This bloody place was noisy.
Not much of about the place was very appealing to begin with, from its silly name to its dark entrance. It was a dive, a place where all of the locals knew each other, and it was rare that new people had the courage to walk in. Unless they were desperate.
John Smith was not a brave man, nor a local. As he walked in to the dive, he carried an air of distaste and anger so thick that most people moved out of the way for him to pass with ease. He went to sit at the dimly lit bar, and fought the urge to twiddle his thumbs.
This was the first and far from the last time he walked in here. John was not usually the sort of man who enjoyed sitting in bars and drinking heavily, like many here did. John Smith didn't feel like the same man he was though, and had the insatiable urge to wash away memories.
It took weeks for him to become recognized as someone akin to this, wanting to be left alone, and just given his dark corner and drink.
To a stranger's eye, he was an old regular. The comfortable way he swaggered to his corner booth, his head hung in shame and shoulders hunched, his whole demeanor screaming defeat. In the constant lull of the drink, he was numb, and when he was numb, he didn't feel the pain. To the stranger, John Smith exuded pain and sorrow.
Weeks before, he had been clean shaven and trimmed, suited and well-kept. John Smith carried an air of confidence, and glowed with excitement like a child. To the stranger's eye, John Smith was a successful and attractive man, if not eccentric.
Though now, the only thing keeping him afloat was the haze that ruined him.
Understandably, when the new waitress began to muddle with his new routine, John Smith was thrown for a loop.