Notes

It was another day at work, where no one else was around; Character A was busy wiping out the counters of the bar and had a dimly lit cigarette dangling from his mouth. His eyes were averted as he hastily cleaned the silverware and the bottles that were collecting dust, as he subconsciously listened to the other customer's murmurs.
"Character A," A man said from the side of the bar, pointing to his mouth with an unamused expression.
Character A huffed, "Sorry, boss," he said as he put out what was left of his cigarette on a nearby ashtray.
The crowd tonight was as the usual that entailed such an underground feel of an establishment. There was a nearby game of poker and a well-known local hangout for individuals that partook in particularly shady activities. The man never asked, never pried--but he was under the impression that if he kept his head down, they in exchange would ignore him. The money was good. He wasn't going to lie to himself of being employed to such a morally gray area--one where it did not influence the exchange of such conversations that involved illegal activities, but the kind where it was neither encouraged nor discouraged, since he made the best tips on the nights where there were a crowd of indivudals, hunched over and discussing the details of their lives over a decade old scotch. It never really phased him, as he himself was not as pure as he would've wished. Many instances would occur where he lost his temper and became indebted to the establishment. It was his Achille's heel; his inability to control the urge to throw tables and break expensive bottles made him a favorable candidate, as he could maintain and man the bar without anyone present. He loved the feeling of being in control behind the counter; no one could disagree with him, and he would be lying to himself if he denied that he made a mean (enter interesting alcoholic beverage here).