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It wasn't long before the three of us were at the Russian's warehouse. There were floodlights outside the closest door, giving plenty of light, even in the nighttime fog. I took the bullhorn from Jordan, and he helped freely hold the package. I pointed the megaphone up to the building and called out, in the warehouse, this is Pat Ruger, I've come for the kid. No answer. After a few minutes of silence, Freely asked for the megaphone. She shouted something in Russian, and in a couple of moments, three Russian men appeared in the doorway. We have a trade for you, I yelled over. What you got? A painting I heard you were looking for. The Tuscan farmhouse was stolen a while back before you could steal it. We don't steal paintings, we buy them. Well, the price for this one is the boy. A $17 million painting for a kid you don't really want? Fair trade, I'd say. The three men spoke among themselves for quite a few minutes while we waited. It sounds like they're arguing over credit for the find, Freely confided. Wait, wait, now someone is saying they can just take the painting and keep the boy. What do you say? I interrupted their discussion. I say we just take the painting, what do you say? Freely pulled out her knife, the blade still stained red. I say you won't take the painting. She pulled back the paper, revealing it to them. She placed the blade near the canvas and added. The painting you get will be in pieces, worth only 10% of that 17 million, if you can get someone to put it back together. After a couple minutes of discussion, the lead Russian yelled something over and Freely smiled. I think they're going to go for the deal. They don't wanna lose the painting. How would that work? I'll take it over, Jordan said. Have them send the buy over with someone and I'll meet them halfway with it. Freely told them the plan and they pushed the boy out in front of them. Jordan took the package in both arms and stood in front of us waiting. I nodded the okay. As he took his first step forward, a shot rang out.
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Report, Zeg," Wick said to the imp, growing irritated. The chthonic creature always soured his mood, as if he exuded some kind of invisible but malevolent aura. No things about, save for this rat, Zeg said offhanded, as he smashed the squealing rat against the wall with a bone-crunching thud. Rat is mine, no share. With that, he crunched the still-twitching rat's head off and chewed happily. Wick held his hands apart to show that he was more than fine the imp was unwilling to share his raw rat. He sat down on a boulder and tried to calm his stomach. He closed his eyes and attempted to ease his mind, to bring it to a state of nothingness. He listened to the surrounding sounds and the squelch of the hell-beast-eating vermin. Then there were the smells, his own ripeness, and the sulfuric stench of the imp. He grumbled to himself as his eyes snapped open. This isn't working. Zeg much better at meditation than tiny blue-haired midget, cuz Zeg am smart and brilliant and very smart. I'm at least three times your height, Wick said. And you meditate. Have you ever been to Big Sur, gal? Very nice, very relaxing, easy close eyes, listen to screams and relax. Wick eyed the demon with a sideways glance. He knew that his mastery over the creature was complete, but he still did not trust it even slightly.
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What am I doing here? I glance up at the sign that reads, Doggy Style, and I know this is a mistake right off the bat. I knew she seemed quirky, but this already sounds like a bad episode of cops. Police officer stumbles unknowingly into a prostitute parlor. Walk away, I take another step, this is a mistake. I knock on the door and am greeted by the baying of dogs and nothing else. No sound of a normally functioning business, no phones ringing, no customers talking. Good, she's not here, time to go. And just as I begin to walk away, I hear the pad of footsteps on the raised floorboards followed by the sound of a woman's voice shushing the dogs. Officer sexy, Desi says, giving me a wide smile when she opens the door. Ms. Whitman, I nod. To what do I owe this pleasure? Let me guess, you came here to convince me that beards and tattoos are out and clean cut and uniforms are in and that we're running away and eloping. Screw our parents and friends because all we need is each other and the clothes on our backs because love is the currency of life. Is that right? I stare dumbfounded, trying to process all she just said before laughing and shaking my head. I was going to say hello, but I think your story is much more entertaining. Would you like to come in? I promise all of my clients are locked up tight. I just stare at her until she cracks a smile and laughs. Dogs, they're all dogs. I'm a groomer and a pet sitter. And now the company name makes sense.
