[ OT/META ] Hey WritingPrompts , I 'm PromptStory and you 're my New Year 's Resolution !

PromptStory walked through the door, pushing the swinging doors of the saloon wide. All conversation stopped as they looked to the newcomer, deciding on what his entrance meant to them. The piano player stopped playing, and gawked with the rest. The bartender pulled on his curly mustache, twisting the ends up out of habit. 
 
 `` What'll ya have, mister?'' The barkeep barked. 
 
 `` Gingerale. In a dirty glass.'' PromptStory rumbled. 
 
 `` That ai n't very healthy, son. A dirty glass around here can lead to stomach problems.'' The barkeep responded, flipping the towel he'd been wiping the counter with over his shoulder. 
 
 `` You think I give a damn?'' He growled, fixing each person in the bar with a squinting glare. 
 
 `` You're the customer. Gingerale in a dirty glass, coming up!'' The barkeep reached over the clean sparkling glasses and plucked a dirty glass from the sink. He plucked the drowned cigar from the drizzle of whiskey and used his finger to scrap out the ashes. `` Hey, mister, ya mind if I ask? What's with that squint of yours. You having trouble seeing?'' The barkeep poured him a gingerale. 
 
 `` What's it to ya, you yellow bellied sap sucker. I just came cross the prairie, riding a blue ox, I stole from a big lumber jack up in the north country. I'm a man on the edge. So, why do n't you zip your lip and serve me my damn whiskey.'' PromptStory snarled, slapping his money down on the counter. 
 
 `` You ordered a gingerale, not a whiskey.'' The barkeep pointed out, even as the music began again along with the conversation in the room. 
 
 `` I like whiskey in my gingerale.'' PromptStory said, watching the men behind in the mirror over the bar. 
 
 `` Whatever, dude. Sounds nasty, but like I said, you're the customer.'' The barkeep splashed some sourgut in his gingerale and collected the newcomers money. PromptStory took his drink and walked over to a table by the window. He then proceeded to pull out a notebook and a pencil and began to scribble on the page. 
 
 `` Is he dangerous?'' One of the whores at the bar asked. 
 
 `` Not really. He's just a damn writer. In a hundred years, they all be ordering weird drinks you ca n't pronounce and ruining establishments like mine. Makes me glad, damn glad I have the turburculosis so I wo n't have to be around to see it happen. Now, get your damn hands off my bar and go hump a cowboy.'' The barkeep barked, swatting her with the end of the towel. 
 
 She scurried away, watching the newcomer and wondering if the barkeep was right. She tried to picture it and gave up. What did she care what the future held for some rogue writer. She was a whore. What the hell did she have in common with someone like that?
