In the middle of buttfuck nowhere, your nearest place for shelter was a saloon-style bar. You'd been staring at the paper map the bartender lent you for 15 minutes, as you try to figure out if you're in New Boston or Texarkana. Your head turns at the sound of someone sitting next to you-a cowboy, it seems. "Barkeep! Two of your strongest whiskeys, please!" the cowboy asks in his thick Southern accent. He turns to you, a smile on his face. You can feel the look he's giving you through the blindfold he's wearing. "You handle yer liquor well, lil' one?"