I just got back stateside a week ago, and I finally feel like my legs are stable enough to walk. Spending four weeks on a huge fucking ocean freighter had me feeling like I was going to puke every day, all day long.

A month of fucking puke has me on edge. Thank fucking god, I don’t have to babysit any more fucking shipping containers.

That motherfucker Simon… just his name is enough to give me heartburn. I called him as soon as I got outside of Neryungri, and he told me he had another job. I was still trying to get my hairy ass out of Russia without fucking dying, and he already had another job for me.

I could have strangled him right fucking then, but no. He wanted me to ride back on a massive ocean cargo ship so I could babysit a fucking container of weapons.

Don’t get me wrong, I do what I’m told, but that fucking boat… Fuck me running.

The burger and beer are the first time I’m allowed to be my normal self. No suit, and by hell’s demons, no fucking tie. I’ve finally gotten into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.

I’m not Lucifer’s polished fucking killer here in my bar. I’m able to let my fucking happy dick flag fly.

My bar is a fucking dive bar. It’s always been one, and with my fucking say, it will be one till I die. We don’t play fucking hip-hop or fucking pop music. We don’t have all them fucking girly drinks, and we sure as fuck don’t have the hoity-toity crowd in here.

We have bikers, beer, hard liquor, and guys who just got off at the industrial plants. We serve food that’s made to fill the stomach, and beer that gets a man drunk.

Fuck, we even started getting them fucking hipster guys in here for a couple of months until they figured out we really were a working-class bar and not the new trendy location.

Missy’s raspy voice lifts my head from my plate as she stands directly in front of me. Her big fucking tits are on proud display and she pushes them out towards me. “Want another shot?”

Shaking my head, I look back down at the fries. Those fucking tits are as real as I was happy on the fucking cargo ship. Even if I was into fake-bodied women, she just doesn’t do it for me. It’s easy to keep my strict rule of not shitting in my own backyard with her.

“Nah.” My eyes look at the now empty bottle of beer. “Just get me a beer.”

“Sure. What about a quick fuck in the back?”

“Nah, I don’t fuck bar whores.”

“Whatever, pencil dick,” she says as she pulls a beer from the cooler. Her words may sound harsh, and I’m betting so do mine, but it’s our style.

Missy’s been here working for me since I bought the place three years ago. Her and Hambone. Hambone is the big motherfucker at the door who sits there watching out for her and my money.

She’s been trying to get in my jeans since we first met. But I don’t do the relationship thing, or fake tits. She didn’t take kindly to being rejected, but now she just blows off my rejections as a term of endearment.

Fucking nutty ass women.

Looking in the mirror, I watch as the two women who came up earlier make their way back towards the bar.

Missy grumbles loudly as the girls come closer. “Fucking Princesses.”

We get these types every once in a while. It’s always entertaining when they figure out we’re not their type of crowd, but far be it from me to turn away daddy’s money.

Turning back to my burger, I keep on eating it. The fries on the side can wait. I want to eat something with meat in it. I need the fucking proteins, I guess.

They veer off from us, heading to the now silent jukebox instead.

Turning my head to watch the red-haired girl walk away, I can’t keep my eyes from following her ass as it sways back and forth. No, she isn’t doing it on purpose, that much is for sure. If anything, she looks like she’s trying to minimize the wiggle, but with an ass like that there’s nothing that will stop its sexy sway.

I swear she has eyes in the back of her head, though, because she looks back at me with aggravation. Fuck it, if she doesn’t want to be ogled for the sex-stick she is, she shouldn’t be in my bar.

Giving her a wink, I turn back to my food.

The red-haired, sex-on-a-stick must be the elected lamb sent over to Missy because she walks over to the bar and says, “The sign on the jukebox says we have to use tokens to play music.”

“Yep,” Missy says with a smirk.

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