Shut Up, Redneck

"Is the bar closed?" he asked, his words were formed by an asshole on his face that some would call a mouth. And this mouth was surrounded by hair that those in the facial hair industry would call a "goatee".
"No, there's just no one here," I said as I watched baseball stats while bad club music blared out of the cheap sound system. "You need a drink?" I asked immediately perturbed by the presence of a guy who I knew was going to be a fucking dick.
"How much you charge for a JW Black?"
"9 bucks."
"Hells! I'm from West Virginia, you get that shit for 4 bucks a shot. Damn, I just got back from eating all you can eat chicken wings and pizza and all you can drink beer for 15 dollars!" He exasperated.
"Well, that doesn't change the price. I've got Dewar's in the well, $7.50." I sounded cold.
"If you pour me a good one, I'll take it," he said as his eyes lit up because a buck fifty made all the difference in the world. Thanks for the business.
"Of course you will," I said, watched a little more of the baseball scores while, like a dog he was waiting to be lead to the bar. "Let's go," I said after I saw that Boston won.
"I'm a good tipper!" he said as he took a seat.
I poured him a tight Dewar's on ice, a respectable pour and didn't charge him the additional 2 dollar "rocks" surcharge which simply means he gets a little more scotch since it's not mixed with anything.
"I used to paint houses," "I'm a smart man", "I'm a licensed...", "people don't like me because I'm smart", "hillbilly heroin", blah blah....
I stared at this man and imagined his head being smashed between two swinging logs with a shotgun up his ass. I didn't listen to any of his stories. I couldn't hear most of what he was saying simply due to the fact that the music in the bar is too loud and the last electrician to come through fucked up the volume control so I can't turn it down. Or in the case of this guy, turn it the fuck up.
He kept talking and slurping at his drink. Besides his asshole mouth surrounded by facial moss, his head was shaved and he had a gold stud in each earlobe. I prayed that he was an ignorant redneck gay guy that was just drunk until he started spouting off about his "oriental" wife who works so much she won't fuck him. Yeah, if I was a woman, I would look at this guy and my nipples would invert themselves and stretch to lengths into my chest and wrap themselves around my heart and crush it, killing me. But hopefully this woman has a plan for when this dude "accidentally" drinks too much grain alcohol and sticks his head into the blades of his lawnmower trying to cut the tip off a cheap cigar and then cuts his skull open instead. I mean shit, anything could happen.
Anyway, I digress. I'm listening to this guy as if his words are light flashes from a strobe light. I don't even bother making any sense of the man and I think he can tell. I walk away from the bar and stand in front of the television then look for an empty glass or a napkin that I can pick up.
"Damn, I got nothing," I say to myself, it was a slow night.
"Can I get another?" he says over his shoulder, to me, the bartender, the only other person in the bar, the guy that is ignoring him and supposed to be working for tips.
"That was last call, man, sorry," I said, two hours before the real "last call" was called.
"7.50," I said. He looked at me. "For the drink," I clarified, not for wasting my time or eroding my ears with your shit stories.
He proudly slapped a ten on the bar. I put it in the till and placed his change in front of him. He snatched the two bucks and left the two quarters on the bar top. "That's yours" he said smiling and then walked away.
I found a sex show on cable and watched until it was time to close.
I'm all about customer service.