Sam Spade was confused. "What am I doing in Los Angeles in the late 1940s?" he asked himself. "I'm a San Francisco based literary character from the late '20s and early '30s, if I start cross country skiing around L.A. I'm just going to get myself lost".

So Spade unstrapped his skis and went inside. He poured himself two fingers of rye, sat down, put his feet up, took a drink, grimaced, and then looked down into his glass and mused "I could definitely afford to buy better booze if I had a shiny new silver dime for every two bit Redditor that confused me with Phillip Marlowe."