Harper kicked three pairs of dirty socks, an orange sweatshirt and a pair of boots under his bed. He gathered up his porno flexies and tucked them into a drawer. The room still looked like a dump. He pulled a small table away from the wall and looked for something to put over it to hide the interlaced can rings on its surface. A bath towel, one of his print shirts, maybe a clean sheet? He should have gotten something from Beka before she left, but then she would have asked questions. It was just the guys, he guessed they would have to make do with a naked table; after all he was an engineer and not a decorator.

He moved a large pile of clothing, a mountain in the bottom of his closet, and under it was a wooden crate. Harper's little treasure. Tonight was sharing time. It was going to be lots of fun. A naked table, three chairs, one quite rickety, three unmatched glasses and what was in the crate. Harper's big little treasure.

In just a few minutes Tyr and Dylan would be here, wondering why he had invited them to his room. Were they going to be surprised? Neither of them had any idea what he had found in his exploration of the heat traces on level sixteen. A box of history. A box of fun. A box hidden by some member of Dylan's previous crew. Three-hundred-plus-years-old and no worse for the wear. Seamus Z. Harper was a freakin' genius.

* * * * * *

"You do the honors, boss." Harper threw Dylan a small pry bar to attack the top of the wooden crate.

"Interesting stuff you got here, Harper. You said you found this."

"Last week. Crawling through ducts. Brushed away three hundred years worth of space dust and this is what I found."

Tyr slowly walked over and inspected the bottles Dylan was extracting from the box. "I don't recognize the labels. What does he have?"

"Actually, it is a selection of alcoholic beverages of different types. Someone must have sprung for a case purchase and gotten a discount. Most of the stuff is drinkable, but nothing special. Except for this." Dylan held out a bottle of a single-malt scotch.

"I've tried scotch that you have identified as exceptional before, Captain Hunt. Except for the exhilarating intoxication that you can get, I suspect, by consuming anything in this crate, I find nothing extraordinary in drinking a liquid that smells like smoke and tastes like fire." Tyr stated.

"Well, then as I like to say, 'all the more for me'." Dylan's eyes showed his delight with this prospect.

"What else do we have?" Harper asked.

"There are three bottles of chocolate flavored liqueur. My guess is that the purchaser intended to use them for special evenings with the ladies. This usually gets their lips moving, their juices flowing. . .

"And their panties down." Harper added. "Think we should save them for when Beka and Trance are back on the ship. Maybe one of us will get lucky."

"Nietzscheans do not have to rely on potions to 'get lucky'. Our women actually want to have sex with us."

"That's because they WANT to have your babies, we know." Harper chided. "We, kluges prefer our women to desire us for ourselves, not our offspring."

"And exactly where does the line of those women start, Mr. Harper?"

"Who knows? When the word gets out that I have chocolate booze it could start right here."

"In that case I suggest you might want to spring for a table-cloth, and perhaps rediscover the appliance known as a vacuum cleaner."

"Thank you, Tyr, for providing Mr. Harper with your comments on his décor. So, I guess this means that Harper and I can split up this chocolate liqueur, since you have no need for it."

"I didn't say that." Tyr grabbed a bottle and hugged it to him. "I can think of some people who might enjoy it."

Both Dylan and Harper smiled, wondering just what the Nietzschean was contemplating.

"We have some rather young, or at least when it was bottled, brandy." Dylan continued with the inventory. "I don't know what an extra three-hundred-years of bottle aging will do to it, since it wasn't the top of the line to begin. But I am sure it will be drinkable. Four bottles of vodka, assorted flavors." He placed the bottles in a row on Harper's small table.

"This one," Dylan said holding the bottle to the light, "seems to be damaged. I think the top must have had a pinhole leak and the three hundred-year storage finished it off. Sorry about that Harper."

"Well, I guess it can't all be perfect."

"And Harper, you still have two bottles of this green stuff -- Chartreuse. I've never seen it before."

"Looks interesting to me." Harper stated. "Let's try it first."

Tyr made a face. "Why not? What is it that you humans say? Name your poison."

"I'll stick to scotch."

"Be our guests. We can do a controlled experience of the effects of . . what's it called again. . . Chartreuse on ubers and kludges." Harper expounded.

"Maybe I should alert Rommie to turn on the surveillance for scientific purposes?" Dylan asked.

"No way. I asked her to share in this little event and she said 'no,' so she missed her chance once and for all. " Harper stated.

