Bradley, glanced out the small window alongside the bar entrance. Winter...

not that he could do much about it, except order a few more bags of rocksalt - and keep it locked.  People would steal their own mother's underwear... he picked up the near empty beer mug, and wiped the area, where Hank had stopped in for one.   Bradley hadn't been seen much of him; he picked up the few bills and change Hank had left and stuffed them in the staff jar, then ran the half-clean rag over the area.  The guy looked like he was doing okay, but looked somewhat thinner; guess so, considering the snippets that reached his ears.  

Something about having "...enough of th' ol' lady's lip..." Bradley heard all that before, and positively, NO WAY was he ever going there; he could get it in half a dozen places - though, the young ones were harder to sweet-talk into putting out.  For the most part, they had expectations, right up front - not that he could blame them, after all, with no access to ... well, much of anything.  So, he usually found himself having to settle for post-wallers, and half of them were ... overweight.

Above him, the flatscreen was going on with its usual right-leaning agenda.  Bradley hadn't voted for the last fifteen years or so; he didn't care for the left, but he sure didn't like the right - they scared him, with their relentless pontificatings.  Front and center, more often, was the "BirthDearth."  Then open the friggin boarders...idiots!  Miffed. Him. Off!  Was doing a real number on his private life, but Bradley could only blame himself, for waffling...not getting in line soon enough; the procedure had been outlawed, and it didn't look like the court was going to overturn, anytime soon.

Well, this was interesting, he dropped what he was doing, and so did some of his patrons - a quiet protest, from a group of older guys was being televised.  

"Hey Bradley," a customer pointed to his empty mug.

"Shut up, Dick!"  Bradley pointed to the screen.  Dude could wait two minutes.

Upon the screen, one of the men was relating, in less than delicate terms, how the drones were affecting everyday private matters.   Another in the crowd, some fat dude, probably didn't want to be filmed with his hand in the cookie jar.  In the background, a sign read, "AI aka PEEPING Tom!"  Another placard read, "Stinkbug? or MemRex?"

"Can't do nuthin about em." A nearby patron said to his buddy, then added, "drones are a handy excuse."  The buddy's rather crass reply, went something along the lines of "who wears the pants?"