A Hustle Wrapped in Paperwork
Scene: The Alibi Room, later that night.
Neon beer signs buzzing, pool balls clackin’. Frank’s asleep on the jukebox. Kev’s wiped the bar twice but ain’t served a drink in twenty minutes—‘cause Carl’s got the floor again. A second whiteboard’s been dragged out, this one reading: “LIQUOR LICENSES: WHO DECIDES WHO GETS TO POUR?” in giant Sharpie scrawl.
Carl Gallagher’s Second Lecture: “The Liquor License Game: A Hustle Wrapped in Paperwork”
Alright, settle down, you degenerates. I got a public service announcement from the University of Don’t-Get-Caught.
So you think ownin’ a bar’s just pourin’ shots and moppin’ puke? Hell nah. The real game is that little piece of paper framed behind the register—the liquor license. Without it, you ain’t slingin’ so much as a watered-down whiskey. And gettin’ one? That’s where the system shows you who’s in and who’s out.
Let’s break it down.
1.
The Gatekeepers: The City and Their Pet Bureaucrats
You don’t just ask for a liquor license. You petition. You plead. You jump through flaming hoops held by some bored city clerk whose cousin owns a bistro in Lakeview. There’s application fees, public hearings, community board approvals. Like you’re tryna open a damn orphanage instead of serve PBRs to people named Scooter.
And if you got a felony record? Or too many noise complaints? Or your business is next to a school, park, or church? Ha. Might as well just build a lemonade stand.
2.
The Cap Game
In some neighborhoods, they cap how many licenses they’ll issue. That’s called controlled scarcity—fancy econ term for “we made it harder so the rich folks stay richer.” It means your bar idea dies before it lives unless someone sells you their license—and guess what? Those bad boys are worth thousands. Tens of thousands. In some cities? Hundreds.
So now liquor licenses ain’t just permits. They’re assets. Like Pokémon cards that let you legally poison people for profit.
3.
The Flipper’s Delight
You know what real hustlers do? They flip licenses. Buy low in “up-and-coming” hoods, hold on till Starbucks moves in, then sell that license for triple. It’s insider trading with a Jägerbomb twist.
Meanwhile, good people on the South Side—people like Kev—gotta scrape and beg just to keep slingin’ a few rounds. ‘Cause the city don’t want more bars in our zip codes. They say it’s about “public safety.” But we know what that really means. They don’t want the party if they can’t control the guest list.
4.
The Workaround Crew
Some folks rent out bars under someone else’s license. Risky. Illegal. But cheaper. Until somebody rats, or a cop shows up askin’ why you got open tabs past 2AM and no permit posted. You’re one Karen call away from shut-down.
Other folks run “private clubs.” Invite-only. BYOB. Or, my personal fave—“pop-up brunch experiences.” Booze in coffee mugs. No license, just vibes.
Carl leans in, sunglasses off. His voice gets low.
You ever notice who always gets approved in new developments? It ain’t Ma and Pop from down the block. It’s dudes in polos with investors and buzzwords like “gastropub” and “elevated cocktail experience.” The system ain’t broken. It’s built like that.
Summary (Carl style):
“Liquor licenses? That’s just another hustle dressed in paperwork. If you ain’t got money, connections, or clean priors, you better be smart—or you better know a Gallagher.”
Kev claps. V hollers, “Preach!” Lip finally chimes in: “He’s not wrong.”
Frank snores louder, dreaming of bootlegging glory days.