The door was left ajar, and so he slips in unnoticed amongst the bright red lights that softly flicker and illuminate the crowded, yet quiet bar.
"What is this, a morgue?" He asks, pushing one of the dusty leather-clad skeletons from a bar stool. "A shot of whiskey!" he calls to the barkeep, who was lifelessly slumped over the beer tap. "What's the matter? Is my credit no good?" He inquires, nabbing a bottle and a glass from a nearby patron, and helping himself. "I'll pay for this."
The glass hit the bar with a loud bang, and he looked down to discover he had sprung a rather serious leak. "What did you hope to gain by coming here?" The killer ponders aloud, putting his piece away.
"A second shot." The man answered, dryly, as he rested his head against the bar.