The tired bartender glanced up as a man in a loudly striped shirt and trousers in an improbable shade of red collapsed onto a barstool. “What’ll it be?”

“Whisky,” he replied as he eased a guitar off his back and down to the floor. “The strongest,” he paused a moment, considering.  “Make that cheapest you’ve got. And keep it coming.”

Nodding ( Read more... )