I believe

Crimson leather, light cotton padding, steel belt, four legs and four screws. Woody had dreams the others couldn’t fathom. He wanted to get away. There were bigger bars, with better looking customers. Why not dream big, right?

The Red Jack was good all, but think about all those new bars opening up in Las Vegas or Miami or any other city with insane amounts of extremely hot ass caressing his leather face. It was enough to make him peel. The thought consumed him.

He felt himself moving closer to the door everyday. A lot of it had to do with the patrons moving him around but he felt karma had a hand as well. I will get out of this place. “Woody’s moving up,” he told the other bar stools. “I’m through with this saloon shit, I’m moving on to bitches and bottle service.” They never responded.

Maybe tomorrow.