"How innocent do I look?" I reach over the counter and grab a shooter glass. I fill it 'ith pilsner and toss it at my face. One chug.
(more) "...t'ought so," he mumbles, neck bent over the bar.
"What d'ya mean?" I drum my fingertips on the cracked wood top.
He turns opposite me and grabs 'is deep tea cup of rum 'ith pink flowers painted on. He heaves himself off the rickety bar stool and ducks down int'a tattered leather booth.
Some night. Barmin Jim is out rushin' the under-agers around, telling 'em t' get the hell out of 'is bar again. They only got so many costumes. How don't he notice?
Jim lets m'in every night. He don't care t' notice that I'm a tad young t' be kickin' round this here bar. Old fuck doesn't know what's good for 'im. I usually bring in some more drinkers 'nd he likes that.(less)