You stomp your way into a dim and dusty saloon and inhale the musk derived from several generations of brawls, spilled libations, and lost dreams. As the swinging doors behind you slowly come to a stop, so does the music; you can feel every set of eyeballs in the place scrambling for discernment. You adjust you Anti-Hero Fingerhero Beanie as you slowly strut your way to the bar and sit down on a lonesome, padded chair with a tattered red cushion. 'Texas ice tea' you murmur to the bartender; as soon as you down your glass of courage, you boldly make your way over to the stage and not-so-gently escort the driver of the piano away from his chair. In the heavy silence, you start tickling the ivory even though you have never had a lesson in your life.