Dave & Vinny: American Politics

The Rampant Horse was the sort of pub that made you feel right at home, if your home was a shack that had just about survived a hurricane. A pub for which the words “well worn” could have been invented.
Slap bang in the middle of the Longcroft Estate in Yorkshire, it had seen its fair share of battles. The low beams seemed to sag with the weight of distilled entropy, while the aroma of mediocre pub grub mingled with the subtle undertones of aged wood and threadbare carpets.

On this particular evening, Dave and Vinny settled into their usual spots at the bar, a couple of pints in front of them and the faint hum of chatter surrounding them. Vinny’s scruffy terrier, Scraps, lounged at his feet, looking up with an expression that could only be described as hopeful, perhaps for a pork scratching or a crisp or two.

“Hey, Vinny,” Dave said, lifting his pint and gesturing towards the bar. “You reckon Ken will let Scraps have a packet of pork scratchings?”
“For free Dave? Not bloody likely. Ken’s tighter than the lid on a jar of pickled onions.”

Ken, the barman, was a grumpy bastard. His brow perpetually furrowed as he wiped down the bar with a cloth that was so filthy all it did was re-distribute the muck. He caught the tail end of their conversation and shot them a look that could curdle milk.

“Keep that mutt away from my bar. Last thing I need is a flea ridden mutt sniffing around the beer pumps. Health…