Imagine walking for days under the hot sun. You're Burke, or maybe you're that racist one Wills. Your face is a mash of peeling skin, and the soles of your ruined boots flop like lolling tongues. You sleep by day, and you shuffle towards that infinite horizon by night. You're dying of thirst. You're at that point where you pray for death, until one day a man in a tuxedo offers you a drink. "Want a drink old boy?" He says in an annoying British accent. And you gasp "Water!" but he only has goon. He only has goon cocktails, so you opt for the goon cocktail that tastes the least like goon and the most like water. And he says, "Boy, do I have a cocktail for you!"