[ It could be a dream, even to Len. Too many memories from this time in his life feel exactly the same way, start with the same prelude. Another gig, another drink, another beautiful stranger. He's suddenly glad he didn't hit the Jet before hitting the bar, or else he wouldn't be able to enjoy the chiseled features currently flustering in front of him.

Len slides the glass on the countertop toward him as soon as it hits the wood, a sly grin on his face as his eyes lid. It's another lazy once-over, this time moderately more lingering. A familiar hunger pulls at him and in an instant he flashes his teeth before taking a sip of whatever swill they've poured him this time.

The kind of moonshine that puts hair on your chest, apparently. Or it probably does for this guy. He's distressingly good-looking. ]

So you're a man of taste, [ he observes cheekily. ] Games are rigged here, entertainment's the only thing worth a damn. Though I am, admittedly, biased.