These two words were usually coupled together in the Old Pink Dog Bar.
I thought, gasped Ford, that this was meant to be a class establishment…
He glanced around at the motley collection of thugs, pimps and record company executives that skulked on the edges of the dim pools of light with which the dark shadows of the bar’s inner recesses were pitted. They were all very deliberately looking in any direction but his now, carefully picking up the threads of their former conversations about murders, drug rings and music publishing deals. They knew what would happen now and didn’t want to watch in case it put them off their drinks.
You gonna die, boy, the barman murmured quietly at Ford Prefect, and the evidence was on his side. The bar used to have one of those signs hanging up which said “Please don’t ask for credit as a punch in the mouth often offends,” but in the interest of strict accuracy this was altered to “Please don’t ask for credit because having your throat torn out by a savage bird while a disembodied hand smashes your head against the bar often offends.” However, this made an unreadable mess of the notice, and anyway didn’t have the same ring to it, so it was taken down again. It was felt that the story would get about of its own accord, and it had.
Lemme look at the bill again, said Ford. He picked it up and studied it thoughtfully under the malevolent gaze of the barman, and the equally malevolent gaze of the bird, which was currently gouging great furrows in the bar top with its talons.
It was a rather lengthy piece of paper.