un-tie-toald.

The wind plucked him up like a pickpocket snatching your grandfather’s silver pocket watch, and sat him down rather violently into a dungeon of deterioration. Flabby appendages inched through the thick air like the tendrils of a strangler fig—it was discombobulating. Tiny beer bubbles raced to the surface of their glasses, suffocating, reaching for the air that was just beyond the deflated pale lips that moved slowly to the rim for a taste of liquid social skills or maybe consolation. He glanced to his feet and willed them to carry his gangly frame toward the bar where he knew he could find sense and order in his otherwise befuddled mind. Draining a mug in seconds, turning and surveying the scene around him—his senses were sharper and more comprehensive than before.
It was a bar in Nevada. Somewhere near Vegas, he suspected, blaming his assumption upon the presence of enamored nicotine-stained fingers and the empty wallets of the washed-up gamblers who trickled out of that devious and dripping city—those whom were at last content with having just enough bucks to satisfy their sticky dry throats.