"I would tell you that you're pretty," Harry tells the imaginary woman sitting next to him as he nurses his seventh whiskey, "but I'm sure that you get that a lot."
Blunt Destination, a cover band of some band that hasn't been popular since 2003 and nobody remembers anymore, packs up after a successful night: Only three beer bottles were thrown at them.
"Look," Harry says, "if you don't want to talk to me, at least tell me you don't want to talk to me."
The bartender laces the eighth whiskey with more hallucinogens. Entertainment is lacking on a slow night.
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