Snake -- as he still called himself in some primal vestige of his mind and its thoughts upon identity -- didn't need the Station's modern comforts. He would have been content foraging in the wild. Living there, for all intents. But the lure of a good stiff drink had been too much and so he sat with his arms folded upon the bar. A low tumbler sat before him; its contents were clear but its vapours smelled unerringly of very cheap vodka. A cigar was left to dangle and die in the ashtray at his elbow.

He had to turn quite far so he could see the speaker next to him. He had to turn quite far so he could use his one good eye to get a decent idea of who spoke at all. "What's a nug?" He asked in a voice not quite unlike tearing up old carpet with a rusty saw.