<em>Dean Logan - 11:30pm - The Fucking Gulch, 1st Floor</em><br/><br/>Dean looked a bit curiously at this tall man, pondering. He started to hear some muffled conversation from the room to the side, the room with the naughty nurse. He didn't quite know what to expect originally, but he was quickly starting to get the idea. He smirked, shaking his head.<br/><br/>"I gotcha," he nodded to this tall man. "So what do I call y-"<br/><br/>"Um, Phil...<strong>PHIL!</strong>" The large man stopped the next guy who entered. Dean almost recognized this fellow, too. Might have been from his time stocking shelves at the local Wal-Mart? Maybe. His quiet voice was lost in the conversation, but he took note of the proceedings. Pay as you enter, it seems.<br/><br/>"Right. I'll get your name on the way out," Dean shrugged, turning towards the stair case, talking to no one in particular. He slowly descended the staircase, the scent of booze becoming stronger. It was a familiar smell, yet somehow...classier. It was like if his father were a much more refined alcoholic. Indeed, the downstairs were much more posh looking than the entrance, with comfy chairs, colorful lighting, and a rather elegant bar with a man some would call handsome. Hell, some? Nah, he's the sort of guy women certainly dream about.<br/><br/>With a heavy sigh Dean took a seat at the bar, knocking on the wood. What should he do? What was customary in this circumstance? He'd never really bought alcohol before, and now that he was twenty-one...ah! Proof of age! He suddenly reached into his jeans pocket, grasping a bit awkwardly at his wallet, fiddling for his driver's license.<br/><br/>"So you're this...Doc? Doc, right?" He said, pulling the license from his wallet. "Big and tall upstairs said to ask you for Mr. Harris. Or about Mr. Harris. Something"