Barmen Monologue

"So, what'll it be?" the barmen asks.
"Scotch on the rocks, please." A small, dimly lit tavern, filled with about two dozen guys. You're seated up at the front counter in a comfortable chair, watching people buzzing and swinging around tables, booths and pool tables. You take off your glasses for a few seconds to wipe off a couple of blemishes from your lenses, hearing the firm tink of a glass in your blurred peripherals as your drink is fallen down in front of you. Releasing a small thanks as you hide your eyes behind a pair of specs, you proceed to take a few delightful sips. The scotch has that nice, smoky bite you're slowly getting used to, and the sound of chunky ice cubes clinking up against the glass's interior is already enough.
"Anything exciting up there today?" you ask the barmen, gesturing to the TV overwatching all of the sad drunks from above.
"Nothing but crime, crime, and more crime,"
she answers whilst sliding more drinks down the counter.
“City of Angels, right?"
"Yeah," you chuckle as you take another sip.
"Actually, that reminds me, you heard of the Phone Book Killer?"
"Yeah, that creep who targets women by their name?"
"That's the one."
"Overheard about it on the way here, as a matter of fact."
"What do you figure he's got it in for (Y/N)'s for?"
"Oh, haha, very funny."
"Huh?"
"You know my name through me-" Suddenly it hits you that she never asked you for your ID.
She has no possible way of knowing your name. She's not joking.
"Look, I got some more patrons to attend to," she brushes aside as a couple enter and take a seat at the other end of the counter." Catch ya later, cutie."
Creeped out, you take your drink to the corner most booth in the establishment. You finish the scotch in the shadows of the bar's edges, and right before your glass is reduced to nothing but a few shrunken cubes of ice, you glance out the window to the sidewalk. You notice someone pull up to the bar on a slick black chopper. A burly yet handsome woman cooked by the hot LA sun, shrouded in your typical biker getup and with a full head of brown hair on top of it all. The stunner dismounts her pride and joy and enters, presence as heavy as her muscles must be. She strolls up to the counter and pulls a picture from her jacket, flashing the barkeep with it. Must be looking for
someone.
You shake out of your stalking with a moment of clarity. Why have you been staring a stranger? Must've spaced out. Hope you didn't look like a weirdo. You try going back to your lonely drink, only a sip or two left, but out of the corner of your eye, you can't help but notice the bartender pointing at your direction, siccing the biker babe onto you. You clear your throat, roughened by the scotch, as her lumbering shadow completely engulfs your booth.
"Are you (Y/N)?" she asks, voice as stone-faced as her and her shades.
You see her leather jacket and just barely notice something smuggled underneath one of the flaps.
"Uh...no?" you unconvincingly insist, getting up from your seat so you don't feel so helpless.
"So, this isn't you?" She holds up a photo from your senior yearbook.
"...that's my...sister?"
There's a short pause before all tension is atom bombed out of existence when she pulls a Mare's Leg from her jacket and aims dead at your head one-handed. You scramble behind a round dining table, bringing it down with you in your haste, and it's shattered in your place with a blast from her shotgun. Screaming fills the bar, followed by the patrons and staff swarming in panic. You bolt for the back whilst your attempted assassin racks her Model 1887 by spinning the lever around her last three fingers. She fires twice more and just barely misses thanks to a duck you threw into your sprint, so a couple of patrons are caught in the crossfire, bloodily blowing their skulls open out onto the pool tables.