Wasn't it just the other night, or some night, anyhow, that he'd told that great, broad cowboying bastard that he was wistful for an ornery patron or three? Ornery was one thing. A mess, the kind swaying and stumbling before they ever got through the doors - that, he'd insist, was another. He'd never taken kindly to being retched on. And this was a greasy place, Las Vegas, fatty, sticky, salty, gour-fucking-met. The stink would cling.
With a huff, Tig set up a bit of a trot until he was between the would-be barfly and the bar he'd like to be back tending. "Oh, now - best not," he let down the kegs he'd been bringing in from the Mean-Eyed Cat's well-supplied stock shed, two great steel drums, one off his left shoulder, one off his right. "I'm told there's rules against serving anyone who staggers about on their way in for a drink, these days. Laws, even." Or something like that. He said it with all due seriousness, of course. "If it's a cab you'd like to order, though, it's on the house."
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