker. His face was all features, crammed in, bunched up. If you caught him out of the corner of your eye it looked like his eyebrows and chin met at the tip of his nose. I’d be a taciturn fucker if I looked like that I guess, but then I wouldn’t have gone for a job in customer service.
I scanned the pumps on the bar. Nice piece of wood in that counter. Nicely planed. I liked the way it curved. And I liked what it held too. Grumpy he might be, but the selection of beers was good and it looked like someone gave a shit. I ordered a pint of something refreshing and pale and turned down the offer of a cheese sandwich.