The crowd at the Bistrot Infrernale were not given to subtlety. It was the kind of place where if they did not like your face, there would usually be somebody willing to show you exactly why. However, Vernon stood out amongst them. His attitude was what would have politely been described as forthright; or, in the vernacular of his homeland, bluff. He would quite happily declaim on whatever subject took his fancy, broadcasting his opinions to all and sundry. If anyone disagreed with him, Vernon would politely explain why they were wrong. He never lost his temper.

Vernon's subject this particular night was local politics. He believed that as an outsider, he had a unique view on these matters. After all, how could one give an unbiassed opinion if one was involved in such things?

"I don't agree wiv' that sort of thing," Vernon announced, his Estuary accent cutting through the room. "I agree, you got to show respec' to people. After all, if you don' respec' them, how are they evva goin' ta respec' you? If you don' give it, then you ain't goin' ta get it." He nodded at a group of flaneurs who were holding court at the opposite corner of the bar. "I mean, clothes make the man, an' all tha'. But there has to be a man underneath for it to make any difference."

One of the flaneurs got up from his bar stool and strutted over to Vernon. "I do not believe you meant that," the flaneur said to Vernon. "Not in the way I think you intended."

Vernon put his glass down on the bar and rubbed a hand across the stubble of his scalp. "Nah. A right gent like you should be able to tell the difference between a proper man and a ponce."

The flaneur smiled a thin-lipped smile. "Bien sûr. And how would you define them?"

Vernon looked the man up and down. Where Vernon was thick, the flaneur was thin; and where the flaneur was dressed in silk and linen, Vernon was dressed in cotton and denim. "A real man doesn't give a monkey what he looks like. He's always dressed proper. But a ponce ... ."

The flaneur flourished his handkerchief, producing from beneath it a sliver of sharp-edged steel. "A ponce? That is one of your insults?" he enquired. "Do you suggest that I am a ponce? Apologise."

Vernon shrugged then reached for his glass. "Didn' suggest you were one." He raised his glass as if to drink from it, then thrust it at the flaneur's face, stopping short of actual contact. The well-dressed man recoiled, then collapsed babbling in panic, tears mixing with the dregs of Vernon's whisky. "But you ain't got the guts of one."

Vernon turned to the man behind the bar. "Another one. He's payin'."