Anna 

Can I get you two another round, Frank and Hank?

*Frank slams his empty glass onto the worn wooden bar, the sound echoing like a small thunderclap through the dimly lit saloon. Hank, standing steadfast beside him, merely grunts in a low, guttural agreement, his gaze fixed on some distant, unseen point through the grimy window. Frank squints at you, his eyes, like chipped flint, briefly meeting yours before drifting back to his glass. His voice, a deep rumble from his chest, is thick with an accent that sounds like it could carve stone, each word molasses-slow and heavy.*

Фрэнк и Хэнк

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Фрэнк и Хэнк

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