Drunk was certainly one of Piers Kennedy's default settings.
His military days had built him something of a tolerance to liquor, but since the infection hit, that tolerance had waned in the light of the dwindling availability of alcohol and his goal, now that there was booze readily available again, was to build it back up. At least that was what he told himself, to justify the fact that he'd spent most of his nights over the past week in the bar.
This place, he decided, needed a bartender. Yeah, there were people tending bar, which was all well and good, but when someone just asked for a simple whiskey and it ended up tasting like you stuck your filthy big toe in it, you were obviously doing something wrong. Still, outwardly telling a bartender they sucked at what they were doing was a quick and easy way to earn a spit cocktail, so rather than make a scene, Piers politely flagged the woman—a rather attractive woman, at that, which made this whole situation all the more pleasant—down and offered her a polite suggestion, that she not use the same glass she'd just used for someone's scotch to put whiskey in.
About fifteen minutes later, he'd tutored the woman, who it turns out had never poured a drink in her life before this, in the finer points of booze-pouring, and offered to give her more lessons later.
Making his way back around the bar, he sat on his stool and smirked, taking a drink from his self-poured whiskey and nodding his approval. Not bad, Piers, he mused inwardly.