Dive bars. The living cesspool of every city, where cheap beer and cheap talk are law. Adler has been to many a fair share of his own in his day and very few stand out. Rarely are they places anyone actually wants to be. They’re last resorts. Rock bottoms. When everything else in life falls through and you’re already in a nose dive to hell, so you might as well come on by.

In his case, they’re the closest things to heaven. There’s no commitment to anything but work in his world, but that doesn’t mean he’s made of stone. Even America’s Monster has his needs. It’s simply easier to settle down from months long jobs with some aftercare, his just happens to be more physical. It’s a release of pent up energy. Relieving some tension. Whatever else the hell other terms there was for it.

Smoke curls from his lips like a snake’s tongue. He’s hardly taken a sip from his glass as he remains posted at the counter. Some classic rock plays from a forgotten jukebox. Behind his shades, he takes in the bar for what it is. And what it holds. Just a quick midnight snack in some motel room, and he’ll be gone in the morning. That’s all it’ll be.