Morro Coyo, 1970:

He found him passed out in an alley, surrounded by bottles of cheap wine. Empty ones strewn about, full ones nestled carefully in his lap.

He nudged him to get up. “You won’t make it to your next birthday, you keep this up.”

He stirred, smiled slightly and mumbled, “Guess that comes to us all eventually.”

Johnny didn’t smile. “But when you go, you won’t even leave a ripple.”

“You better believe I won’t,” slurred Murdoch. “Not leaving a Ripple, Boone’s Farm or any bottle of fine wine behind. Get your own!”