Dylan turned to look at the man, his eyes hazy and blank. He slowly began to realize that the guy was talking to [i]him[/i], not some invisible entity standing between them. "They say I ain't allowed to tell folk what my whole name is being, but you can call me Dylan." His speech was slow, tired, drug out and given no effort. It was just as sloppy as the rest of him. "I guess you could call what today was a rough day, but it think it could always have been rougher."

With that shining piece of philosophy, Dylan slumped over onto the counter and half heartedly raised one arm into the arm. "Waiter," he croaked. The bartender made his way over, gave Dylan one look, and shook his head.
"I can't give you alcohol on my good conscience, buddy. How many drinks have you had tonight?"
"I ain't drunk nothing," Dylan said, face laying sideways on the cool countertop. He wasn't helping his case. The bartender looked over at Flint with a raised eyebrow. 
"You with this guy?"