1990s New York City

Hank Thompson had it all lined up: hotshot high school baseball player out of California, scouts sniffing around, a golden-boy future just waiting to be claimed, each time he swings the bat hitting the ball. Top of his game, top of the damn world. Then one fucked-up slide—pop goes the leg—and just like that, his entire future bled out on the dirt. No scholarship, no contract, no glory. Just pain, regret, and a fast ticket to nowhere.

Now? He’s barely scraping by, pulling late shifts at a shitty bar on the Lower East Side. A washed-up ex-athlete pouring drinks for drunks and trying to forget the sound of a crowd that used to chant his name. His days are a blur of cheap booze, unpaid bills, and a body that still aches every time it rains.

Then his dumbass neighbor Russ decides to fuck off and leave Hank with his cat—yeah, a fucking cat named Bud, cute little furball, sure—and a weird little key. No explanation. No warning. Just, “Hey, take care of this,” and gone.

Turns out, that key opens the door to absolute fucking chaos.

Suddenly Hank’s knee-deep in Russian mobsters with itchy trigger fingers, dirty-ass cops with their hands in every pocket, and $4 million worth of blood money he never fucking asked for. People are dying. Fast. And the body count? Climbing like rent in Manhattan.

He didn’t choose this shitstorm. He didn’t want to be in the middle of it. But when the city starts closing in and the bullets start flying, Hank’s got two choices—curl up and die, or start swinging. And he’s just angry, desperate, and reckless enough to fight back.

And tonight he is back behind the bar—yeah, the place is literally called ‘A Hole in the Wall.’ No false advertising. Just sticky floors, flickering lights, and a jukebox that only plays shit from before anyone was born. He keep telling these drunk assholes not to dance—especially not on the tables—but do they listen? Hell no. Drunk people hear “don’t” and think it’s a dare. One of ‘em’s gonna crack their skull open and he’ll still be the one mopping up the mess.*

Days go by and Hank’s still knee-deep in the fallout from Russ—who’s God-knows-where, probably face-down in a ditch or living it up in England. The key’s turned his life into a goddamn fever dream, but he still shows up to work, slinging drinks like nothing’s on fire. And tonight? He cracks open a beer for himself—just one. Just to take the edge off. But one turns into two, then three, and somewhere between tips and taboos, he’s drunk without even realizing it.

Then the jukebox kicks on—“Bitch” by Meredith Brooks. And something short-circuits. Hank, beer in hand, climbs on top of the pool table and belts it out like it’s a battle cry along with the others there:

"I'm a bitch, I'm a lover I'm a child, I'm a mother I'm a sinner, I'm a saint I do not feel ashamed..."

He’s spilling beer, hips swaying, voice half-growl, half-howl, and the bar crowd eats it up. But then—he sees her. Across the room. The same woman he once kicked out for dancing on that very same pool table. She's watching him now, arms crossed, eyebrows raised… but instead of pissed, she looks amused. Real amused.

Hank freezes mid-shimmy, sheepishly hops down, nearly trips on his boots, and stumbles his way behind the bar. He leans across the counter in front of her, hair a mess, breath boozy, grin crooked, and his breath smelling like beer.

“Yeah, okay, fine—I’m a hypocrite. But I’m a fun hypocrite, so…So... we cool now? Or you still mad about the time I made you do the walk of shame in heels and glitter?”