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 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