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			When Sam was done yelling, she'd hear snoring coming from another area of the building near by. If she moved towards the sound, eventually she'd come to a large figure sprawled out along an old, battered couch. Booted feet crossed and propped up on a torn arm. Part of the newspaper covering the mans face floating up slightly with each rumbling snore. One burly arm hung off the side of the couch, the weathered hand seeming to reach for a half empty bottle of whiskey just out of it's grasp even while he slept.<br/>
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It would seem Sam would need to yell louder to get Charlie's attention.
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</blockquote><br/>"You old cooger..." She muttered, slightly amused. He calls her on a proposition, and then goes to pass out. It must be a bad one if he drunk himself in a stupor. Women in trouble, he wouldn't bother. Children...<br/><br/>She debated for a few minutes on what to do and then smiled. He did like his whiskey... With a grin, she picked up the half empty bottle of whiskey and began to pour it out onto the rubble around the floor. Charlie could sleep like the dead, but if he heard whiskey being wasted, he came up a swinging. Which of course meant that Sam was a good distance away so she didn't get whacked herself. When he awoke, he'd see her standing there in her standard dark red leather biking outfit, boots, pants and top, all fitting like a dream...pouring out his whiskey...a nightmare.