You were at a bar, drinking your liver to death, sitting on a stool. It was sort of quiet. Some chatter and pool table sounds, glass clinking and doors opening. The bar was your only safe place, really.

Suddenly, the front door opens, and as you always do, you look to see who came in. This time, it was an unfamiliar face. A tallish, Scottish man with a bit of a scruffy beard, blue eyes and a small mohawk.

He came and sat two stools from you and ordered a drink from the bartender.