““Try to stay off the finger for a few days,” he says, beaming. I say nothing while the pinky tip throbs. “That’s a joke,” he adds. “Get it? Stay off the finger.” “Your English is excellent,” I say. “I don’t pick my nose with that digit anyway.” Laughing, the guesthouse owner exits the room and comes back in a few minutes with a bottle. The Jack. I guess he’s decided that we might as well get drunk. Damn the danger that lurks right outside these walls in the form of Obama-masked Russian thugs. “...I had been saving this bottle as a surprise for you when your mission was accomplished. But now that you have been injured in the line of duty, I see no reason to hold back any further.” He pours us each a small glass. He hands me mine. I raise it up to him. “For tomorrow we die,” I toast. “You mustn’t talk like that.” He winks, sipping his whiskey. His eyes light up as he adds, “Strong. But sweet.” “I just think of it as sweet,” I say, downing my third drink of the night.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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