This story begins in a very seedy part of Cleveland. One side of the
street is lined with parked cars, all old, all in shitty condition. Each
side is lined with houses and apartments, most in a haggard looking
condition; you know the kind I'm talking about. The kind that had seen good
days during the fifties and sixties then went to the gutter. Next to house
2244, the one 2 was hanging upside down, was a bar. Now this was an
interesting bar, because on the outside, it looked like everything else in
the neighborhood. There was an old neon light sign on the out side. The
sign said Dowling's Pub, with the "w" and "g" blinking in and out so that
the sign would, for brief seconds at least, read Dolin's Pub. To the
regular customers, it was a grand old joke and also an affectionate
nickname for the pub. When you walk into the Pub at first through the cage
like entrance way, and then to the door of the pub itself. Now, the door
had an oddity of its own. It had an 8 pound cannonball protruding from the
door, but still in enough to stay. The door itself was hard to open, for it
was made out of oak, which surprisingly, looked as new as the day it was
made. When you enter the bar itself, there is a classic saloon style look
to it, with the bar itself at the south wall, and the stage at the north
end, the stairs leading up to the apartments above the bar are stationed
right next to the bar itself, and the bathroom is right next to the stairs.
At the east end of the bar, near some windows, is where the guys throw
darts and such. The west end is just tables and such. The floor isn't like
most modern bars, but has nice oak wood on the floor.
I had just walked down from, oh ya, 'fore I forget, I own one of the apartments above the bar, Joe, the guy who owns the bar, has the one next to mine. Anyways, I was coming down the stairs when John shouted out in that ruddy fake Cornish accent of his. "Ello 'Arry! 'ow ya doin?" "Fine John, I'm doing fine" I replied. "Well that's just grand 'Arry just grand! He shouted gleefully back at me. Ah yes, John, before I forget, is a big, bald, Irish, black man who could throw you fifty feet. He's a friggin giant, weighing in at 296.23 pounds and standing 6ft high. But the man is so gentle he couldn't hurt a fly, unless you piss him off, and the only way to do that is to piss Joe off. Well it was early still in the morning, and only the diehard drunks were in getting their morning pick me up's. "Well, Harry, how do you want your coffee?" asked John. "Irish, and for God's sake my name is Sean, not Harry." I said with a bemused look on my face. As John served the coffee, a customer walked through the door. This man did not look like he belonged in the neighborhood. He was in a light gray suit, red striped tie, and a black bowler hat. His shoes were black shiny, as if they had been purchased just seconds before. On his face was a pair of gold round glasses. He had a very protruding nose, and one of those fancy British mustaches, you the kind, the ones that go from your side burn on one side, to the other side. While I ordered breakfast for myself to go with the coffee, John had looked up and saw the man looking around for a place to sit, all the chairs were still on the tables, the bar was the only area with seats open, and most were taken up. "Sir, I have to ask you to leave, were closed until one". John is a very polite man, I would've told him to get his shit outta here. "Um, but what about the other gentlemen?" he asked with a very annoyed English accent. "Well, these aren't real customers, these are just drunks" John told him, looking at us rather harshly, but then realized he had just poured himself a Guinness from the tap.
I had just walked down from, oh ya, 'fore I forget, I own one of the apartments above the bar, Joe, the guy who owns the bar, has the one next to mine. Anyways, I was coming down the stairs when John shouted out in that ruddy fake Cornish accent of his. "Ello 'Arry! 'ow ya doin?" "Fine John, I'm doing fine" I replied. "Well that's just grand 'Arry just grand! He shouted gleefully back at me. Ah yes, John, before I forget, is a big, bald, Irish, black man who could throw you fifty feet. He's a friggin giant, weighing in at 296.23 pounds and standing 6ft high. But the man is so gentle he couldn't hurt a fly, unless you piss him off, and the only way to do that is to piss Joe off. Well it was early still in the morning, and only the diehard drunks were in getting their morning pick me up's. "Well, Harry, how do you want your coffee?" asked John. "Irish, and for God's sake my name is Sean, not Harry." I said with a bemused look on my face. As John served the coffee, a customer walked through the door. This man did not look like he belonged in the neighborhood. He was in a light gray suit, red striped tie, and a black bowler hat. His shoes were black shiny, as if they had been purchased just seconds before. On his face was a pair of gold round glasses. He had a very protruding nose, and one of those fancy British mustaches, you the kind, the ones that go from your side burn on one side, to the other side. While I ordered breakfast for myself to go with the coffee, John had looked up and saw the man looking around for a place to sit, all the chairs were still on the tables, the bar was the only area with seats open, and most were taken up. "Sir, I have to ask you to leave, were closed until one". John is a very polite man, I would've told him to get his shit outta here. "Um, but what about the other gentlemen?" he asked with a very annoyed English accent. "Well, these aren't real customers, these are just drunks" John told him, looking at us rather harshly, but then realized he had just poured himself a Guinness from the tap.