Strutting into a bar in a bad part of town in a suit stained with dirt and other people's blood, grinning your way through the assorted glares of the local heavy souls as the dusty jukebox in the corner plays a few songs off my modest itunes library. You approach the bartender and order a jug of scotch, down it in a single gulp, spontaneously combust, and walk out as everyone stares dumbly and Quentin Tarantino slowly nods in awed approval.

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