People in town called him "Pint," partly because of his diminutive size and partly because he always had a pint of gin in his hip pocket. Pint’s gargantuan appetite for booze was legend in his South Carolina hometown.

He never held down a job very long. Mostly he did odd jobs. When the weather was nice, Pint liked to post himself at the town’s interstate exit ramp holding a cardboard sign for homeward bound folks: "Will work for booze." That usually got a big laugh and occasionally a bit of money.

This particular night Pint’s thirst is powerful. As he lumbers past a closed liquor store, he stops and peers in through the window at the bottles of alcohol goodies lining the shelves.

Pint’s fried brain hatches a plan. He remembers seeing a cinder block on a curb nearby, so he hops down the street, picks up the block, and struggles back to the red-dot store. Only for a second does Pint give any thought to the possible consequences of what he is about to do.

He figures it’ll take the cops maybe four minutes to get to the store after the alarm goes off. By that time he’ll be long gone with two quarts of gin in his pockets. "A perfect crime," he must be thinking.

Pint heaves the cinder block at the store window. That’s when the unexpected happens. The block does not shatter because the window is not made of glass — it’s made of Plexiglas. The heavy cement block simply bounces back and strikes poor Pint square on top of the head.

Police, on routine patrol, eventually spot Pint sprawled out on the sidewalk. At first they assume he’s passed out drunk. It sure isn’t the first time. But the poor little guy never wakes up. The cement block fractured his skull, and now Pint’s permanent address is Potter’s Field.