"It is reassuring to know that at least one modem of intelligence remains on this ship, even if it belongs to the ship," Tyr reasoned.

"Shut up, Tyr, and I believe you've named your poison," Dylan said as he poured glasses of Chartreuse for Tyr and Harper.

* * * *

Harper was surprised when Tyr had actually decided to go along with his idea and drink the Chartreuse. Tyr raised his glass slowly, sniffed and tasted. "It has a very herbal fragrance and is dryer than one would have supposed,"

Harper chugged the glass and smashed the heavy shot glass back on the table. "How about another one, Dylan?"

"Get your own, boy, I'm through playing bartender." Dylan propped his booted feet on Harper's bed and balanced his chair on the back two legs. He had a larger glass, filled to the top with scotch. His crewmembers watched as he drank, realizing that when he opened his mouth, it would probably not close for some time. Dylan was known to tell long stories when he was drinking.

"Playing bartender can get you into big trouble. I remember a night like this back at the academy. One of my classmates, a big Nietzschean named Robert E. Grant. . .

"That's enough information, right there, to let you know what sort of personality problems he had. Can you imagine a mother so nescient to name her son after two opposing generals from the same war." Tyr said.

"You wouldn't think she would have done it on purpose? So, maybe, not all your kind are students of history? I never suspected." Harper commented.

"I imagine Bobby-boy didn't suspect either until he was met with guffaws from his pre-school playground peers." Tyr added.

"You're right there, Tyr. Robert E. wasn't one of the most stable members of our class. But he had a talent I have never seen before. . . or since. He could grab on to the curtain rod in the shower, just hang there naked, and, while we all watched, he could get hard and cum. Just by the power of his mind."

"I'm sure the High Guard cadets watched intently -- wondering which of them he was thinking about." Tyr commented.

"It was a good show," Dylan added.

Harper noticed that after sipping the first shot of Chartreuse, Tyr had adopted his slamming technique. The bottle was going down fast, and Tyr looked better and better.

"Anyway Robert E. had brought back a case of liquor from Odessa drift. Mostly vodkas. Everyone was suddenly his best friend. Lots of people brought bottles of soft drinks and juices and everyone was playing bartender. I thought, 'I can do this. I can make a drink that whereever people go, they would walk into a bar and ask for a Dylan Hunt special.' I kept experimenting. Several different kinds of vodka. Several exotic fruit juices, but not a lot of any. A dash of this; a drop of that. I kept mixing and tasting. I'd pass the drink off to the others for their comments. I think I lost track of time.

Sometimes it was easy to lose track of time when Dylan was talking.

"Anyway, I think I finally got the mix just right. When I tasted that last drink, I knew I had found it. It captured the essences of both the flavorings distilled into the various vodkas and those of the juices from all quadrants of the universe. It was as close to the perfect drink as any high guard student bartender had ever come.

"I didn't share this drink. Just started drinking them one after another. . . and when I awoke, I was in Mr. Grant's bed. Naked with a very, very sore asshole."

"You were a virgin?" Harper asked.

"That kind anyway. It really bothered me that my first sexual encounter - - - with a man - - - had been non-consensual. Anyway I slouched my way back to my room and discovered that it was two days later than I thought it was and classes were starting the next day.

Tyr took the end of one of his braids and dipped it into his glass of Chartreuse. He took the braid in his mouth and sucked on it.

"Is it good that way, can I try?" Harper asked as he moved his chair over toward Tyr.

"You weren't supposed to see that?" Tyr raised his bladed forearm to the smaller engineer, and cracked a wide smile. "Sure why not, I know you like to suck on things."

"On my desk was a class schedule." Dylan continued oblivious to what was going on. He had refilled his drink and considering the difference in the size of the glasses was probably keeping pace with his friends. "You wouldn't believe the classes that I had signed up for. There was some basic level math course that I could have taught, art history, and this class in protocol that only women cadets, quartermaster corps, and mutant-aliens took. Hospitality 101. The next morning I had to go to my advisor and get permission to drop the classes.

"How was it that you had enrolled in these classes, I thought the High Guard cadets were on a fairly strict schedule for classes." Tyr asked, as Harper moved the front of his shirt looking for something else to paint with a braid dipped in Chartreuse and suck.

"If you want some privacy, I can leave." Dylan suggested. Harper's actions becoming harder to overlook.

