Bradley
Bradley steps into the place, greeted by a poorly lit bar, filled with stacked cardboard boxes and seating space for about two dozen. It's cramped in here. Hot too, despite the lack of bodies. The people who drink here are poor, no doubt about that. There's a fat man perched upon two stools which wobble when he turns his neck to look at you. Between the shitty light and the smoke in your eyes it's hard to guess the age of the thin woman behind the bar, but you see wrinkles in her face and can sense the worn-down demeanour as she almost bothers to nod at whatever the fat man's telling her.
There are a few people littered about the tables, drinking alone apart from one young couple. You hear noise upstairs. There's a white guy sat next to the door over a glass. He's looking that mean, vacant kind of drunk that could explode into violence at any moment as he eyefucks you on principle.
Roll Wits+Comp at -2