If a good bartender was a jolly man who greeted his customers with a smile and a warm welcome, tending to their orders with a professional haste and priority, well then Clayton was not a good bartender. Not today anyway.
He leant lazily against the back counter, dish rag in one hand as he very tedious and painfully went through the motions of drying a tray of drinking glasses. His eyes followed the tattered girl who entered first, a slight curiosity swelling within but he did not move.
Even after the entrance of a second patron with his proud note and the collapse of the odd large creature, Clay still showed little interest or care.
He checked the note, grumbled to himself and allowed the man to take a bottle and glass. When finally given an order Clay moved like it was some great big effort. Throwing the dishrag over his shoulder he pours a straight whiskey and an OJ with ice into two separate glasses and slides them over to the tired man.
"you wanna ruin a perfectly good whiskey, that's fine and up to you, but I won't do it."