"The boy seems to be feeling this a little more than I am."

"It doesn't seem to be feeling that he is interested in."

"Continue with your story, Captain Hunt, I find the camaraderie expressed in your stories to have an exhilarating effect. But first, tell me about your class schedule," Tyr taunted.

"Well, it seems that the day before I had gone to my advisor and had him approve my selections. I cannot help but believe that he knew I would be back. So when I asked him why he had approved them, he told me that he had his doubts but that I had given him such a persuasive argument for each of them that he was convinced I knew what I was talking about.

"But you were drunk."

"I knew I was drunk, but I couldn't admit that to my advisor. Can you imagine how that would look on my record? I gave him some story about further soul searching and all that. . . anyway .. . I got out of the math class and the art history. . . but he made me take the protocol class. Which was a good thing in the long run because I learned how to conduct dinner parties and I met a lot of women. . .

"And gave your asshole time to heal." Harper added.

"I didn't know you were still with us, Mr. Harper?" Tyr looked down at the blond head that had snuggled into his crotch.

"Dylan's stories have the same effect on me that they have on you, Tyr? You know that."

"Once again I am going to ask if you would prefer that I leave."

"Harper, Captain Hunt is revealing the mysteries of his youth. Telling stories that bare his soul, not to mention that cute little High Guard leather clad ass I am sure he had back then. As you were the one who invited BOTH of us to this party, the least you could do is engage in civil conversation for a while." Tyr kept his eyes glued to the younger man, while he poured both of them another shot of Chartreuse. Without breaking the stare they both chugged the shot and he poured another.

"I'm only drinking scotch, Tyr. I think I am missing something."

"I think what all of us are missing is that drink that night. The ultimate poison. I don't suppose you remember how to make it?"

"Honestly, I'm not sure. Don't think I ever tried again after that night? May have written it down somewhere in my notes, but haven't seen them for centuries."

"Too bad, one would think that as a instrument of seduction it would rival that chocolate liqueur for which you seem to express such fondness."

"Honestly, Tyr, I prefer my sexual partners conscious. As I said, I had regrets about non-consensual sex. I wouldn't want to impose that guilt on female sex partner, especially a High Guard cadet."

"But did you ever consider the fact that if your persuasive skills, even under the influence, as you claim to have been were keen enough to work on your academic advisor, you might have had a similar influence on Mr. Grant. After all, not even a Nietzschean can resist a well built blond boy taunting him with cheers of 'ride me cowboy'."

"Do we have the right kinds of vodka?" Harper asked, almost without regard to either Dylan's musings or Tyr's comments.

"What do we have? I didn't really look at the specific types of vodkas." Dylan seemed to be ignoring Tyr, too.

Harper jumped from his seat beside Tyr and carefully inspected the bottles. One looks like quadruple filtered, 151 proof."

"Odorless, tasteless, and guaranteed to knock the shit out of you." Dylan commented.

"This one is triple-citrus. This one is pineapple. And this red bottle here says it is Vedran Lava," Harper said continuing his inventory.

"That's just another word for cinnamon. Cadets liked to shoot it because it tasted hot all the way down. Never liked it much myself."

"I know, you liked your fire brown and smoky. You've made that point quite clear. The question I have is -- can you make us one of those drinks with those types of vodka?" Tyr asked.

"Maybe, if I added a little bit of brandy."

"You really are going to poison us aren't you?" Harper commented.

"You've named your poison, now let me make it. I need juices. Fruit juice, carbonated water, and ice."

"I'll go get it. Run down to the storage areas and see what I can find." Harper volunteered.

"I'll stop by hydroponics and see what is fresh there, too. I am sure that fresh fruit will get the Captain's creative juices going."

"Good idea, Harper."

"Ok, back in a second."

"Take your time. We wouldn't want you to spill anything in the hall."

* * * *

Dylan continued to move the bottles around on the table checking out each of the labels for alcoholic proof. Tyr walked over, stood behind him, and inched down his turtleneck enough to get a firm bite on the Captain's shoulder. Dylan spun toward him and the two were locked in a kiss.

"What are you trying to do to me?" Tyr stared into his captain's eyes with a feral madness.

"I though we were invited for a party with Mr. Harper. I'm not doing anything different that I would partying with any two men with which I have shared a harrowing period. Drinking and telling stories."

"Stories about how you lost your virginity?"

