At five minutes to twelve he comes up from the kitchen dressed in his now stained whites. The tattoos, which form sleeves on his forearms are still works in progress, waiting to be inked. From behind the bar he stares out hatefully at all the customers, trying to figure out who the dicks were that just ordered a steak and a plate of spaghetti with meatballs. After doing this for about two minutes, he retreats bitterly to his basement furnace of smoke and death metal.
Ten minutes later he returns, walking heavily up the stairs. He pours a shot of something into a glass, a liqueur that he needs for a sauce. He starts to walk away, and then pauses. He stills hates the people who ordered the food. He looks out into the bar, still thinking about them, still trying to burn holes through their bodies with his eyes. He downs the shot he poured for himself, and then gets another, before descending to the basement once again, still giving everybody in the place the stink eye, Ediath Piaf, who is on his side, singing defiantly from the jukebox.