After Hours
After Hours By: Owen Treolo Bruce Owens sat in the Washington Hills tavern, nursing a beer while taking a drag from his cigarette. It was just past 9 o’clock on a Friday night in late December. The tavern was slow oddly enough, most Fridays were packed with college teenagers, most underage using fake ID’s, and the city businessman who needed a drink to forget the panned up anger from their bosses for slacking on their paperwork or weekly quota’s. Owen’s was 22, he was single, and working for a local banking firm called B&R. Investing. Majoring in accounting and finance, he was what they called in the wall street world a “connector”. His bosses were the common rich snobs who gave no regard for the underlings below, bragging to others about their vast wealth and how deathly beautiful their trophy wives were. They never sank down to the middle-class standard of relaxation of venturing to the local watering hole for a drink. Most of the higher ups headed home, poppe...