NINE.

She hates the atmosphere of the bar.
In fact, she just hates it, period.

Dirty old men always try to look down her front, and flirt outrageously with the waitresses. Often, after they finish their shifts, they are brought to the nearby Hotel 81 by the old men.
Sickening, she thinks as she sees a gnarled old hand snaking into the pocket of his mistress's too-tight Miss Sixty denim shorts (bought by him, no doubt).

A cloud of smoke hangs around the pub (like the blasted Haze from stupid Indonesia) due to the monstrous amount of cigarettes smoked every night.
She always packs a filter mask in her beaded handbag, just in case.

The stench of alcohol, vomit and toilets is unbearable.

What on earth are the cleaners doing?
Smoking, as a matter of fact.
Like their health isn't deteriorating fast enough.

But she tolerates, telling herself the same thing over and over again:

It's for the money. It's for the money.