The last barstool at Callahan’s was as worn as the flickering neon sign that hung outside. The once vibrant red leather had cracked and worn having faded after countless hours of supporting the asses of whatever unfortunate individual sought refuge there. It was the most unimpressive object in the most unassuming establishment - a warped piece of wood that could’ve been found in any watering hole in the world yet somehow found itself tucked into the corner of a Northside neighborhood...