Two men sit at either end of a bar.
One has a gun in his right hand.
He is nervous, twitchy.
The other is heavy set.
They look at each other.
“What’s your name?” one asks across the space.
“I don’t have one yet. What’s yours?”
They sit quietly for a few minutes, sipping their scotch, looking into the shadows, when one turns to the other.
“I wish he’d come soon instead of just planting us here”
“Calls himself a writer”, the other laughs. “He doesn’t know what to do with us. That’s the problem. Still long as the drinks keep coming ….”