Business was tough, it was tough all around. But that was just the nature of the city: either you're eaten alive or you eat. And in Impmon and Leatherhead's business? Everyone does the eating if they want a profit.

IF you wanted a pizza, you had to go through Impmon and his number one big, silent enforcer. No one even took a slice without them knowing it. See, they owned the pizza racketeering business. And no one else would muscle in on their turf if Leatherhead had anything to do about it.

You know those two always had money on their mind and pizza in their pockets when they walked in. Impmon nearly moseyed on over to the joint, dolled up in his pinstripe suit to the sixes and sevens. Leatherhead just had the typical longcoat and hat combo. He always kind of kept to himself save those he knew personally. And those who Impmon didn't like? They got acquainted with LH's fists.

The bar was their oyster as far as Impmon could tell. Once they made their way, Impmon snapped his fingers. Leatherhead did the rest, hoisting up his boss right up to the bar stool. Together they leaned against the bar, checking out for fresh rubes.

"Hey barkeep!" he waved his hands, "How about a white russian, fresh on the rocks? ...bartender?

Guess the bartender was busy with other things.

"Feh."