When Piano Joe stopped playing the same tune he’d hammered out every night for twenty years, everybody knew something was wrong in the dusty bar with no name.

“I say screw him! We won’t put up with this any longer – we’ll get our lives back!”

The awkward silence was almost as thick as the smoky air, and at faded leather stools, men from all walks of life stared pointedly into their dirty glasses – looking anywhere but at the flush-faced student who had jumped onto the bar, raving like a madman.

“Come on son, you don’t know what you’re saying…” Ted the Barman tried to sound as jovial as possible, but still desperately motioned for the young man to take a seat.

“Just sit down and have a beer – on the house! How about that?”

“It sounds like what Quentin would want me to do, Ted! I’m not like you, I’m getting out of -”

A gunshot from the doorway ensured the kid never finished his sentence.

Everybody knows that in that part of town, nobody messes with Quentin Flint.

And nobody calls him Quentin.