​If you gather only one thing of Allister throughout all this retelling, my hope is that you gather that Allister was determined. So determined that, once dared, Allister stopped only when he had accomplished his goal (two other methods could also force Allister into stopping. These were (in no particular order besides alphabetical) death and unbearably shameful embarrassment.). 

An early example of this determination came shortly after Allister received a doctorate in Tunneling and Exploration with a bachelor's in Mining from the Glasgow Academy of Mining and Rock Tunneling/Exploration (these degrees Allister used sparingly, but greatly appreciated throughout his life). At a celebratory dinner in the great hall of the Glasgow Academy, Allister had claimed to have the ability to fit and/or explore any of the crevices and recesses one's mind could produce. This challenge was bellowed from atop a chair (the top of the back of the chair and not the seat) by a seemingly sober, but realistically soused Allister. A fellow graduate, whose name and degree have been lost to time, stood atop his chair (the seat of his chair and not the top of the back of his chair) and bellowed equally loud, "Let's see you fit into the pocket of your pants!"

Allister took this challenge in stride. It was an official challenge, viewed by all present, and therefore no honorable dismissal of said challenge was possible. So, Allister turned to his sharp intellect, which was currently wading in gin. He stepped down from his perch on the back of the chair. A two second pause was followed by a moment of dim lightbulbedness (an unofficial phrase to be sure, but the only one possessing the full scope of the moment). Allister began a drunken fumbling in the attempt to unbutton his pants, leg by leg remove them, stretch one of the pockets (presumably the right side pocket), and place his head inside. This plan was foiled by the forgotten scholar, who bellowed again, this time saying, "Pants must remain on, sir. And I mean the whole body must fit inside." 

Allister stepped down from the seat of his chair, placing his feet on the tiled floor. He could muster only one statement, which upon fruition became a question. "But, which pocket?" The forgotten scholar replied simply, "Either will do. No, I mean the left one." Allister had presumed wrongly of his pockets.

This left Allister sturdy on the tile floor, but lacking any idea as to how to succeed in the challenge before him. He had not yet majored in deductive reasoning. Nor had he yet received his degrees in contortion or tailoring. These would come years later and not in Glasgow (in chronological order, the location of Allister's studies in these fields were Beijing, Prague, and San Salvador (which unintentionally comes across in alphabetical order)). Allister drew a blank. He searched his head for possible wisdom that perhaps lay long forgotten, like the current status of Allister's scholarly challenger. This search turned up empty. Never had Allister studied such endeavors. 

All he could do was try. All he could do was hope the gin would numb himself enough to bend, hope that his body would lead his head to the pocket and fold itself ever so neatly inside. This took time and also looked more awkward. The forgotten scholar howled with delight and bellowed in the all-too-cocky manner found only in the bellows of cruel dictators and school head masters. He shouted for another round for all present. And then, when Allister's body produced no speedier motion, shouted for another. This was followed by another and another and another. Also another.

Allister had two of these alcoholic boosts, which he drunk upside down whilst dipping ever so slightly closer and closer to the tiny entrance of his left pocket. On the swallow of the second shot, Allister found the crown of his head touching the pocket's seam. He would admit later that at this moment, even as his head touched the seam, he still doubted that without the proper training he could not possibly fit himself inside. But, of course, Allister would be damned if he stopped. Damned by himself. But, damned just the same. 

He pressed on. His fingers gripped and stretched the pocket, his spine bent ever so slowly, his body dipped, his head squeezed past the seam into the unfamiliar darkness that only his hands had ever known. Once inside, Allister's head could neither hear nor see the crowd of scholars. Though seemingly no room was available, Allister felt his shoulders narrow and fit inside. Then, his arms, chest, hands, and waist. His hips, legs, and feet followed. And there they sat for hours. Dark and comfy, though cramped and uncertain of how to leave. As the darkness crept from the physical of his sight into the ethereal of his consciousness, Allister held fast to the notion that he had accomplished the goal on his own. That he had explored his left pants pocket, laid inside it, and all while never removing his pants.

When Allister woke, he was outside of his pocket, on the tile floor. He raised his head ever so slightly, revealing a mass of unconscious drunken scholars. When they woke, he knew they would refute his accomplishment. And who could blame them? Allister pulled himself to his knees. He cleared his throat. The force of this clearing produced a most telling ball of pocket lint that fell from Allister's mouth and into his cupped hand. And with this in hand, Allister left the drunken scholars on the floor to debate in the absence of his presence.