There remained 4 desperate men sitting at the bar. The Fat Pigeon pub had shut but they’d been granted a lock-in for no reason in particular. The publican Peter, left them nursing their fresh pints while he dizzied about sorting out spirit bottles, the drip trays, slop buckets and bar towels. He discretely hid the day’s takings in the very mysterious container that sat frightening patrons on the top shelf all day long. It was a bust of Peter’s bare torso, his portly stomach and huge man boobs, moulded from and for him the last time he was in Amsterdam. This thing even had some faux chest hair and a small pimple just to add to the realism.