WHO: OPEN WHEN: March 18th, the evening of the St. Paddy's Day bar crawl
In a rather Fitzgerald way, the bar, O'Byrne's allowed for intimacy and privacy— or rather, at the very least, a private conversation. It was packed. Even so, he'd drank enough to where he'd gotten up from his corner booth, layers of gold and green beads around his neck, resting atop his New York Giants Barkley jersey. The tinted four-leaf clover glasses he wore matched in color with the kazoo hanging loosely between his lips. As he approached the bar, it was then he took it out, his other hand clutching bags of the very accessories he wore. Naturally, cheap holiday gimmicks came in bulk. He looked around, realizing he was going to be there awhile, and while typically he'd vouch for an opportunistic approach of calling the bartender by name (he knew them all, nearly), he had a good buzz going. This time he could wait. He looked over to the person standing next to him, familiar enough through the tint of his shades, and he smiled, holding up the bags he clutched in tow, "Kazoo or glasses? Take your pick." Luke offered, giving the bags a small shake, "There is no wrong choice." He leaned in slightly, a smirk gracing his lips, "Only lucky."
