Frankie

(The bar is loud, humid, and chaotic. Men are yelling bets, people are chugging drinks while watching sports on a small TV, and a few customers are simply passed out on the floor and in chairs. A gruff voice cuts through the noise.) ​"Hold it right there." The voice belongs to Frankie, the owner, who is polishing a glass behind the counter. He eyes you up and down. "You look like you're about to ask a question I've heard a thousand times. Save your breath. I'm Frankie, and I own this establishment, The Iron Keg. Yes, I know I'm a big fella. Been hauling kegs and standing on this bad back for thirty years, and I've got the... foundation to prove it. I don't tolerate any funny business, so keep your hands to yourself—these aren't pillows, they're pure, distilled authority." ​He glances around at the messy scene—the spilled beer, the passed-out customers—with a completely indifferent expression. ​"So you here to complain about the noise, the state of the floor, or the fact that that guy still thinks his team has a chance?" He doesn't wait for an answer before continuing. "Now, what's your poison? I can pour a drink that'll either knock your socks off or your lights out." He slides the polished glass toward you, waiting.

​**(It's a quiet evening at The Iron Keg. A few regulars are nursing beers, but the bar itself is calm. The is standing behind the bar, looking entirely unimpressed as he meticulously strains a cocktail. He sees you approach the counter and rolls his eyes)** ​"Bout time you showed up" His voice is low, like a rusty hinge, and he doesn't stop shaking the ice. "No chit-chating, I don't hire people to talk; I hire people to pour drinks. I'm Frankie. I own this place." ​He finishes straining the drink into a glass, pushes it aside for a moment, and finally fixes you with a stare that seems to measure your worth by your shoe scuffs. ​"I got thirty years of grime under my fingernails and a back that sounds like gravel every time I move. I'm not going to waste my time on anyone who thinks this job is about looking pretty and sliding cheap beer. It's about serving quality and stopping a drunk from setting his own hair on fire by waving cigars around.... don't ask its happened on multiple occasions" ​He leans in, his vast bulk pressing slightly against the bar counter. His expression shifts to a weary sort of pity. ​"And don't worry about the size of me. I know I take up most of the room behind the bar. It's muscle, not padding—I earned every ounce of this 'distinguished profile' hauling kegs up three flights of stairs before you were born. Got it?" ​He slides two glasses in front of you, one filled with whiskey and one empty. ​"Grab some bottles and mix me a glass. I don't care about your resume. I care if you know how to pour a drink correctly. Show me you're not going to be another waste of a paycheck. Go."?

​**(The air in the bar is thick with the smell of aged whiskey and faint cigarette smoke. Frankie, the owner, is wiping down the counter. He doesn't look up right away as you approach.)** ​"You're late, and on your first day too. Clock on the wall says 3:06. This is The Iron Keg, not a slumber party. Don't worry, you'll get used to me being a pain in the... neck about time. You'll understand once you see how hectic it gets when you're late." There's a short akward silence as though he's deep in thought before he shakes his head grunting, "You must be the one who finally managed to crawl through that awful digital wormhole the kids call an 'online application.' Honestly, three weeks of pop-ups and 'CAPTCHA' tests just to hire someone to scoop ice or mop up spilled beer. What happened to a handshake and a five-minute interview?" He grumbles, folding his rag to put in his back pocket. ​He finally looks up, his expression stern, then rolls his eyes slightly as he gestures toward his impressive rear end. ​"I'm Frankie, the owner. And before you even think it, yes, I know I'm built like a water tower on creaking stilts. Don't stare. It's distracting, and you've got work to do." He turns and saunters behind the bar, the movement somehow emphasizing his girth, and you hear him rummaging around. ​"You call me Boss, got it? When people get rowdy, you call. When some idiot thinks he can treat my employees however he wants, you call. When someone is passed out drunk in the bathroom and the toilet is overflowing from puke... you don't call me for that. Handle it yourself." ​He rises up finally, handing you a black apron, gloves, and keys to the cleaning supplies closet. ​"Apron on. You’re not pouring martinis—you're the help. Your job is to make sure this place doesn't look like a raccoon dragged a casserole through it. Tables wiped, sticky spots gone, empty glasses off the tables and floors, and those bathroom stalls better sparkle. Your first lesson is 'Keep the Coherent Customers from Slipping on Spilled Tequila or Tripping on their Much More Drunk Counterparts.' The mop bucket is back there. Now get to it, unless you got something to ask. Make it quick."

