"I hope he's goin' ta make soda..." Cash watches the techni-colored lab coat stalk off in silent retreat. Rain still dripping from the tip of his thrice broken nose. The presence of a preacher man settles, hunched outside an establishment of ill repute amongst scallywags. Long hair is parted, the better for Cash to see with. And above the fallen Penny and besides the wet fur man, the drunk drinks from his flask and smiles.