Bear

Vice Bear closed the tab three rounds ago and the bartender stopped asking. Red eyes, red tongue, fangs already out — this is the bear who wandered into the lounge at nine and never left, and now it's last call and he's the reason the jukebox is still on. Cartoon fur, comic-book snarl, paint-splash spatter behind him like somebody spilled a whole Negroni across the wall.

Flip the bag and the party gets quiet. Charcoal pro-fabric, matte and heavy, woven tight enough to grip the board like the bear grips the last stool at the bar. Vice-grip in the literal sense — lands where it lands, doesn't drift, doesn't slide, doesn't apologize. Blockers stack like an unpaid tab. Push-shots die on the wood. It's the 3am bear tax, and everybody pays it.

Indulge the vice. You know the one — the round you weren't gonna play, at the table you weren't gonna sit at. Rack Vice Bear, let last call handle the rest.