The restaurant door was forced open, and the wind and rain from the street rushed into the establishment carrying a sour stench. But as the door gently closed, all noise seemed to be shut out, and the restaurant returned to silence and darkness.
The newcomer did not seem familiar with the place. The scrape of his lighter's flint wheel could be heard, and after several damp clicks, a wavering flame the size of a bean lit up a small area.
Since he had lit the lighter, he might as well not waste the flame. The drenched figure pulled a slightly bent cigarette from his pocket, straightened it, put it between his lips, and brought the tip close to the fire.
The flame illuminated his face. He was fairly handsome, but his eye sockets were sunken and his lips bluish. His messy hair resembled weeds. Other than the faint light still in his eyes, he looked like a dried-up corpse.
But he had not come here to eat. He had come because he knew this place had the best liquor in the city.
By a drunkard's logic, a bottle of sake worth tens of thousands could not compare to a thirty-dollar bottle of off-brand strawberry champagne. There was no other reason; the latter simply had a higher alcohol content.
Ask what liquor had the most kick, and Mercenaries and agents would say whiskey, Mexicans would say tequila, and sailors would say rum. Everyone had their own answer.
But ask what liquor was strongest, and the answer was usually unanimous: vodka. And the mass-produced kind sold in supermarkets was not strong enough. It had to be privately distilled and then purified, the kind that would make an ordinary person dizzy after one sniff.
"Cough, cough. Pfft. Heh heh."
Doomsday Blues exhaled a