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He blinked a few times, confused. Where the hell was he again? He knew that he should know this, that it was important. But he squinted, gave it a hard think, and he had no fucking clue. He gazed through the windshield, eyes going wide as he took in the neat rows of palm trees staring back. Then it hit. He'd parked in the lot of some apartment complex. Out of the way. A good spot to switch off his brain for a little bit. He was looking at some decorative landscaping, tidy little clumps of saw palmetto and bougainvillea. His mind drifted then, hanging on the last word, bougainvillea, weird word. He mouthed each syllable slowly, stretching out the vowel sounds into something strange and nonsensical, which started the laughing all over again. Something brushed against his lips, and he sat up a little. Remembered to pull the rag loaded with duster away from his mouth and nose, threw the sopping thing onto the dash. That was good. Sometimes he got confused, forgot to do that, breathed the crap in too long and passed out. And some part of him tried to raise a flag of some kind, tried to renew his earlier worry about something or other. Something he'd heard on the radio, he thought. Again, he gave it a think. His thinker wasn't operating so smoothly just now. It wasn't doing much at all. He knew that. He tried to figure a way to get this thing kick started, jostle some thinking juice loose or something. But then he forgot what he was even trying for in the first place. Was there something he was trying to figure out? Trying to remember a song he'd heard on the radio or some shit like that, he thought. But that made no fucking sense. He jolted up right again. Eyes snapping to the foliage sprawled out beyond the windshield. Palm trees? Where the fuck was he? He looked around the car again, reminding himself where he was, apartment complex, right, right. The can of duster caught his eye on the floor and he scooped it up without thinking. Aimed the nozzle into his mouth, lips wrapping around the thing, finger finding the trigger. But no, no, he dropped the can back to the floor. He was already good, he knew. The old thinker was shut down like he wanted, and it would be for a few hours now. If he sucked down any more, he'd be out of his head for too long. Could be 12 hours or more before he was right again. Couldn't have that. He laid back, his body kind of falling into that dentist chair sprawl again. And he closed his eyes, and he listened to the whooshing and buzzing that he knew must not really be there. He needed to stay sharp for tonight. Yes, tonight. It was going to be a doozy, he thought. And all the memories came to him, pictures opening in his head, gory blood smeared movies projected on the backs of his eyelids. All those wounds gouged into flesh by his blade. His mark left on the world again and again, one body at a time. And the gore was to be continued, wasn't it? Yes, yes, tonight was going to be a bloodbath.
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I landed before the steps of my home and took them two at a time as I pulled the phone out of my pocket. It was useless though, I couldn't call Slade to check on his progress. Phones weren't allowed in Baston. I had to wait for him to call me. Welcome home, my liege. Lucifer met me in the center tower, flapping his way up the stairs from the media room. Don't call me that, I growled. What have you been doing? Fixing your bad mood, he said, turning and flapping his way back down the stairs. Come and see. I followed, but immediately wished I hadn't when I saw the projection screen turned on and what looked like a slideshow of model headshots lined up. No, I said. You don't even know what it is, Lucifer complained. We've all been looking forward to this. Who's we? I glanced around, but the room was empty other than the leather recliner chairs and the small antique lamp tables. The other statues, we've been planning this for days. What is this, I asked, as he prodded at my chest, forcing me to step back until one of the recliner chairs hit my legs. I could have knocked him out or thrown him into a wall. But after seeing the way my grandparents had treated the statues, I had vowed to be different. Has it started yet? A grating, mumbling voice asked. Dear God, not Cole, I thought, as the gardener rounded the doorway and shuffled into the room. Cole hated me. When he spotted me, his stone eyes narrowed and the grumbling started up again. But at a pitch so low, I couldn't actually make out what he was saying. His stooped and gnarled body shuffled into the room. His gargoyle wings nestled back into his body the way a dog tucked their ears back when they were on guard. Not yet, Lucifer answered. He just got here. We know. This had come from the doorway again. As Ingrid and Rose walked into the room, we saw him pop in at the entrance. Their stone robes were draped over their arms so that they