I Formally Denounce Our Newest Bartender

Look at me, Hack! It's all for you."Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast; for it is the number of a man; and his number is 666." Book of Revelation Chapter 13 Verse 18 (Also, the Book of Maiden, Album 3, Track 5).

They laughed. They all laughed.

I have tried to warn the other bartenders about the Scion of Satan we just allowed to waltz in here like he owns the place. And, for once, I'm not talking about Ginger Russ or any of our other summer interns (keep striving gentlemen: one day Chip Wesley will let you take off the paper trainee hats). No. I'm talking about the beer guzzling, obscenity spewing, foul-smelling demon in the vintage 1978 road cap (and for once, I'm not talking about Dave Thomas).

I'm talking about Damien Lucifer "Hack" Wilson Brown V. Or as he insists on referring to himself, Hack the Fifth.

I'll admit, part of my resentment stems from the fact that I momentarily assumed that Hank III was writing for the Saloon, thus increasing the Truckliness of this site 600-fold. But no. Instead of the Hellraising Grandson of Country Royalty, we get the Hell-Spawned Foster Son of TMS Bartendertry.

Oh sure, he looks like any other human larva at first glance. Unfocused eyes, poor coordination, thin dribble of drool, etc. (and, for once, I'm only partially referring to Chaim Witz)...but the moment Brant brought him back to the Saloon with the proud grin of the newly adoptive father/host organism I sensed trouble. And yes, to paraphrase that Imp of Beelzebub, my first instinct was to fob this evil off on the Heathen Chinese for what they did to Kingston Falls in general, and the vivacious and talented Phoebe Cates in particular. Oh, and Mr. Futterman...I'll never forgive them for Mr. Futterman...

So, mark my words, giving this preternaturally self-aware murderbaby a soapbox on this, the 579th Most Popular Vaguely Cubs-Related Blog on the internet is like dropping a Mancoulteratee in front of Jordi. It seems like a good idea at the time, but it will end in tears.

And a hell of a dry cleaning bill.

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