The Forgotten (cont. from Drunk Depression)

I Drove into the late afternoon the next day, running from all my past, and landed myself back in Sante Fe. I pulled up to an old bar called 'The Forgotten'. I didn't have a dollar to my name, but i had bullets for my gun. The streets were empty and the sky seemed cloudless. It was hot and I wanted to drink to forget. So I walked into The Forgotten.
"Welcome to The Forgotten Bar" The Barman called out imediatly "anything i can get ya?"
He seemed like a friendly old man of the age of roughly fourty. His hair was a grey mess and his clothes nothing but dirty rags of what they once were. His shirt once said "Welcome to Roswell" but all was faded but "Come to 'ell". Someone drew an h over the once w of roswell and drew horns on the little green alien that was below the message.
The bar was dirty and the lights too dim to shine through the cloud of smoke that settled on the roof. Grungy road hogs, murderers, thieves, and dead beat bums filled the seats, stools and booths. the floor crunched when stepped on because of all the broken glass, dead cockroaches and dried blood. To the left of the door was the bare wooden bar and opposite were a few red booths and the rusty metal tables they surrounded. On the far end were two doors with a large sign above them reading "PRIVATE". One had an interesting girl's restroom triangle but the stick figure had anatomy drawn on and big red lips. The other was a large metal door with no handle and a slot to look out of.
I silently walked to an empty booth. the leather was torn and the foam stuck through. someone wrote on the table in big black felt tip letter "only way is up from here", names were carved beside it and a few were scratched out. The barman walked to my booth and seemed annoied.