A man walked into the bar, looking a bit overdressed even for the rather brisk weather outside the door.  His clothing looks as though it might have once been of refined tastes, but now only rough stitching, split threads, and worn out patches catch the eye.  His coat looks as though it may have enough pockets to carry away an entire house, bit by bit, and a brown fedora sits not-so-firmly upon his head.  The brim has seen its better days, now utterly limp from overuse.  Despite the other layers he has on, the fellow has curiously decided to wear ordinary flip flops on his overlarge feet.<br/><br/>He shuffles over to the bar with a bit of an odd gait, as though he knows quite well<em>how</em>to walk but can't quite put that knowledge to good use.  A relieved sigh escapes him as he settles onto a stool by Zola, likely glad to finally rest his weary legs.  There's something immediately off about him, particularly his face.  He certainly has a peculiar sort of handsomeness about him, as though a painter set out to create an attractive guise but accidentally exaggerated in all the wrong places.  Eyes a smidge too far apart, a mouth just a bit too wide, and a nose just a centimeter crooked.  Add in the habitual slouch of his shoulders and you have an individual whose blood certainly hasn't been kind to him.<br/><br/>He raises a finger towards the bartender and smiles cheerfully, showing teeth that seem just a mite too sharp.  "Yes, might I have a glass of water, please!  Oh, and a pitcher, if you have a spare.  And...perhaps a salt shaker?"  A sheepish look crosses his face.  "Sorry if I'm a bit...particular."