Friends in Low Places

Benton Black rolled along the streets of Sacramento, wind in his face and the savage growl of his chopper his only companions. So it had been for some time now in his new home. While he had yet to feel like he was really a part of the domain, the simple pleasure of riding let him forget his troubles for a while.

Before long Black came across a bar; a dirty looking dive that he would have been proud to pass out in about two lifetimes ago. The sign out front proclaimed "Low Places"

"My favorite kind." He thought as he parked up outside. The big man strolled in, grabbed a table where he could watch most of the room without being obvious and, after ordering a scotch, sat back to watch the crowd.

Father Black swirled the untouched whiskey in the glass in front of him. His night in Low Places had been pretty uneventful aside from a narrowly averted barroom brawl between two men over import vs. domestic beer or something like that. When he was mortal and could still get a kick out of drinking and screwing and fighting this probably would've been his kinda place. But now...

"I've seen lower..." he muttered as he walked out of the bar, got on his bike and rode back into the night.