John Entwistle, known to his friends as "Junnykins," except for the fact that he had none, was a lonely man. A lonely, sick man was he. Proof that he was sick was evident in the song "Fiddle About," which he wrote. He loneliness was showcased in his song "Whiskey Man." Oh, it was just a song written in dark humour, everyone thought; but Junnykins thought it was real.

"This is Whiskey Man," he would introduce, smiling happily and throwing his arm around the "shoulders" of the empty space. People would often laugh uncomfortably, or smile insincerely and nod. Junnykins often took no notice of their nervousness and would order a round of drinks. (Whiskey Man always insisted on ordering his own whiskey, though.) By the end of the night, most of the people at the bar could also see Whiskey Man as well.

Whiskey Man had no home or phone. He did not need them, but that was not because he did not exist. No, Whiskey Man was a magical fellow. He could communicate with any single person who wanted to talk to him. Unfortunately, only Junnykins wished to speak with Whiskey Man. This was alright; Whiskey Man enjoyed Junnykins's company, and Junnykins obivously enjoyed that of Whiskey Man.

All went well in this bizarre little way. A few times someone would notice Junnykins talking to nothing but air, but these were mostly strangers who did not make a comment. Junnykins was happy in his delusional world. Often he would spend hours just chattering on to Whiskey Man, who didn't have much to say back. It did not matter that Whiskey Man was not talkative. Junnykins was just ecstatic that now someone would listen.

Junnykins was an abused teenager. He had been tortured by the kids in school because he was a bass guitarist without a band. They laughed at him often. He wanted, nay, needed a friend. He found one the day he met Whiskey Man. The day had started normally enough, ending as usual with a visit to his favourite pub. Wasted away again in Whiskeyville, Junnykins was approached by Whiskey Man. "Do you like piña coladas?" he asked Junnykins.

"Hate them," he replied.

"I'll drink to that!" Whiskey Man said, or at least Junnykins thought he did. Whiskey Man had this eerie sort of silver glow around him, but Junnykins attributed this to the number of whiskeys he had previously consumed, and drank another. Whiskey Man's big brown eyes seemed to smile at Junnykins. For the first time in his life, he actually had someone to call him "Junnykins."

So, after a hard day's night of bass playing accompianed by Whiskey Man's drum talent, the best friends went to the pub. Junnykins was in an oddly high-spirited mood and ordered two whiskeys; one for himself, one for Whiskey Man. Whiskey Man smiled and nodded. "I don't think you need two whiskeys at the same time, sir," the barmaid told him. Junnykins threw her an astonished look.

"Well, you certainly don't expect the two of us to share the same drink!" he exclaimed.

"You haven't had anything to drink already, have you, sir?"

"Well, of course not! You haven't served me, or Whiskey Man for that matter!" Junnykins said angrily. Whiskey Man nodded, eyes widening.

The barmaid said nothing, but dialed a phone number and spoke to someone on the other line in a hushed tone. It was for a good fifteen minutes that Junnkyins and Whiskey Man waited there, serviceless. At about that time, two men ran into the pub and the barmaid pointed to Junnykins. Whiskey Man looked concerned and followed them out. They shoved Junnykins into the back of a truck.

The truck stopped at a hospital, and the two men dragged Junnykins into a small, secluded room, Whiskey Man trailing behind. A doctor entered the room and asked Junnykins lots of questions. He showed him inkblots, and every one looked like some trait of Whiskey Man. Junnykins explained the story of Whiskey Man to the doctor. He put Junnykins in a straightjacket and showed him to a rubber room where he could bounce off of the walls all day. The doctor announced to Junnykins that Whiskey Man could not visit him, ever. This depressed Junnykins immensely. One time, he got a hold of some paper and a pen. By clutching the pen in his teeth, he was able to write a tribute song to his beloved friend.