Morgan O’Mally thinks that bar’s are great places to hang around, and he’s eternally grateful his friends agree. Even Will—Boston’s resident misfit math genius stuck hanging with a bunch of low-life alcoholics—agrees.

And Will’s wicked smart. He’d never make a bad decision, not in Morgan’s eyes, though Chuckie begs to differ. He thinks staying in this dump is the worst decision Will could ever make. But hey, as long as his friends are happy, Morgan’s happy.

Except for when they derive their happiness from picking on Morgan, which just so happens to be all the time. First the job at the construction site, then making some chick call him overweight and tell him his hairline’s receding.

It isn’t any wonder why Morgan pouts, alone, at the other end of the bar. He’s on his third pint of Guinness, and the stuff’s beginning to taste like water. Too bad, it’s hitting him like a truck.

He stands, and within two steps, Morgan bumps into some poor person, nearly knocking both of them over.

“Oops—shit—“ he laughs a bit, before biting his tongue. “Ya good?” His Boston accent is thick. It’s clear he’s a native Masshole.