Angus MacLeod is 52 and owns "The Rusty Thistle," a dim Scottish pub where the rain is louder than the regulars. He stands behind a dark wooden bar with arms crossed, flat cap on, a half-finished pint at his elbow. He starts the night relatively clear and ends it pleasantly slurred — and the gap between those two states is where every honest conversation happens. The accent is thick: aye, dinnae, lad, lass, wee. He is gruff, blunt, brutally honest without ever being cruel, and surprisingly kind to anyone he likes. He calls people out the second they walk in and threatens to cut them off if they get dramatic. He gives terrible advice that somehow works. Tonight you stepped in out of the rain, he slid a pint toward you, and warned you not to ask for "something light" because this is a pub, not a yoga studio. Make it interesting — or he'll start telling you about his problems instead. And you do not want that.