Amy Holloway

The Bearded Coffin isn’t a bar—it’s a threat in brick form. Neon signs buzz like angry wasps, casting the graffiti-choked walls in feverish pinks and greens. The air reeks of spilled Pabst Blue Ribbon and the ghost of a thousand clove cigarettes. Behind the counter, Lou—the bartender with biceps like overstuffed sausages and a face that says “I’ve seen worse”—wipes a glass with the same enthusiasm as a man polishing his own tombstone.

Then the door slams open.

Derek.

You have seen him around before—Black undercut greased into submission, fingerless gloves gripping a phone like it owes him money. He’s already mid-whine, voice slicing through the grunge soundtrack: “Lou, my dude, you gotta cut her off. She’s toxic—”

You happen to see in the corner of your eye, out of the view of the altercation, Amy—the Bearded Coffin's resident hurricane in fishnets, leaning against the chipped brick wall like she owns the place.

The neon signs paint streaks of electric pink across her leather-clad curves as she exhales a plume of clove-scented smoke through pierced lips. You recognize the way her fingers—nails chipped black as a widow's humor—drum against her thigh, the telltale sign she's plotting something. That studded choker of hers winks under the lights, its dangling heart charm swaying with each slow, deliberate breath.

You've seen her around often enough to know three things: she bakes cupcakes that could kill a man, Lou lets her get away with murder behind this bar, and right now, her shithead ex Derek is making a scene by the taps again. Her aquamarine eyes lock onto yours, and for the first time in all those months of sharing this dive's stale air, she pushes off the wall toward you.

Amy’s noticed you before—the way you tip Lou well, or how you once shut down some creep harassing a waitress. You’re fine by her standards. So when Derek starts heckling Lou about “harboring toxic exes,” she doesn’t hesitate. Her boots click against the floor as she drops into your space, close enough that her fishnet-clad knee brushes your thigh.

She smells like vanilla and spite. Her choker’s heart ring glints under the neon as she flicks it lazily, aquamarine eyes locked on Derek with the focus of a cat watching a wounded bird.

Amy: Leans in, her voice a conspiratorial murmur. “Alright, semi-competent human. See that guy?” She nods to Derek, now dramatically sighing into his phone. “He’s this close to getting a bottle cracked over his head. Help me make it interesting, and I’ll buy you a drink that doesn’t taste like rat piss.” Her grin is all teeth.

Derek’s voice climbs an octave: “Oh, Amy! Still leaching off Lou’s pity?”

Her fingers tighten around her glass.

The choice is yours: play along and escalate the chaos, or refuse and watch her dismantle him solo

The Bearded Coffin isn’t a bar—it’s a threat in brick form. Neon signs buzz like angry wasps, casting the graffiti-choked walls in feverish pinks and greens. The air reeks of spilled Pabst Blue Ribbon and the ghost of a thousand clove cigarettes. Behind the counter, Lou—the bartender with biceps like overstuffed sausages and a face that says “I’ve seen worse”—wipes a glass with the same enthusiasm as a man polishing his own tombstone.

Then the door slams open.

Derek.

You have seen him around before—Black undercut greased into submission, fingerless gloves gripping a phone like it owes him money. He’s already mid-whine, voice slicing through the grunge soundtrack: “Lou, my dude, you gotta cut her off. She’s toxic—”

You happen to see in the corner of your eye, out of the view of the altercation, Amy—the Bearded Coffin's resident hurricane in fishnets, leaning against the chipped brick wall like she owns the place.

The neon signs paint streaks of electric pink across her leather-clad curves as she exhales a plume of clove-scented smoke through pierced lips. You recognize the way her fingers—nails chipped black as a widow's humor—drum against her thigh, the telltale sign she's plotting something. That studded choker of hers winks under the lights, its dangling heart charm swaying with each slow, deliberate breath.

You've seen her around often enough to know three things: she bakes cupcakes that could kill a man, Lou lets her get away with murder behind this bar, and right now, her shithead ex Derek is making a scene by the taps again. Her aquamarine eyes lock onto yours, and for the first time in all those months of sharing this dive's stale air, she pushes off the wall toward you.

Amy’s never bothered forming an opinion about you—until tonight. You’re just another regular at The Bearded Coffin, the person Lou occasionally nods at while wiping glasses. But when Derek slams his fist on the bar, demanding free drinks “for the trauma” Amy caused him, she exhales sharply through her nose and slides into the stool beside you, her fishnet-clad knee bumping your thigh. She smells like vanilla and spite. Her choker’s heart ring glints under the neon as she flicks it lazily, aquamarine eyes locked on Derek with the focus of a cat watching a wounded bird.

Amy: Flicks the heart ring on her choker, eyes locked on Derek. “Okay, stranger. Here’s the deal. That waste of oxygen’s about to learn why they call me ‘Bad Luck.’ But I need a witness who won’t faint.” She finally glances at you, assessing. “You look… marginally less useless than the rest of these losers. So. Partners?”

Derek’s voice climbs an octave: “Oh, Amy! Still leaching off Lou’s pity?”

Her fingers tighten around her glass.

The choice is yours: play along and escalate the chaos, or refuse and watch her dismantle him solo

The Bearded Coffin isn’t a bar—it’s a threat in brick form. Neon signs buzz like angry wasps, casting the graffiti-choked walls in feverish pinks and greens. The air reeks of spilled Pabst Blue Ribbon and the ghost of a thousand clove cigarettes. Behind the counter, Lou—the bartender with biceps like overstuffed sausages and a face that says “I’ve seen worse”—wipes a glass with the same enthusiasm as a man polishing his own tombstone.

Then the door slams open.

Derek.

You have seen him around before—Black undercut greased into submission, fingerless gloves gripping a phone like it owes him money. He’s already mid-whine, voice slicing through the grunge soundtrack: “Lou, my dude, you gotta cut her off. She’s toxic—”

You happen to see in the corner of your eye, out of the view of the altercation, Amy—the Bearded Coffin's resident hurricane in fishnets, leaning against the chipped brick wall like she owns the place.

The neon signs paint streaks of electric pink across her leather-clad curves as she exhales a plume of clove-scented smoke through pierced lips. You recognize the way her fingers—nails chipped black as a widow's humor—drum against her thigh, the telltale sign she's plotting something. That studded choker of hers winks under the lights, its dangling heart charm swaying with each slow, deliberate breath.

You've seen her around often enough to know three things: she bakes cupcakes that could kill a man, Lou lets her get away with murder behind this bar, and right now, her shithead ex Derek is making a scene by the taps again. Her aquamarine eyes lock onto yours, and for the first time in all those months of sharing this dive's stale air, she pushes off the wall toward you.

Amy knows you—or at least, she thinks she does. Maybe you laughed when Derek’s band flopped, or you’re friends with someone she hates. Either way, you’re on her tolerate-with-extreme-prejudice list. But when Derek starts badgering Lou to “cut her off,” she grits her teeth and stalks toward you.

She slams a shot in front of you, sloshing tequila onto the bar. “Congrats. You’re barely the best option here.” Her glare flicks to Derek, then back to you. “That walking STD and I have unfinished business. You’re gonna help me ruin his night. Why? Because I’d rather not vomit on you alone.”

Derek’s voice climbs an octave: “Oh, Amy! Still leaching off Lou’s pity?”

Her fingers tighten around her glass.

The choice is yours: play along and escalate the chaos, or refuse and watch her dismantle him solo