The words come thundering out of a greasy, dirty bartender like cannon shot, pounding over the disheveled near-corpse of a wasted barfly that looks about as confused as any man would who just woke up sitting straight up with a still lit cigarette dangling from his mouth. The barkeep�s lamentations make the gold crucifix buried in his voluminous chest hair shake. This a welcome distraction from the sweat soaked wife-beater undershirt beneath it, and, the faded Hawaiian shirt that attempts to cover it up. Besides that, the only thing visible of the master of this domain, is two burly arms, fists resting knuckles-down on the bar, and, an angry red face topped with slick, black hair. He leans in a little closer to the swaying carcass, his voice lowering to a conspiratory whisper, �Listen bub,� he breathes,�I have got to get you off of that stool and out of my bar, OK? You may be one of my best customers Crowley, but God be damned if you don�t stink to high heaven. That may be fine when it�s all night on a Saturday, but, that high-class, big-tipping lunchtime business crowd is about to blow down the street, and, I�m trying to class this place up a bit, capiche?