He was a cruel, heartless bastard who had trashed his life with no regret. Saturday night, Cheapskate Randolph decided to abandon his reclusive destiny and get a drink at the Quick Damage rock joint.

He felt a bit lost when he cautiously entered. Sauntering up to the bar, he waited for the bartender, who looked as though he might floss with a crowbar.

"What'll you have, mister?"

Randolph squinted his eyes. "Gimme fifteen shots of the most expensive scotch you got."

"Fifteen shots. Really?"

Randolph nodded. "Fifteen."

The bartender, not wanting to offend, cautiously poured the scotch in all fifteen glasses.

Randolph quickly downed one shot after another. The bartender leaned in close.

"Hey, pal--you'd better take it easy."

Randolph chugged another shot.

"Sorry," he said. "You'd drink like this too, if you had what I have."

"Oh, sorry, friend. What have you got?"

"A dollar," said Randolph.