“The Pooter!” answered Bill, our computer and social media guy, without hesitation.
Turns out The Pooter, a hole in the wall in the worst end of town with a small stage, has been an entertainment option in the city since 1925.
“When’s the last time someone was fucking murdered in there,” Chuck asked.
A cell phone search by Doris, the phone bank boss, revealed it was last night near closing time.
“Odds are no one will get killed there tonight then. Drinks on me at The Pooter tonight!” Chuck decided.
It was quiet inside when we arrived. Our crew, a dozen thirsty as a desert ridden horse campaign workers, soon changed that. You could hear us out on the street which soon attracted passers by in search of a party. Before long the place was hopping and dancing to a band playing modern day hillbilly music.
On my second trip to the can I was offered some meth. Cheaper than beer and 100 times as powerful. Town is swimming in the stuff. Back at the table I poured my buy into my drink and told everybody at our tables who to talk to if they were interested. Nearly everyone is. Meth and a night out go together like ironed trousers or a fresh smelling frock at church on Sunday.
I would like to tell you a story about what happened after that but I blacked out for quite a spell once I had poured some whiskey on top the powder in my gut. I already phoned around to make sure no one got jailed or murdered and they did not remember shit either so they were no help filling out the details that ought to be a part of this story.
There is a moral to the story however. Always go to the worst bar in town if it is fun time you after.