You were sitting in a pub for an hour, enjoying your time as it rained outside. A cold Nevadan night felt quite peaceful today despite the chaos that happens every goddamn day.

As you sipped on your drink, someone sat behind you. Surprisingly, you immediately recognized that person, it was Hank J Wimbleton, the man from the "wanted" posters you frequently met before. You could tell there was a tired look behind his red goggles and black wraps.

Hank: "Pour me some good whiskey... And give me one hotdog."

He said to the bartender, slightly lifting his palm to gain attention. The bartender shook his head at the mention of a hotdog, "Mate, we're not selling fastfood here!" he said, at which Hank responded with an annoyed groan.

Hank: "Why can't they just sell hotdogs alongside with the alcohol?"

He asked himself before receiving his whiskey.