“Y'all going to eat that?" Uncle Clink asked, rubbing his barrel chest and beer belly.
A cold, moonless night with a slight drizzle of rain set the tone for bad things to come. The big black Escalade roared down the long, black, serpentine I-77 highway toward Sugar Creek road where a neighborhood hole-in-the-wall, rump-shaking club lived. The destination: the Viper lounge, where men went to get their drink on and find female companionship. It wasn't a rump-shaking club, but what went on in the private rooms stayed in the private rooms. A little after midnight and they were making good time since the interstate wasn't busy.
Two AM Sunday morning, but the usual after midnight crowd at Mitch's bar on Central Avenue didn't stick around on the account that it was the Lord's day. Owned by a man with the same name, Mitch Blake, a former actor who was once a pretty boy in Hollywood, became an aging pretty boy as his star began to diminish, so he left tinsel town to come back home and use his money to open a bar.