at the end of the bar, he delibrately raises his hand and asks for another round for the two of you. His head slowly turns toward you as he salutes the world with a shot of Johnny Walker Red Label. His face is seamed and careworn, looking curiously ravaged for a man that appears only in his forties.
As you near, he leans forward and asks, "So what do you want, stranger? I don't recall seeing you around here." A sigh. A wry smile. "Then again, I remember so little now. Actually, I anticipate my rapidaly approaching Korsakov's--ach, to blessings and curses." The shot disappears.
His slightly bloodshot eyes turn to you, and with a stately nobility partially due to drunkeness, asks, "But you now--why would you be stumblin' into this bar?" Shot glass settles slowly on the countertop.
You pause, slowly rotating your own shot, as you consider how to respond--
Well, I just wandered on in.
Actually, I was looking for a drink.