Oswald, laying back in his weekly bath, not that there’s much room in the tub left for water to call it a bath, shouts “BEER! NOW!”
Bertha’s sick of being treated like a damn servant. She brings up a bottle and a can. “Which would you have?”
“Bottle,” he says.
She breaks the bottle over Oswalt’s bald head. Glass shatters all over him.
A torrent of profanity fills the air. “What you go do that for?” growls Oswalt.
“Oh, you’d prefer the can?” asks Bertha, and she puts it in one of his dirty socks and bludgeons him to death.