“How did the contemporary dictator sound when he apologized for sending tens of thousands of his own people to the Gulag? … Not Czary.” “Congratulations, you remembered my opener.”  “What did Cormac McCarthy say in The Road? ‘We forget the things we want to remember, and we remember the things we want to forget.’”  “Am I the father or the son in that story?”  “One of the cannibals, I’d say. You saving that crumb of scrotum for later?” The Bartender pointed to his chin. “That would make me an antinatalist autocannibal.” “What?” “Two single malts, please.” “A double of Aberfeldy 21 okay?” “Sure, but I’m having only the one. Pour the second for the fellow over there.” Without looking, the Stand-up gestured with his thumb toward the end of the bar. A man sitting a few stools away donning sunglasses and wearing an inconspicuous black hoodie that had in big bold white letters written across the chest AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH was reading Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring. “You know that guy?” “No idea…” A voice came from under the hood: “I appreciate your generosity, gentlemen, but that’s a little too old for me.” It sounded famously familiar. “However,” he raised a finger, “if you got anything younger,” he closed the book, sat it down on his knee and lifted his head, “like a nineteen-year-old,” he doffed the sunglasses and looked at them, “then I’m buying.”

“Leonardo 
DiCaprio!
What are you doing here?”