Tony and Mara Phelgo

“Hell of a guy!” Murph said. “Hell of a nice guy.”

“For damn sure,” said Marv.

The bartender slid another round down the bar . . . . One, two, (clink) three.

“Loosin’ your touch there, Bart,” the third man at the old oak bar jibed. “You used to sling ‘em so they’d never hit each other.”

“Tom, you old bastard, it ain’t what I clinks. It’s what you drinks that counts,” said Bart, polishing the smooth wood with his apron.

They all laughed.

Sid drifted in and sat, lit, then palmed the brew that would have shot clear off the far end if his hand hadn’t stopped it. “Bart, you’re losin’ your. . . ”

A flying pretzel beaned his nose and Bart ringed his fingers to signify perfection of his aim at Sid.

Everyone roared, even Sid.

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