Dickey was a white-haired humpback with one eye.
His place had a small crowd: old men waiting around the bar for younger women to croon a tune on the old karaoke machine; DJ BBQ, always bringing the hot sauce.
“Bass in a bottle, four dollars,” Dickey offered.
His regular went for PBR instead. “A dollar.”
Everyone drank slowly. He opened the Bass for himself. He limbered to BBQ, whispered into her ear. She transferred the mic. He stood beneath the display, waiting for a tune...
He wailed, barked, growled, and howled like a wolf himself.
Patrons sipped, awaited the flood of women.
Dickey kicked his beer. He could sing all night. The beer would still be in a puddle.