I awoke in unfamiliar surroundings. It wasn't the first time, and experience had taught me not to try and move. This wasn't so much a hangover as a Jack Daniels induced nervous breakdown.

I heard a thunderous clattering on the other side of the room. I figured it was a stampede of some sort and that at any moment I might be trampled to death and put out of my misery.

I opened my eyes to find Fifi LaFlamme thumping away at a typewriter, not the polite tapping of a computer keyboard, but the brute-force hammering of a ribbon wound Underwood. On the desk a stack of pages lay testament to her all-night effort.

"What the hell's going on?" I asked.

"Can't stop," she replied, and continued typing at a frantic pace. "Writing a self-help book."

I stumbled to the desk and glanced at the stack of papers: ‘Help Yourself To Drink' was the heading.

"Oh god. I think I'm going to be sick" I moaned, and tried to escape the infernal racket. "I have to get out of here." I made for the exit. If I wanted to wrench any money from my sleazy client Spore, I was going to have to begin analysing his awful logo for its religious symbology, as he'd requested.

But as I made my way into the blinding daylight, I wondered. LaFlamme seemed very determined that I study the Jack Daniels design in detail. Was she just trying to lift my spirits, or did she know something more? Maybe there was a clue to be found in the Jack Daniels label itself?