(no subject)

The nights are short. Not like wish-they-were-longer type of short or drank-too-much-and-passed-out-again type of short. No, the nights are short like blink-and-they're-gone type of short.

It hasn't always been this way. Somewhere around year 80 or 78 or whenever John left, nights became like blinking.

Sonny tends bar more often than anyone would think, given that he owns the place.

He likes getting his hands dirty. He likes that small talk across beers and cashews (like Jo said, they're a classy type of bar, okay).

People come in. They want his help. They want info. They want a curse lifted. They want to know where they can go. They come to him, because he is about as All-Knowing as anyone in Chicago could be. People should kill him for what he knows, but he keeps all the information in different hiding places. Besides, he's too damn invaluable to kill and he's on nobody's side.

They come in. They ask for help.

A short exchange follows. They flash that green. The smell of money makes a lot of men go mad with greed. It makes them stupid.. Sonny couldn't give a shit about money, but he charges to teach a lesson.

Nothing comes without a price.

It's a lesson he learned somewhere around year 28.

"Hey, Sonny." Hand slaps against the bar. The sound of it knocks him out of the reverie of his head. "Hit me up."

Sonny smirks at him.

"What? Can't even say please?" He barely knows the guy, never has to. "You forget your manners?"

There's an eyeroll, a surge of anger that Sonny feels but a surge of amusement too. People have a tendency to not get too angry at him. And Sonny doesn't have to do shit to make it so.

"Please."

Sonny pulls the beer out, pops the top, and slides it across the bar. It lands directly in that slap-happy hand.

Always had good aim. It's what she used to say.

The patrons go back to their conversing. Sonny goes back to serving them.

He likes that the nights are like blinking.