Like The Rotting Remains of a Neglected Relative

The bar I work at is in dire need of renovations. The hand dryers have been broken for eight months, duct tape holds furniture together and customers frequently complain of falling debris. The bribes we dish out to Health Inspectors have increased threefold in as many months. Not only that but the last week everything that could go wrong did. Thursday, the CO2 exploded, cleanly removing the head of one employee and seriously injuring four customers. Friday, the band never showed up, the freezer died on us and the till drawer jammed, forcing us to come up with a hastily devised bartering system so we could still sell drinks. And Saturday, the glass washer broke down, as did the bussey.

Although still a fairly well known bar in Melbourne it is no way near as popular as it was, say, five years ago. Our sister bar, Gambit, has taken over as the owner's favourite since it makes more on one night than we do in an entire week. We are like a once well-liked aunty who has fallen out with the family and is forgotten about, until one day a janitor finds her semi-decomposed body in a dumpster outside of a hotel.

And speaking of corpses in the dumpster, I must dispose of the body of a co-worker who was beheaded on Thursday.

Spends a long time trying to decipher Chinese menus,
Fatman