You know what sounds like way more fun at a bar than working? Not working.
Maybe even drinking. Who knows? It's not like Wynonna's got a plan. Or, well, she has one, but it begins and ends with 'go to the bar, maybe get a bottle of tequila.'
Go to the bar, check. Not Shorty's; she doesn't want to worry about running into Doc... or Dolls... or Nedley... or Waves. Instead, she tugs open the door to that other bar, the one with the good drinks and weird clientele, and swaggers up to spot at the bar where she can keep an eye out for unsavories, then drums her hands on the wooden surface. "Bar," she wheedles, winningly. "Got something nice for me tonight? Huh?"
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Maybe even drinking. Who knows? It's not like Wynonna's got a plan. Or, well, she has one, but it begins and ends with 'go to the bar, maybe get a bottle of tequila.'
Go to the bar, check. Not Shorty's; she doesn't want to worry about running into Doc... or Dolls... or Nedley... or Waves. Instead, she tugs open the door to that other bar, the one with the good drinks and weird clientele, and swaggers up to spot at the bar where she can keep an eye out for unsavories, then drums her hands on the wooden surface. "Bar," she wheedles, winningly. "Got something nice for me tonight? Huh?"