It had been a long night, even for Alan Mies, as he walked into the dimly lit alley. A beam of light shot suddenly across the pavement, and a dark heap lay where only the cracked pieces of concrete had formed the narrow walkway leading to the street. An apparent soundcheck, or maybe the tentative stabs at a prospective first song of a set wafted in the air, inviting Alan to drift closer toward the double doors. A bouncer was checking the heap on the street and lifting it up. It was clearly a passed-out patron of the bar. "Callahan's" was pasted in poorly fitting sticker letters on a half-lit marquee. Alan put out his cigarette and strolled toward the bouncer, who released the former patron and lifted his chin to meet Alan's stare. "Got any ID?" he asked. "Just this," said Alan and showed the man a holographically gleaming three-dee licence. "Oh, right, welcome sir!" said the doorman and opened the door for Alan. By the time Alan had elbowed himself to the bar area, the band on the stage had launched into a long rock-and-roll jam. Two guitarists were trading licks, the bass player kept pounding the familiar changes, and the drummer seemed to never repeat a bar identically to the previous one. "This could turn interesting," Alan thought to himself, and pulled a fiver out of his wallet.