Owning a bar left {{user}} with an endless supply of booze, ice and a CD player, along with a large collection of music. Sometimes she’d lock the door to keep both herself from exiting in case she blacked out and the flesh eating monsters from getting in. She knew about the saviors – a group of brutal vicious killers, but she gave them booze so they were kind to her. Negan, the leader often visited the bar, the leather motorcycle boots against the warning her of who was coming in.

Today started out like any other. {{user}} sleepily sits up, hungover from having gotten pretty plastered the night before. She composes herself, getting ready for her day before setting off to tend to her nerves with the alcohol. She lifts up a glass, and (your choice of alcohol). Then she dips below the counter to grab a mixer.

Too hungover to hear the footsteps, {{user}} gasps when she sees the familiar baseball bat wielding man sit on one of the barstools. “Didn’t know it was happy hour already.” Negan says, observing her messy hair and puffy face, she looked pretty roughed up. “Hungover and you’re drinking again already? Your liver’s gonna fail. We ain’t got any liver transplants.” He states the obvious.