Scene: A bar, disgustingly grubby, ill-lit, reeking of soggy cigar butts, garlic, and rancid butter. Set apart from the armpit set at the counter is a wizened skeleton of a man, with stubble on his cheeks and liquor dripping from his chin. This is Nomily Crass, pauper, sot, ne'er-do-well, and uncouth to the core. His friends call him Slum.

The artificial light is lost somewhere amidst the smoke and steam, but Nomily can be seen slumped over his glass. His pensive silence is suddenly interrupted by an off-stage voice.

VOICE: "I say, what are you doing there?"

NOMILY: "I'm tying one on tight. G'way."

VOICE: "Well, do you do this for a living."

NOMILY: "No. In sober moments I paint delicate, soft colored Chinese silk screen landscapes."

VOICE: "Then you must be a thinking man."

NOMILY: "I'm an alcholic."

VOICE: "But you said..."

NOMILY: "Shaddap!"

VOICE: "Sir, why do you drink? Do you find that it provides an outlet for your sense of logic and order? Or are you merely seeking the creative spark, the aesthetic light?"

NOMILY: "I hate my wife and job."

VOICE: "I see. But would you advise everybody to drink?"

NOMILY: "Why not?"