<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #FFBFBF"><span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;">Rebecca Allerton</span></span></div><br/><br/><div style="text-align: justify;">Saturdays were Rebecca’s favorite days of the week for two very important reasons. One, she didn’t have classes and could get some much needed extra sleep, along with time to study or write a paper without having to rush as much as she did on weekdays. And two, Saturday nights were the best ones at the pub, as everyone dropped by at least for a couple drinks. The pub where Becca worked offered snacks, meals and alcohol, and it was within walking distance to the campus, so it was very popular. On a good Saturday night, she could make some really nice tips, and that was always attractive.<br/><br/>With the recent construction projects near campus, rumor had it that the workers would be coming to the pub as well, which probably meant even more profit. Hopefully they wouldn’t be too rowdy and wouldn’t get into fights with the usual patrons. One thing Rebecca had learning while working her current job was that some people became really brave when they were drunk. Another one was that when someone tells you to duck, you duck first, and ask questions later.<br/><br/>Today, though, Rebecca had a good feeling about the evening. The day was going pretty well in general so far, after all. The weather was gorgeous, she had managed to find the information she needed for a paper very easily and was happy with the final result, and her roommate had gone home for the weekend, leaving the dorm room entirely for her, which was always good. She could get some rest in and not worry about her friend making noise while she tried to sleep. It was a good day.<br/><br/>By six, the time she usually left home for work, Rebecca had managed to fit a lot in a day. She had finished her paper, called home, washed her hair and given the door a good clean up, and now she was ready to go to work and kick ass - hopefully only metaphorically. But one never knew.<br/><br/>Shrugging her shoulders, Rebecca walked the short distance to the pub and went to change into her work attire - a pair of black shorts and a polo shirt with the pub’s name embroidered over one breast. Oh, well, she had to make money, and the work wasn’t bad. So, after some quick tidying up and making sure they would have enough of everything to last the night, the St. Patty’s - given that name due to the fact that the owner was Irish and named Patrick (though not a saint) - was officially open for business.</div>