Robbie looks down the bar and notices Doc, and jumps. Then scowls. Then snorts. Then blinks. Then sighs.

Ugh. Thank you, sir.

Robbie turns and looks at Snow.

That, um, wasn't a metaphor or anything, I just really like maraschino cherries.

Robbie then surveys the bar up and down.

So, yeah, strictly platonic is cool. I'm spoken for anyhow.

Robbie's eyes light up as the bartender returns.

Triple of Buffalo Trace, neat.

Robbie blesses himself, waiting on his chaser, a triple of bourbon, before sinking the shot of Bushmills.

I am NOT responsible for this...