The puddle on the side of the road.

The corner store's recently shined window.

The nearly completely destroyed mirror peeking out of the freshly burnt down house.

Everywhere he went there was always an opportunity to catch a quick glimpse of his studly body and he always made sure to take advantage of the unique situations, yet today was not all about him, no he would be broaching another subject entirely which would stand the test of time and in itself make Bachelor one of the most well known mafioso to date.

He left the bar with two... no, three, fuck it, four beautiful women and made his way down to where he had seen some loser talking about something or another. It wasn't important, this guy didn't have the stuff to weave a tale and he was clearly not putting on enough of a show for the boredom induced crowd; Bachelor walked beside him with his seven buxom babes and cleared his throat for what would prove to be one of the greatest debates of all time.

Looks. What's in a look? We here in this thing of ours, we're always talking about stuff, like, uh, guns and stuff, we're always talking about that, but what about what truly defines a person, their biceps. Why do we never talk about that? My calve muscles are booming and yet all I ever hear about is people debating about the streets and if they're alive or not -- maybe they'd be not be as dead if more people lifted weights every once in a while, am I right?

Chuckling to himself he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead, he was wearing his brand new expensive minx coat as a display of power and style but the extremely bright sun was proving a bit too much for this sort of look. He smiled towards the crowd as he knew what they were about to see would be truly a treat, as he pulled off his coat and shirt revealing his happening and brutish muscles that popped even more with the sweat. Now that everyone was thoroughly turned on, he threw his pieces of clothing at his eleven women who stood behind him and started to once more speak.

Look at these bis and tris and try to tell me that this isn't popping right now, I mean, can you really say that you'd not be more inclined to come out into these streets if more people were lookin' like this? Am I right or am I right? I didn't, I didn't pack on all this mass to just be an ass if you're catching my meaning, it is also practical.

Grabbing from within his horde of nineteen women what looked to be a rocket launcher, he quickly placed it atop his massive shoulders and aimed it directly towards the now a bit apprehensive crowd; before shining off his pearly whites and twirling in a circle to show just how much range of motion he still had.

Look at this, look at this. Would you be more afraid of me or a guy holding a pistol, am I right? Ha. I'm so damn right, this is such a good look and not only that, but I'm also rocking it. Don't you agree? I just feel like, look, I'm not saying its wrong to not have any muscles, but come on, like, seriously, come on, look at THIS.

Spinning around one last time and doing a quick pirouette away from the crowd he fired the rocket into a building, no one was sure if it was an accident of otherwise but the expression on his face left them all pretty certain this was not part of the show. Walking towards the nearest exit he quickly said one last thing.

I, uh, I rest my case.

Disappearing into the ocean of thirty-seven women he was never heard from again.

fs was sitting at his normal corner table in toward the back of the room in the bar.  In front of him was a newspaper from the day.  To his left a 30 year aged scotch, golden and glistening from the dim overhead light that sat far into the ceiling.  And to his right, in a very expensive crystal holder, a cuban cigar whose smoke slowly rose above the table and seemed to dance in the light above the scotch.

Normally fs is a quiet guy.  He tends to not pay much attention to others around him, aside to people watch.  Today was an especially interesting day for him as a quiet inebriated individual started to cause a ruckus.  You see, it started when the man got up from the bar and tried to smooth talk his way to 3, no maybe it was 4 women.  He failed, so instead he grabbed 4 bar napkins and drew faces on them and started calling him his "girls."

fs chuckled and took a sip of his delicious scotch.  He had stopped looking at the commotion and looked back down at the newspaper.  He was hoping to hear of some news of when Tyler was expected to next show his ugly mug.  He took a long drag from the cigar and puffed out the thick cloud of smoke into the air.  Suddenly he could hear the inebriated man yelling at the jukebox.  It seemed he thought he was talking to someone.  He was flexing.  Or at least he was attempting to.  There' wasn't much to show off, and as he raised his arm he pulled it back into the classic flex pose.  Unfortunately as he curled his arm his bicep literally never rose. fs wondered if there was a medical condition that a man could potentially have no biceps available.

The man continued on for a few more moments, stumbling from bar object to bar object attempting to show off his biceps and calves until he eventually stumbled back out into the street.  fs took a deep breathe and let out a sigh.

"I love this bar"