"Why not, it's a good story. I've even told it to women sometimes, they get all super helpful about not wanting me to have a sore . . . "

"But you know Harper thinks he and I have something. . . shall I say special. If he knew what you and I do in the off hours, do you think he'd be so willing."

"If you ask me, Seamus Harper was born willing, but if you don't like my stories, why not ask me to leave. I've suggested that a couple of times already."

"I really want to try that drink. I really want to see you drunk. Really drunk. Forget-a-few-days-of-your-life drunk."

"A High Guard Captain doesn't have that opportunity."

"Ok, how about a forget-a-few-hours drunk', I'm sure that there are nano-bots that could cure your hangover if the need arises. Relax and enjoy it, Dylan." Once again he pulled Dylan into a kiss.

"You'd better relax, Tyr." Dylan said patting the front of the Nietzschean's trousers, "Or else Mr. Harper is going to be wondering what we were doing in his absence."

Dylan reached for the communicator in his neck and signaled his ship. "Andromeda, for the next few hours, maybe as long as a day, I am going to relinquish control to you. Understand. If an emergency that you cannot handle occurs, please send Rommie to Mr. Harper's room with three syringes filled with class A, anti-dopamine plasma."

"So the crew is going to get a little 'shit faced', Dylan." Andromeda replied over the intercom.

"Smart woman." Tyr commented as he sat down and linked his arms behind his head. The fun of watching Dylan work to please, and intoxicate him, was reflected on his face.

* * * * *

Harper returned with an armload of items. He had difficulty carrying the bottles and fresh fruit he had collected. Somewhere he had even found a mechanical juicer that he was positive that Dylan would find most useful. He had a bucket of ice dangling from his arm, a few towels, and an apron for Dylan.

"It appears that Mr. Harper has been most thorough in his appointed task," Dylan said with a smile as he checked the items Harper had collected.

"Let's hope you perform as well, Captain Hunt."

Dylan removed his jacket and began tying on the apron.

"I think the apron would look much nicer without the turtleneck." Tyr suggested. Dylan quickly complied. "And the trousers. . . . . and perhaps without the underwear."

Harper's eyes widened as Dylan actually went along with Tyr's suggestions. Exactly how much scotch had he drunk? Dylan wrapped the apron ties around his waist and tied them in a bow in the front. He ran his fingers through his hair, stood straight and tall, and began his bartending demonstration.

"I've been thinking, and I don't think I can actually recreate the exact drink I made so many years ago. But I may be able to reconstruct some of the reasoning that went into it so that we will come up with a reasonable facsimile. I remember that I was quite fascinated with the antioxidantal properties of fresh fruit juices. I see Harper has brought me quite an assortment." Dylan grabbed several of the fruits and began juggling them. His eyes met Tyr's and he gleamed.

"Enough is enough. We do not need the Vaudeville show." Tyr scolded.

"Show's not over until I take my bows. Got a lot of mixing to do before that."

Tyr reached down and picked up the scotch bottle Dylan had started drinking earlier. There was a lot more gone than he had anticipated. No wonder Dylan had been so willing to go along with his clothing suggestions.

"Ever used one of these little babies?" He indicated the juicer. "It's one of my favorite household appliances. You toss the fruit in here and out comes the juice. Of course, the Nietzschean cadets used to fight over the leftover fiber."

Dylan extracted the juice from four or five different fruits and sipped the resulting mixture.

"A little sweet. What else do we have here?" He rifled through the assortment and selected a couple fruits that both Tyr and Harper knew to be extremely sour.

"Go easy with those. We don't want to pucker. . . " Harper stopped realizing what he had said.

"I thought the pucker was part of the fun. . ." Dylan began to reply but then became fascinated with the dark purple juice that was trickling out of the spout. "Never mind. I hope this doesn't spoil the color."

"I have an idea, why don't you crush the ice, add the other juices and liquor, and then trickle this over the top for a colorful and tasty accent." Tyr suggested.

"I thought I was the bartender. And besides, Mr. Harper didn't bring a blender."

"I'm sorry, thought about it, but my arms were full."

"I didn't have a blender then either; so you're forgiven. Now for the test." Dylan poured some of the extracted fruit juice in a glass and added two shots of the high proof vodka. He tasted it and smiled.

"Well the flavor is not diluted, but actually enhanced by the alcohol. Want to try?"

He passed the glass to the others who each took a drink.

