The hard realization of undeath and finding yourself in a less-than-hospitable city has a tendency to get on someones nerves big time. This reflected in his once savvy small-talk skills being replaced by a void of damp air. Eli took another drink, trying to rack up some sass, but his body just seemed to jump straight to the hangover phase, which did not help his case of post-death crankiness.
And then without warning, the law enters the room.
The law, in this case, was a fancy lad dressed in a jacket, shouting about murder and yellow tape. Not soon after another strapping lawman enters the room, reinforcing the statement the first one was giving. As they walked around, Eli felt uneasy since he was not sure if being undead was a criminal offense in this armpit of Terra, and tried to keep his head down. On the other hand the authorities could get him out of this planet, back to the Old Country, if his ID was still valid. The thought of this suddenly materialized the central problem Eli was having trouble to solve. Eli leaned over the counter to speak to the bartender under his breath.
"What year is it?"