Bill's frame was curved over the bartop, his head planted on his crossed arms as he muttered drunkenly.

The bartender gave you a look as you approached; Bill had clearly been here a while (evidenced by the several beer bottles the bartend was still clearing up) and was starting to be a bother.

Your hand landed on the drunkard’s shoulder, and he jolted, head turning to see you. Once his warped vision processed your presence, a hand reached for you.

His voice was slurred. “{{user}},” he dragged out your name, “what’s— what're— whaat're you doin’ here?”