"Quite good, Captain Hunt, but not much different than potions available at finer establishments throughout the universe. What made yours so unique?"

"If we elevate the citrus." He added a shot. "And add a bit of the pineapple vodka, we will still be in the realm of the ordinary. I think we need to add some bottled juices -- this blood orange concentrate should do nicely -- and use vodka to reconstitute it to normal strength. Don't you agree Chef Anasazi?"

"You've used half that freakin' bottle, just to dilute the orange juice." Harper commented.

"I believe we are approaching the duplication of your original thought patterns, Dylan. You seem to be reverting to the intellectual capacity of a second year High Guard cadet."

"Should I take that as a compliment?" Dylan sipped the drink and looked somewhat puzzled. "Brandy, it needs a little brandy."

A pinch of this, a dash of that, a sip to test, and then the process was repeated. Tyr watched intently but poured and drank a couple of shots of Chartreuse while doing so.

"You don't suspect it needs some of this?" Tyr asked as he held out the bottle and then took a slug directly from it.

"This is fruital, not herbal. Don't you know anything? It's just missing something."

"Certainly not because of your exclusion of anything else alcoholic."

"How about letting us taste?" Harper asked. He had popped a can of Sparky, drank a slug, looked over at Tyr and noticed that his hair had been tied back with a leather thong, smiled, and drank his cola.

"Sure, but it's still missing something." Dylan poured him a glass, over ice, and popped a small red fruit into the top of the glass. Harper drank it with a smile as Dylan rummaged through the other bottles looking for the missing something.

"I 'gree, it would not meet Tyr's standards for exceptional drinking quality. I would suggest some more of that strong vodka."

"Good point, Harper," he took a drink and replied, "smoother, but still missing something."

* * * *

"This bottle of Chartreuse is empty. Could you please give me the other one? I believe it rolled under here."

Dylan and Harper were consuming their fourth full glasses of the "not-yet-good-enough-for-Tyr" cocktail. Dylan dropped to his knees and searched under the bed for the missing bottle. Tyr smiled as he surveyed the landscape.
 

"What's under here?" Tyr could hear Dylan's muffled voice coming through the mattress. It took a brave man to look under Seamus Harper's bed.

"Stuff. Thin's. That's lube."

"I know it's lube. Doesn't that belong in the machine shop."

"Not that kind of lube. You know."

Tyr's face grew into a smile.

"Ah, here it is, rolled all the way to the back." Tyr resisted the idea of slapping his hand on the captain's behind. There was time for that later.

He crawled out and poured another glass of Chartreuse for Tyr.

"When is this drink going to be ready?"

"Still tesin'," Harper said with a smile.

"Well your pseudo-scientific experiences could go on until one of you reaches the necessity state of . . . I think I'm getting drunk."

"Well, then, I think you need to try this." Dylan poured Tyr a tall glass of his concoction.

Tyr lifted it to his mouth and drank it in one swallow. His face wrinkled and then relaxed.

"What were you thinking when you made that? It's all booze, someone would have to do macroscopic studies to find the remnants of the fruit juices."

"We thought you would like it better if it were more subtle."

"Any more subtle and it would be sub-tile or subtitle."

"I do believe it's having the desired effect on him, Dylan."

"Drink yours, Mr. Harper."

"After you, Captain."

They both chugged their drinks.

"Move over Tyr, let us sit beside you. We've got a pitcher of these mixed up, we can sit back and critique before we move on." Dylan suggested.

Tyr poured himself another, while his friends settled in next to him on the bed. Harper was unusually still, and Dylan just sat there looking at the glass with a quizzical look.

"I still can't figure out what is missing. It needs somethin'."

"You didn't answer my question."

"What question?" Dylan asked.

"About what you were thinking?"

"I thought it was rhetorical."

"Maybe it was re-Tyrical." Harper said, showing that he wasn't completely lost in an alcoholic fog.

"What I was thinking, Tyr, was when we are finished drinking this pitcher, we are going to be damn horny. I was thinking about who would do what to whom?"

"Humm. . . whom . . . Hohne." Harper muttered.

Dylan put his drink down on the table. Untied his apron and let it drop on the floor.

"Tyr, my friend, I believe now is the time for us to show the boy what big guys do for fun?" Dylan suggested. His eyes were half-open and glazed.

"I think, if he doesn't know, he can guess."

"I can't guess, Tyr. Show me, please show me." Harper said with enthusiasm.

