Well. By turns around. As he comes back, his step is abruptly unsteady, staggering. Somehow, by some trick, he even reeks now, more than he did before, exhaling vapors of alcohol that are far worse than they had been.

"Heyyyy," By says, so sloppily drunk that even the world-weary bartender flinches somewhat. There is, after all, a particular sort of drunkenness that is embarrassing for all involved; even a stranger has the impulse to avert their eyes from a grotesquerie.

"Hey," By sighs, swaying, "where's the pisser?" And then he starts reaching for his pants, unbuttoning them. "I really gotta shit. I really gotta shit."