“Nobody ever gets killed with a clean shirt,” says the man at the bar sadly. “Shoes, socks, pants–hell, underwear, mostly. But it’s not like you’re gonna die of a stab wound to the leg, right? The chest is the target. Filled with… with juice. If you hit it, it always spills! And heads!” He pulls at his Bud. “Heads are a mess!”

The man scratches his naked chest and stares morosely at a puddle. Young Emerson, who’s tending bar tonight, acts with remarkable speed of uptake: she drapes her towel over a sign, shortening it to NO SHOES NO SERVICE.