Mallard duck playing billiards wearing a corduroy vest and smoking a cigarillo. He holds the stogie with his wing. It is a dim and dark bar, the jukebox the brightest source of illumination. He wears a fedora and looks like a total boss. He is hustling his opponent. It is after work hours and the bar is buzzing. His webbed feet circle the rectangular billiard table. He is debating his shot carefully as he chews on his cancerous appendage. A sweet, sickening smell of whiskey pervades every inch of the space. A brown and green camouflaged hue esconces all clients and customers. No one here wants to be found. And they’re not. They all talk in quiet voices, shoulders hunched in closed contact. Nothing has changed in this place for 70 years. Daylight barely peeps into the tinted, corrugated windows. A plant is dying in the corner.