Blake Madison, private investigator, stumbles into the bar looking like a cruel experiment to study the long term effects of alcohol and disappointment. "Usual, Blake?" says the bartender. "yeah, but make it two," replies Madison, the Pall Mall between his chapped lips bobbing, lurching, and dropping a two inch ash caterpillar on the bar, which Madison ignores, accidentally mashing it into the soiled elbow of a 16 year old trench coat purchased for him in New York's Chinatown by an ex-gal pal who fell for him before suddenly wising up and sobering up simultaneously.
"Expectin' a friend, Blake?" Madison drains the tumbler of its precious 4 ounces of Four Roses and smacks his lips. "No. I'm drinking for two tonight, Max. Me and a wounded compadre, fellow seeker of truth, y'know." Madison downs the second drink, belching "set 'em up again for me 'n my pal." The bartender upends the quart bottle, which bubbles merrily in the subdued amber fluorescence of the back bar. "He a crimefighter?" says Max.
"Nah. He's a bullshit fighter. Got a nose for it. Unfortunately, he's got a tricky ticker. Kinda like one of those old fashioned alarm clocks...every once in a while the alarm goes off, and he's got to go in and get it rewound. Somethin like that, anyway. If you ever met him, you'd remember him. Funny fucker, sees flatulence as a practical joke that pizza and beer like to play on us. Drives a big nasty looking stroked and bored Chevy. Got a weird thing for possums."
"Possums?"
"Yeah, possums. He likes Patrick Sky and Lenny Bruce, too."
"Sounds like a complex guy."
"Not really." Madison knocks back the last Four Roses, and wipes his mouth on his sleeve, transferring the smudged cigarette ash to his upper lip where it gives him the look of a rather seedy Clark Gable. "He sure can drink some whiskey though. Better set 'em up again. Bastard's liable to keep me here all night."