Ya'll find him at the corner bar; y'know, the one all the underage kids go to 'cuz no one checks ID's. And the one the underage kids leave right quick 'cuz they're scared of the bartender.
They got nothin' but brown booze in filmy bottles served in glasses that ain't seen nothin' but used up dishwater and a greasy rag between trips to the lips. And all day and night there's metal cranked through speakers so old you can still hear the Star Spangled Banner oozing through in an acid flashback from hell.
Neil sits at the end of the bar, watching the riff raff drift in and out. Sometimes he lifts his hand from the sticky formica and waves people over. Most times he lifts his middle finger and sends 'em out.
But that Neil, he's a solid guy. He's got it goin' on in his cranium. And he tells a right good story when he's in the mood.
Hell, you buy him a drink, he might talk to ya for a spell. Give him quarter or two for the video golf machine, ya might even coax a smile out of him.