The dimly lit bar's ambiguous light occasionally shone on people's faces, and a few patrons sat at the bar, looking toward a small balcony-like table on the second floor.
"Has Jason recently struck it rich?"
A customer at the bar asked quietly.
Business at the bar wasn't great during the day, but there were still some patrons. For the alcoholics, drinking knew no distinction between day and night.
They only cared about whether alcohol had entered their veins!
In the Federation, there had been more than one incident of people consuming medicinal alcohol, and some had even injected alcohol directly into their veins.
Although the government had also warned people more than once not to fucking do it, there were always those who, struck by a sudden whim, went and did it anyway.
These people were alcoholics; they didn't actually spend much here. Each visit, they'd spend about ten cents for a large beer and then add in 0.5 ounces of whiskey.