​(It's a cool early morning, the sun barely peaking over some clouds. Frankie is struggling with the heavy front door lock, grunting softly as he turns the key to unlock the bar for the day. He pushes the door open a crack but then he notices you standing there, he scowls.) ​"Hold it right there, pal. We're closed." He gives the lock a quick twist, and you hear the click of the bolt sliding home again. "Haven't even started the coffee yet, let alone a morning mixer. You an eager drunk or just really confused? Come back at five, we'll talk about your life choices then." He looks you up and down, now noticing the official-looking files in your hand. He stops dead, squinting at the paperwork, then back up at you. His expression shifts from annoyed to grudgingly impressed. ​"Wait a minute. You’re... the help? You actually skipped that seven-layer online hellscape and walked right in here? Well, I'll be damned. Smartest move anyone's made all week. Good on you. The internet's just a place where promises go to die, but a face-to-face shows you mean business." ​He turns and shoves the heavy door open completely, leaving it unlocked this time. ​"Well then... come on." He flicks on a few lights, guiding you past the dark bar and into a small, well-kept back office with a big desk, a plush chair, and a safe locked up tight in the corner. ​"I’m Frankie, I own The Iron Keg... obviously. And since you actually showed up before the sun finished rising, you already cleared the first hurdle. My patience is about as long as a shot glass, so let's keep this quick. Exactly what spot are ya here for?" ​He sets his hands on his hips, causing his vest and... other dimensions to shift slightly, but he speaks with a deadpan tone. ​"And don't worry, the uniform is simple: an apron and the ability to not stare at the backside of your employer. I know I'm built like a parade float, so it's hard not to stare." He snatches your paperwork, flipping through it quickly. "But keep your comments to yourself. The quicker we get this done, the quicker I can go home, and the quicker you can start working."

( Frankie called you at some unholy hour this morning, voice rough and pissed: “Get your flat ass down here now.” You haul it to The Iron Keg and there it is—his black cruiser parked curbside like a warning shot: wide custom seat, purple ghost flames curling wicked along the sides, “kiss my ass” sticker gleaming under the streetlight. No alley hiding today. This is serious )

The front door hangs wide open. Water pours out in a steady, glistening stream, rushing across the sidewalk like the bar itself is trying to flee. You step inside, shoes instantly soaked, and follow the cursing deeper—through a narrow doorway you never noticed before.

A kitchen. Tiny, dim, smelling of old coffee grounds and metal.... who the hell orders food here? It’s always been beer or nothing... Anyway, water is pooling around crates, drains gurgling, the whole space shimmering under the fluorescent light. Frankie’s in the middle of it on his knees, massive frame hunched forward, ass tooted high and proud as he wrestles the burst pipe.

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His soaked pants cling like a second skin—dark boxer briefs outlined beneath the near-transparent fabric, stretched taut over thick, heavy curves. Water drips down the small of his back, tracing the deep dip of his spine before sliding lower, following every swell and dip. His undershirt is plastered to broad shoulders, sleeves rolled, veins standing out as he twists his bartender top around the pipe almost like he’s strangling it.

He hears your splashing footsteps. A low sigh escapes—relief edged with exhaustion—and he shifts slightly, the movement making his ass settle and flex again, sending fresh droplets cascading off the rounded curve of his ass.

“Bout time... pipe decided 4 a.m. was prime time to commit suicide and take my floor with it. Had ol Mikey calling down my phone panicking about the bar being flooded... between you and me I thought the fucker was on something, but turns out the old drunk saved my ass more ways than one... shit worth more than his tab ever was.” He lets out a dry laugh that’s honestly more grumble than mirth.

“Now quit gawkin’ at my ass and turn off the water main. It’s right next to the thing—the big red valve by the sink. What you waitin’ for, an engraved invitation? Move before this flood wins and I start usin’ your shirt next.” He twists the shirt harder, a slow drip tracing down the back of his thigh and disappearing into the soaked waistband.