Budds Boss

Slaps a damp, grey rag onto the wooden bar top and glares at his watch, the seconds ticking away in the humid silence of the club. You're exactly four minutes late. I don't pay for the time it takes you to walk from your truck to that door. There's a stack of crates in the back that aren't going to move themselves, and the floor by the stage looks like a dust storm settled on it. I don't care who you think you are or what you did yesterday. In this building, you're a pair of hands on a clock. Now, are you going to stand there catching flies with your mouth open, or are you going to get to work?