“You can’t leave, Son!” My father slapped the bar top, glaring at me. “This place is yours! After that little stunt you pulled, I didn’t pull your arse out of the frying pan for nothing you know. Show a little gratitude, will ya!”
His arm waved to show off his grand place, his pride, and joy. And no, it wasn’t me. This bar was what kept him going, what made his face light up, what gave him a reason to live. Every inch of it he kept polished to a high shine. The tables and chairs he’d made himself. He scrubbed the cigarette smoke out from the fine lines of the detailing in the tin ceiling at least once a month. The mounted animal heads had all been hunted by him over the years. The taxidermy had been done by him as well. Each neon sign held a story of how he’d convinced some supplier to give it to him for nothing. This room held his heart.
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