Ram Johnson politely made his way through the crowd, sometimes having to nudge a fellow aside or demurely *****-slap a particularly immobile patron. When he finally reached the entrance he noticed why there was such a huge crowd outside: a massive door giving the impression that everyone was going to be staying outside, thank you very much.
"Hate to see so many dry throats with such a mother-load in reach. No worries, I have just the thing." Ram Johnson pulled out several disks of an odd-colored metal, each making various pitches of quiet humming.
"Got these beauts while working that gig up at the Andromeda Galaxy," he cheerfully explained, quickly placing each at a seemingly random spot on the door. "They're magnets, see? Can reach right into the little working bits and unlock it in the jiffy. Just a careful twist here and a prod there and....Voila!"
Ram Johnson said the last word with a flourish of his hands as the door click, then slowly inched itself open.
"I remember the Dame that showed me how to work this little miracles," he continued to say, putting the magnets back into the pockets of his coat. "I was sure to return the favor by showing some of my own...trick," he said, eye-brow cocked in that "know-what-I-mean" pose.
"Course after I opened that particular safe, the only cash I got was an IOU in her handwriting. Women, eh?" Ram Johnson said, giving a comradely pat on the back to the nearest ghoulish creature. When the dust-could settled and Ram Johnson had whipped off the dust, he quickly made his way to the basement sensing the alluring call of booze.
He noticed some foreign types near a Dame he quickly identified as a One-Night-Kamikaze and an odd fellow with a gas mask. Ignoring all of them he went straight to the bar.
"Barkeep, I need a Scotch. And that's with a Capital S, so I want the stuff fighting me all the way down. Make it wrong and I'll sock you in that girly dimple you call a jaw; make it like I like it and you'll have made a friend in Ram Johnson. And a friend in Ram Johnson is a friend that isn't going to get you killed. Probably. Unless it's Friday, then you're just asking for a good day with a sore night."
The bartender just stared for a little before making Ram Johnson's drink, eyeing his calender nervously. Ram passed the time till sweet alcoholic release of reality by striking a conversation with the locals.
"So, you hiding some ugly or just avoiding people looking to make some ugly?" he non-challantly asked the masked-man.