With a quick boot to the saloon door, a skinny man, all dressed in red leather, enters the room, with scowls quietly coming from his mouth about the presence of 'lorteild-fårene'.
Eyeing the room unwaringly, a sheepish grin soon replaces the gritting of teeth. Easily singling out the God fearing people, he knows that today too, they'll provide entertainment.
Disregarding the hard glances and challenges made from a distance, he strikes up a conversation with the 'Spitters And Swallowers', as he calls them.
"yoo haf a verrii shinee gun. I bet yoo kannoth hit daat zink over zere" he says, pointing at the remains of what's left in a whiskey bottle.
*I bloody well can old chap, and I'd be delighted to show you!" a Spitter says, overclass English tainting the atmosphere, dripping into the subconscious of the rugged-looking men at the bar.
Four shots ring out: each reduce the bottle a a increasingly small size of broken glass.
"JOLLY GOOD SHOT OLD CHAP!" his companions say, triumph in their voice.
'Veel, zat ees migdy guud, bud was a luckee zink. Yoo cannot heet zat bottle over zere!'
Two more shots, and yet another bottle falls to pieces. More cheers from his compatriots.
'Veery guut', the newcomer says. Yoo haf now draawn yoor gun, oond zerefore I am threatenet. I veel defendeth myself from yoo and eet ees legal. Keeel or be keelled, swallower!"
"But, I must reload!" the Brit says, panick in his voice
'Zat', the unknown man responds, 'ees yoor problem, not mine'
