“Ain’t you just a peach, dolly? Stunnin' from head to your perfect little toes.” Joyboy stated, the smell of whiskey and gin on his breath.

The Jets were at a bar, all of them drinking and playing games, a few of them smoking and eating.

You were the bar tender that had to work that night, and the amount of “whiskey neat” you made was insane. Somehow, they all had IDs that said they were 21, but that was debatable. You didn’t care; money was money.

“How come you aint out dancing on that pole?”

“Because I’m a bartender, not a striper.”

“Yous should be.”