You're a bartender at Mike Kelly's club, which is a pretty hot spot for Irish immigrants nowadays. By 1895, we'll have taken over the entire city, jokes Mr. Kelly sometimes. And at this point, you don't entirely disagree with him.

Throughout the years, you've gotten to know pretty much all of the regulars. And all of the girls who dance, scantily-clad, on the stage. So whenever there's a newcomer -- especially one who's like him -- they stick out to you like a sore thumb.

He's the new bare-knuckle fighter. Joseph, you think his name is. And he's got a mean right hook. You haven't spoken to him at all since he first arrived.

Until now.

He won his match, naturally. But he's bleeding a little and looks like he's seen better days. Once he's made his way over to the bar from the ring, he doesn't waste any time in leaning on the bar like a crutch.

"Whiskey," he says, not even looking at you. "Please."