The row of corregated glass jars, so valuable to so many, sit leeringly just of Yershmin's reach, who is completely broke right now. Desprate for a drink, he has been staring at those shiny demons for six hours now, maybe more. The Bartender turns around, obviously exasperated by this bum, and tells him to move along before happy hour. Yershmin can feel his rusty old butcher's knife, the only relic he retained from his previous ocupation, and it is cold against his body. To kill. or not to kill- it's not like Yersh hasn't done that before, but he is stopped by something. Maybe it's that it's only a glass of beer, but he can't seem to bring himself to kill this guy.