The beaded curtains jangled as the man stepped off the street and into the seedy bar that was called with affection by it's patrons, The Spunk Hole. As one might imagine with such a delightful name as that, it's clientele were not exactly, shall we say, the most upmarket folk. To these people, upper class were people who thought scratching their butts and then smelling their finger was the height of polite social etiquette.
So when George walked in, suit and tie, his hair carefully oiled back, nails perfectly manicured and not even the faintest shadow of a beard, well, to say the atmosphere of the place began dissipating quicker than one of the barmaids prized farts would be a severe understatement.
There was an air of silence so thick you could cut it with a knife. Not of course, that the patron of the 'Spunk Hole' would ever do such a thing, no, more likely they'd take a broken bottle to it's face, bite off it's nose and then rape it out back against the piles of rotting garbage but, well, you get the idea.
George approached the bar oblivious to eyes burning into him as if they could somehow psychically do him harm (and believe me, some of them probably could do you harm with just their eyes alone, their muscles so overdeveloped their eyelids where considered heavyweights in their own right). Timidly, he asked for a glass of water. The barmaid gave him a long, appraising look that must have lasted ten minutes through which George waited patiently and silently and then turned to fetch him his order. When he received it, George's lipped curled ever so slightly at the 'glass' of 'water'. The glass was so encrusted with filth, it was hard to tell if there was any actual glass in it at all or whether it had in fact been dissolved by whatever foul substance had coated it and the scum and filth was all that held the contents in place. The liquid, for you couldn't call it water by even the most insane stretch of the imagination, undoubtedly there were cess pits that were more hygienic and probably clearer too than the greenish brown soup that George had been presented with. Swallowing nervously, George looked at the drink apprehensively. The barmaid, seeing his dismay, leaned over and dropped a thick, black glob of spit into the top of the glass. It's didn't so much sink as just splatter on the surface and George could have sworn he actually saw it bounce before the ball split apart into the black gooey film that now rested on top of his 'drink'.
George decided to leave at that point before the liquid leaped out of the container and tried to strangle him. As he left, the bar remained as silent as it had become the moment he had entered. When he had gone, a patron stood up, a huge slab of muscle and moustache that would cause even the hardest, most toughest man's penis to recede back inside like the head of a frightened turtle and spoke.
"I say, that was rather unsporting of the old chap, that scoundrel didn't even pay for his drink. What an awful cur!"
Everyone took out their pipes and monocles and nodded in agreement.