More crimes were plotted in Bloody Harry's Bar than anywhere else in the islands. Small wonder it was, too, what with the gruesome ambiance and grimy air of the place, the kind of suffocating filth you breathe in and then feel bad about yourself, like you're slumming, or hurting, or dirty. Old fish netting hung from the rafters to decorate but also to catch God knows what, while salty aromas from the ocean wafted in to mix with the thick air like sultry dancers drowning in a sea of melancholy music.
Harry tended bar, his parrot Squawkers perched on his shoulder. The bird jiggled yet remained undisturbed when his master scrubbed the bar with wide strokes, jostling the parrot. Squawkers, it appeared, was used to the action. He hung on tight with his sizable claws digging into Harry's shoulder.
"And what will you be having?" Harry asked a forlorn fellow who sat at the bar.