The doors slammed open as the newcommer strolled in, proceeded by a long shadow. The bar regulars casually looked up, looked away again, then slowly tried to edge as far away as possible from the man, whilst subconsciously shielding their drinks with their hands.
He came to a halt at the front of the room, a thumb in each pocket. Several of the younger men, who had not spent much time in the bar burst out laughing, for before them was not the vision they had been expecting by the behaviour of the regulars.
Before them stood a short, skinny, straggly man, somewhere between fourty and two hundred and sixty-five, dirty, greasy long hair, covered in a thin layer of dark looking hair from head to toe. You could see the dirt under his fingernails. Sophie, who was already reaching for her special glasses, could smell the liquor on his breath from the other side of the room.
"Sho..." He says, "I hear there'sh shome'o' yew young'n's who be thinkin' yer pretty good 't keepin' yer licker down?"
This was met by a general cheer from the younger members.
"Any o' yew be prepared ter put yer liversh to the tesht?" he says, followed by a snicker.
"Then man up an' fashe me!" he said, before throwing himself down on the chair. The dramatic effect was somewhat ruined was when he failed to find the seat once, twice, and a third time, then was helped up and into the right position by a regular.
