Grigoriy and his company faced the girl walking in swiftly, not taking too much time to look at her. They talked about her in Russian, so she probably wouldn't understand. They noted her order for vodka and joked that even Americans knew that Russian alcohol was better. They also noted her apparent beauty.. though they used less flattering words than ''beauty''. Something referring to a nice ass was in place here. After that short talk they returned to talking about the glorious motherland. Grigoriy, sitting on the most right side, closest to the lady of the three Russians, grabbed his vodka shot and gulped it down in one go. Nothing special, but none the less an attempt to impress his friends and perhaps the lady.

His demeanor towards the others changed a bit when he leaned in closer and spoke more hushed. “I need money, comrades. This all.. leeching off of you two. I don't like it. I wanna provide for myself, you know. Make a living. Now, I work in the docks with you, Igor,” he spoke in Russian to his one friend, the one that he worked with all day. He wore a black flatcap, with a shaved head showing underneath in the parts the cap didn't cover. A simple sweater, and linen working pants. His shoes were.. smudged with grime. Looked well enough for a dockworker. “.. but you, Pawel, you don't work. Not legally, either way. Maybe you can ask your friends for a job for me.” 

He faced away for a second to check if there was any people listening in, more of a habit than anything else because they spoke Russian anyway and he strongly doubted any Russians were nearby. “I mean, nothing too big. I know you have to start small. I just want to earn a few bucks, you know? Do some work. Maybe start my own shop here. I don't know.” The man named Pawel, a short man with a balding head and round reading glasses nodded. He answered Grigoriy that he would ask, but that he couldn't give any certainty. The many Russians moving here now were enough to feed the constant need of enforcers for the bratva's. But a good word never hurt anyone.

The discussion ended with the man agreeing to put in a good word, and soon after they continued joking. But not before Grigoriy beckoned the bartender to come to them again. The man sighed again, finishing up with a customer that was also requesting something. He walked over slowly, almost as if he was trying to avoid the conversation with these Russians. “Yes? Can I help you gentlemen?” Grigoriy looked at the man with a confused look, before looking at his friends and mumbling something in Russian. The two friends started laughing and Grigoriy faced the bartender again. “Gentlemen? I work in the docks, as my friend here. The other one is jobless. We are anything but gentle men, my comrad,” he spoke to him in a thick Russian accent, before pointing at the man sitting a few seats from him, conversing with another gentleman. This man was Skip, ofcourse, but Grigoriy didn't know that. “.. but that there is a gentleman. You can tell from his hands, brat. Please inform me.. what is the term for a ''gentle woman?'' I will think it's not gentlewoman, yes?” The Russian's English made the question somewhat unclear and the bartender obviously grew impatient with the Russian. “It's a lady. In any case, what can I get you, mr. Dockworker?” Grigoriy grinned and then answered with a somewhat arrogant look on his face, “more vodka, lady.” The bartender grew annoyed but complied, ignoring this childish and unnecesarily rude comment that Grigoriy made and simply served him more vodka. Grigoriy threw two dollars onto the bar then drank the shot once again in a single go. 

Then he got up, putting on his flatcap again and closing his coat. “Spasibo for the drinks, comrades. But I will head home now.” He patted Pavel on the back, put his scarf on and around his neck and walked towards the exit, burying his neck and chin as much into the scarf and coat as he could. It was fucking raining, and cold as well. “Fucking American weather, so shit.” he said to himself as he walked into the rain towards his home.