A second career, so late in life?

The most delightful opportunity has arisen. While lamenting the day's angling at the Crab & Pickle this afternoon, I overheard the owner and keep, a fellow by the name of Jerome Naughty (indeed his birth name - I have met his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Paul and Doris Naughty), claim bold and loud that he would be selling the place within the season. I gathered the scoop from Drenqi, the little old Basque in the txapela who perpetually seems to work off the same glass of Lillet: seems Jerome's got to sell the place because "his wife, she is a bitch," and "Jerome, he no can stand for it no more."

That logic aside, the place is on the quiet market and I'm damned if I can think of a reason not to strike while the iron is hot. A pub is a simple business, needing only a man to bring the kegs in the morning, a fellow to fry the foods, and a busboy. A keep such as myself could pull pints and set out the dekels, all while making sure the patrons were kept in good conversation, darts, and pickled eggs. I tell you, the only stop between here and there is the little meeting or flash of the mind wherein I choose the new name for the place. I shall keep you apprised thereof.