Mr. Smith slouched forward in the barstool next to dawn, toying with his black leather gloves.  "Keeping yourself anesthetized to the pain of your existence?"  He asked in a droll voice, looking down at the little tumbler of psuedoalcoholic bile he'd purchased but not really wanted.  A certain part of the spook's mind was on fire.  Places like this were unsanitary.  He should drink to keep himself sane.  But he'd have to drive his bike too.<br/><br/>A moment later, he noticed that he'd been staring through his sunglasses in the direction of the woman busily knocking back drinks.  "Just in case you're wondering.  I'm not making an inept attempt to flirt with you."  He said in his usual monotone, his cybernetic hand flexing servos invisibly, but not inaudibly, inside his glove.