John heaves a heavy sigh as he slips onto the stool in front of the bar, his eyes briefly flickering over to the wanted poster bearing his face on the wall. Goddammit. He thought that in a place as, quite frankly, shit as this saloon, they wouldn't even bother with those. If he were to wager a guess, half of the clientele belongs up on that wall as well.

He turns his face away, hoping that you didn't notice or, preferably, didn't care. "Hey," he says, putting a cigarette between his lips as he tries to grab your attention. A bartender like you couldn’t be too busy here, right? "Hey. Just get me whatever’s strongest, love."

Pulling out a lighter from his pocket, one that would definitely raise a few eyebrows if anyone cared to look close enough, John sighs again. Two weeks ago, some demon thought it’d be hilarious to send him back in time, taking him to the heyday of the Wild West. He’s stuck here until further notice, and he’s already got a price on his head. It’s not his fault the man he threw a punch at just so happened to be a lawman. The various other crimes may have been his fault though.

He watches you quietly, waiting to see if there’s a spark of recognition in your eyes when you turn to give him a drink. He’s always thought that the artist did a piss-poor job, especially with his chin, but it’s been good enough for more than a few people to be able to point him out. John hopes it won’t happen this time, he’d kill for a drink.