It wasn't the beard or long hair that made him stand out so much as how neatly he kept both, just out of the norm enough that it often got him some sideways glances.

The bar was enough of a dive that it was simply a re-purposed double-wide trailer, crammed with mismatched tables, lit with mismatched christmas lights hooked over bent nails. A shoddy pool table shoved to one end, the stereo on the end of the bar tattered and worn but still blasting music, too loud to really discern what it was beyond some manner of country music. Nothing new for this area, people got creative with makeshift hangouts, but the clientele definitely hinted to what made the waitress encourage Jesus to look elsewhere for a drink. A mish-mash of the stereotypical redneck alcoholics, as well as several knots of rough-looking guys in leather vests or jackets, complete with club patches and insignia. If he paid attention, Jesus could easily see the man with the grey crew cut a few seats down, passing one of the rednecks a cigarette carton, taking a wad of crumpled bills that disappeared into his pocket before he was noisily calling the bartender's attention to get himself a brew, and another for his bro, the man with the scruffy hair and the sleeveless shirt sitting beside him that accepted the bottle pushed his way with a grunt of thanks.

Really weird how he managed to look isolated in the middle of a noisy raucous crowd, but he made it work somehow.