The patrons of the speakeasy have put the witching hour to good use. They have imbibed heavily, and any one of these fellas'll tell you the whole wingding's gone like eggs in coffee. Everyone is in agreement it's about time to relocate this hootenanny to the sleazy brothel.

But the HATLESS MAN demands a nightcap before they go. He slurs instructions to the barkeep that he'd like whatever's in that bottle over there.