A large corroded brick building showing apathy and decay at its most decadent. Above the door a large wooden sign painted white advertises the place, in large red letters. “Fatty and Slim’s Pool Hall and Sports Bar.” Under this in slightly smaller letters is “Liquor in the front, Poker in the rear.” A row of American motorcycles of varying styles sat propped up out front, ranging from the Harley purists with their unmodified Softtail Classic decorated with flames and an eagle to the stripped-down collage of personal style, choppers, and even a few Indians. The bikes, the grime, with greasy, brazen, morally-questionable women, obviously the rejects from those inside, huddling together for warmth while panhandlers beg for money to feed their vices, seemed to fit in well with the rest of the decor.
Opening the front door revealed the mingled smells of marijuana, spilled beer, blood, sweat, vomit, and the bluish haze of mingled pot and cigarettes. With the raucous, tinny sounds of an old jukebox spewing out a mixture of old time metal from the 70's through to the early 90's, sitting in the corner. Behind a old wooden bar, a older man tends bar with a surely attitude. Dominating one side of the room is half a dozen regulation size pool tables, covered in faded red felt. The heat was nearly unbearable, but here the women were better looking, while burly, leather-clad, aggressive men smacked pool balls and the faces with equal abandon and glee. The telltale sounds of everyday urban atrocities - sex and drug-inspired violence and the interplay between them - playing out in the shadowy corners. An old saloon-style door on rusty hinges offers a view into the back part of the bar, where several tables with groups gathered around them playing poker. Beyond this lies a office, storage room, and door to the back alley, often left propped open.
