Fontez was once again asleep in the tavern. Which tavern? That mattered less, as drool, was beginning to mix with the stains of ale from last evening. This was not a particularly unusual sight to see in a tavern, nor of Fontez. Still, as the morning sun began to rise and the locals shuffled in, the barkeep was becoming irritable. How many mornings in a row had this happened? Where was the coin promised to him? With the same vigor as every barkeep before him, he rushed towards Fontez, to remove him. “Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up”. All Fontez could hear was the lucid dreams of whiskey and ale he swam in. A bucket of water would do the trick! Oh, how little the barkeep knew, that this was an ancient method, and that this was not his brilliant idea. This habit, this occurrence, had repeated itself for as long, as the drunk had known the taste of ale. Splash!