"No fuckin' Coors." On the verge of outrage, Chase pays in spades for having bad taste in beer north of the border. His perusing stops near the chill stale air leaking from the cracks of the refrigerating system. The man's now frozen in front of one of the windows, a plethora of micro-brewed beers beckon his attention. But he's lost in some kind of intense calculation, perhaps figuring out what kind of possible substitute there could be for the Silver Bullet.