For his part, the drunk, angry at being ousted, picks himself off the street and runs headlong at Barrow; he slams into his chest with a sound rather like a sack of meat hitting a metal wall, and goes down like one too, unconscious.

"What's what? The bar?" Barrow digs in his pocket to tug a (purchased?? pre-rolled??) cigarette and strikes a match on his own wrist to light it, having not yet graduated to the deeply disconcerting bic lighters.