Faith, hope, and charity

This was the kind of bar she never went into, never looked at twice. A dive bar, and not a cool dive bar for yuppies who wanted to trick themselves into believing they were slumming by drinking their microbrews in a place with walls covered in graffiti and waitresses covered with multiple piercings. No, this was a real dive bar – graffiti and piercings, sure, but not a microbrew within hailing distance. Cheap beer, cheap whiskey, and the chance to buy bad cocaine if you had the cash and the courage. Loud music, mostly country. Big guys wearing faded t-shirts with ripped off sleeves under denim vests covered in Harley patches, tattoos twitching on their beefy arms. Women in spike-heeled black boots whose curves overflowed their tight jeans and whose hair showed the effects of too many bad perms.