Blimey. Then we should find something better to drink. [Because clearly not drinking for that long is a gross depravity and not any reasonable choice.

Arthur again polishes off his glass, but grabs the other man's and tosses its contents to the floor. He turns around to look over his shoulder, ignoring any potential protests, and yelling to the waiter not far off.] Oi! A bottle of your best whiskey. Irish, not Scotch.

[He returns his attention to the man before him as they wait for the bottle to arrive.] The name's Arthur Shelby. I own an establishment not far from here that's much better than this piss hole, if you're in the area. The Garrison, it's called.