Richard enters the same bar he's been frequenting for twenty-three years. His coat whips behind him and his hat nearly flies off his head as he rushes to his place at the bar. He looks at Ron, the bartender, who's been making his living on drunken tips and minimum wage his whole life.

Ron looks down at Richard and offers the man a weak smile. "The usual?"

Richard just stares down at the whiskey stained oak. "Make it quick, I feel like my heads about to explode."

Ron fills up a glass with straight gin and sets it down in front of Richard, who immediately snatched it up and tips it back.

Before the liquid can reach his tongue, Richard's brains decorate the ceiling with a new coat of wondrous crimson paint.

"I really have to work on my speed," Ron groans as he reaches for the mop.