This place smelled like the inside of a shoe. It wasn't particularity ascetically pleasing, the bar top was beat up, almost every window had a crack in it from this or that and the jukebox would skip every other song people paid money to play.<br/><br/>Lazar felt at home here instantly. It was places like this he was raised in, where he was trained to do the unthinkable to people he didn't know. Places like this were the best places to hide because not even the police desired to walked the beer soaked carpet or even drive into this part of town.<br/><br/>There was one issue though, no top shelf Russian vodka...it was a major issue and a non-issue all at the same time. He liked it here better even without his drink of choice...so some swill vodka made in Utah was gonna have to be good enough.<br/><br/>There was one more issue...one he didn't really notice. He stuck out like a sore thumb, not because of his size or the ice in his stare but his apparel. He wore a fine Italian suit wherever he went...and he was wearing one now. No one talked to him, one tried to bully him on the first night but after his head was slammed through a table with one strike from Lazar they left him alone. As he did his best to try and fit in...he failed at it. So for the moment he sat in the back corner, half cloaked in shadow and half bathed in the light from the warm beer neon sigh glowing on the wall.