"That's exactly I said to Bobby Grant that night in his room. I wanted him to show me. He did."

"Make yourself useful, Captain Hunt, and lubrican . . lubricat. . moisten up the end of my dick. I have some serious demonstrating to commerce for the sake of this boy's education. . . no I don't need that rancid lube you keep under the bed, Mr. Harper, now just you watch." Tyr finished his drink and placed it beside Dylan's.

"I'm going to move over here for the wide angle view, Tyr." Harper said. You guys look like you could use a little more room."

Dylan's mouth was attacking Tyr's cock it with loud slurping noises usually indicative of bad table manners. It appeared that he must have missed that day of Hospitality 101.

"I thought you were going to show me what the big boys do. I do that all the time, with more delicacy and aplomb."

"A plum. That's what this drink needs. A little plum brandy."

"Like I am going to find that anywhere on this ship. How about a little Sparky cola?" Harper reach over and topped off the drinks. "Now, on with the show."

"Let's 'ave a taste Harper's drinky first." Dylan added having finished his deep throat routine and come up for air.

"I'm sure it will taste delicious with a hint of Nietzschean essence . . . don't you think?"

Dylan drank a slug and smiled broadly. "I think that's it. It's what I remember. Maybe I did put a little cola in it. Try it Tyr?"

The drink dribbled down the Nietzschean's chest. Dylan was not about to let it go to waste.

* * * * * *

On nights of alcoholic reverie, after the singing and dancing stop, the back-alley stages of mankind have presented shows to those with the stomachs and the curiosity to prevail that involve sexual encounters. Even with what passes for civilization expanding across the universe, there have not been many new variations added -- at least nothing that beats the old basics. Usually it is only the participants that make it seem fresh and exhilarating. Tonight was such a night. Seamus Harper sat back and watched intently as the two men about whom he had harbored numerous and various sexual fantasies acted out each of them with style. Dylan Hunt and Tyr Anasazi were proud and powerful men. The passion they exhibited was not something that they would willingly share with someone they both considered a subordinate and an inferior. Still, tonight, they did not disappoint with their performances. It was as if the observer was not even there.

Tonight's production had had taken a lot of work. Even after finding the crate and surveying its contents, Harper had had to convince Trance to plant and pollinate several out-of-season fruits. The juices of the fruits they could not grow on the ship had to be tracked down, purchased and hidden, especially from Beka on her midnight kitchen raids. Finding an ancient fruit juicer took visits to antique stores on three different drifts. Still it had all come together tonight.

Normally Harper would pat himself on the back and call himself a "freakin' genius," but tonight he had help. The astuteness required for this performance was found recorded in a thin book secretly stored beside a case of liquor in the traces of the Andromeda. Hand-written on yellowed pages in fine feminine handwriting, the class notes of High Guard cadet Janice Summerville had gone unread for three centuries. Only when he noticed the margins were full of hearts with the name Dylan in them, did Harper even consider reading the contents of the notebook.

Hospitality 101. A class where future High Guard officers who had not had the necessarily genteel upbringing learned not to slurp food, talk with their mouths full, or eat off other people's plates. A class where other cadets, still mostly women in Dylan's time, learned the art of entertainment of all the various species of the Commonwealth. A class whose members shared recipes and cooking techniques and recorded them in small books. Harper attention had been drawn to a drink aptly named "Virgin's Downfall" with its long list of necessary liquors and fruit juices. Most interesting had been the note, written in the margin, which stated "Dylan Hunt says this causes rectal pain."

The animal noises emanating from his bed gave no indication that either Tyr and Dylan would be interesting in conversation or alcoholic consumption anytime in the near future. It seemed likely that the curtain would close to a chorus of snores. The applause would go unnoticed.

Harper picked up the unfinished pitcher and carried it to the control deck. Rommie was sitting alone, feet on the console, staring at the empty radar monitor. There was no show in space tonight. He pulled up a chair, and poured her a glass of this concoction he had in the pitcher.

"What's this?"

"Some fruit punch, Dylan made. It's rather tasty."

"Is it strong?"

"Not really, it's mostly that quadruple filtered, odorless, tasteless water you put in that old vodka bottle for me. But, it is beautiful, like you, Rommie."

"Thank you, Mr. Harper. But when I am going to get my bottle of chocolate liqueur?"

McJude

January 30, 2003

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