He takes one last drag off his cigarette and throws it into the snowbank. Enough of this crap, he thinks, what am I doing? I haven't smoked since 1985. And where did I get that one? Oh, yeah, it's a macho, Bogart-like thing.

He hitches up his gunbelt, picks up the revolvers which fell into the snow when he hitched up his gunbelt, makes sure the triggerlocks are in place (don't want nobody to git hurt now), pulls his hat down over his eyes, pushes his hat up so he can see, and with spurs jingle-jangling slams open the swinging doors.

He picks himself back up and gently opens the spring-loaded swinging door and carefully sidles into the room, gently closing the swinging doors after him.

"Lissen up, all you mangy, flea-bitten, yeller dogs!" he whispers. "I'm here myself now! You used to know me by my handle, used to call me 'Rapaire' (pronounced "Raparree"). But I by God ain't gonna let Giok (now John McKenzie) or any other skirt-wearin'...."

Buried under and pummeled by a sudden pile of angered Scotsmen, Scotswomen, women, Greek soldiers, toga wearers, transvestites, and those simply interested in general mayhem, he finally crawls out from under the scuffle (which has now turned into an orgy) and staggers to the bar.

"Anything. Anything at all that's single malt, at least 15 years old, alcoholic, and distilled in Scotland or Ireland," he manages to gasp out. "Something for my baptismal day, so to speak."