"I see you're the type of punk that thinks he knows everything," says Stover, the police officer who just arrested you for drunk driving after you crashed into that school bus full of blind orphans and their terminally ill welsh corgi puppies. "Well, you may not want to listen to anything I have to say, but we've got ways of teaching people lessons, even little jerks like you."
Stover pulls his car behind a plain brown brick building you've passed often on your various drunken escapades, but never paid much mind to. You suppose he plans to take you to a dark corner somewhere behind this place and beat the snot out of you. You're not worried; you've had worse than some two-bit gumshoe's love taps.
He yanks you out of the back seat and walks you toward a door in the rear of the building.
"I ain't afraid of you," you proclaim as you near the portal.
Stover remains silent. He simply opens the door and pushes you through.
The smell of stale beer and spilled whiskey hits you as you cross the threshold and Waylon Jennings assaults your ears through scratchy speakers.
Looking around as you enter the bar room proper, you see two types of people: cops in uniform, and people in handcuffs.
What the fuck?
Stover pushes you onto a stool at the bar and cuffs you to a steel pole bolted into the sticky lacquered oak.
"What are we doing here?" you ask.
"We aren't doing anything," sneers Stover. "You're going to shut the hell up and I'm going drink half a bottle of bourbon before I drive you to parish. After all, drunk driving is no big deal."