A common dive bar circa mid-1980's nestled in the shadows of the now razed Shea stadium. Shea was a mystical place where a young man's dream of fame and glory would often end up in a crash and burn. Leaving behind a twisted pile of deflated egos and 'oh-what-could-have-been' scenarios. "Yeah, so that's life in the big city ya bum, get over it! Next!" This particular dive bar has a New York Mets baseball theme. But it could be any team in any sport, in any city. Mollie was the bartender on duty most of the time. Did I say bartender? I ought to be ashamed of myself, more like a bio-terrorist with a cocktail shaker filled with rot-gut whiskey and whatever swill the boss wanted to push. You ordered a Rob Roy, you got a Mollie shake. You ordered a screwdriver, you got a Mollie Shake, you ordered a Cosmo, you got a ..well you get the picture. Good looking, dumb as a bag of cement and always stoned. She divides her down time visiting her loser boyfriend incarcerated at the Hotel Ryker's Island and is enrolled in a store-front hair stylist school for the last eight or nine years. Says Mollie, "I'm gettin' my hair dresser diploma in just three more years! Then you'll see. I'll be rakin' in the big bucks. I'll buy me a duplex house in Levittown, Long Island and I'm gonna live the good suburban life!" Yeah, you go girl. The odds of you cutting ties with this hell-hole is even less than you getting your hair stylist diploma in three years. The day you decided to hook-up with this sleazy dump you were gifted a lifetime subscription to the "I'm A Loser and damn proud of it!" club as a sign-on bonus. Congrats........Not. The grumpy lookin' bast**d on the pay phone is either the owner ordering inventory or a wiseguy planning to break the legs of a rival boss. I bet the latter. A young man could get plastered on twenty or so bucks back then. Cheap 'skunky' beer well passed it's expiration date flowed like water to us underage punks and we gulped it down like it was nectar from the Gods. If a chump....er I meant a sophisticated gentleman, accidentally found his way here he would be quick to realize he's not in Kansas anymore. Grumbling about the dubious quality of the booze and the generously padded bar tab he would ultimately receive would lead to a cordial meeting with the bar manager, Bruno. Bruno would invite the chump into the backroom and proudly show off his prized collection of incisors, canines and molars. His collection has grown exponentially over the course of many years of negotiating with unhappy patrons. Also if I may add as a side note, the chump should ask to see Bruno's world renowned collection of brass knuckles and truncheons, I swear he'll have an attitude upgrade! It really is quite extensive! Let's Go Mets!