didn't trip as they moved. They both claimed seats at the back of the room, bending their heads together and whispering to each other. They were having a good day, because they both seemed to remember me perfectly fine. I expected the next statue to enter the room, since it seemed as though the whole gang was in attendance tonight. Dirk was the smallest of the statues, though he was also the most clever. He took the form of a gnome with a pointed hat and a pointed beard. He was often also carrying a pointed utensil, since he was the castle's cook. This time, he carried a fork. Are we ready to start the show? He asked the others. Yes, we suppose, answered Ingrid, though we're only here to support. We would never participate in such an undignified thing. It was your idea, you old biddy, Lucifer accused. It was not. Ingrid was indignant, and she bodily shifted in her seat to give the cherub her shoulder, as she furiously whispered her indignation to her friend. I heard pieces of the rant, including, only mentioned it at passing, and I assumed it would be more of a stately affair. Ready as I'll ever be, Cole grumbled. Not that the young bastard deserves it. Let's start then, Dirk announced cheerfully, jumping up onto a chair and prodding Cole with his fork. Sit down and stop whining, you great big lump of gargoyle. Keep your damn utensils to yourself, you weenie little Christmas gnome, Cole groused back. I am not a Christmas gnome, Dirk shouted, his high, piercing voice making me wince. He shoved the fork into Cole's hand again, and I jumped up between them before a fight could break out, again. How do you even know about Christmas, I asked, pushing Cole back and forcing Dirk to retake his seat. Lucifer has been teaching us about Earth, Rose piped up, forcing me to roll my eyes up to the ceiling. I took my seat, waving my hand at the projection. Let's get this over and done with before I decide to stick you all on the battle mint as decoration.
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Once the two intelligence officers were out the door, Min walked over, saw the look on the admiral's face, and said, troubled sir, the tea is not to your liking this morning? Sue took a long sip from the steaming mug and shook his head. No, the tea is excellent as usual. It's what those fellows weren't telling me that is bothersome. Min's eyebrows arched a little. You suspect they were withholding information from you? Suspect? Sue snorted. I know they were. The captain would make a worthy poker opponent. The commander not so much. He was holding something back, some important piece of information. But why? Why? Sue snapped. Because they view me as some toothless saltwater croc. That little bit of information was their way of tossing me a bit of meat without any bone attached and forfeiting my standing order about unusual activity. Sue drew in a breath that made him cough a little. Well, this old croc still has sharp teeth. One's that kind of bite deep, even if I'm sitting behind a do-nothing desk.
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So, Guzzy, what do you need?" The man smiled, showing the sickly yellow teeth of a long-time smoker. Another submarine or two to go along with those you already have? More crew, perhaps?" No, I do not need more submarines or crew. What I need is very simple, and I'm sure that a man of your, um, capabilities will easily acquire what I need. When Guzzy finished, Yuri just sat looking at him. He brought his stout fingers to his lips and pursed them together, making him look like a Russian Kaluga sturgeon with its thick bulbous lips. Guzzy, he murmured, you and I have done business for a long time, but this, this is... He exhaled deeply, causing Guzzy to cringe and sit deeper into the finely upholstered chair as the sickening aroma wafted over him. After a few moments, his eyes narrowed and he growled, How soon? A week, Guzzy returned, at most ten days. A week? Yuri laughed loudly. Impossible. Your ambitions overrule reality, Guzzy. Now give me something realistic that I can work with and I'll let you know. Guzzy brought his fingertips together, drew in a breath. All right. How soon before you can contact me that you have what I require? Yuri shrugged. That depends on how many zeros start showing up in my account. Would seven be sufficient? It will start the discussions, but little else. A corner of his mouth curled up. This will be very, very expensive, my friend. But it can be done. Anything can be done with enough money, Yuri shrugged. The question is, how much are you willing to spend? Guzzy returned the shrug. For Allah and Islam, we will spare no expense.
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The man who had been Malachi Constant, who had been Unk, who had been the Space Wanderer, the man who was Malachi Constant again. That man felt very little upon being declared Malachi Constant again. He might possibly have felt some interesting things had Rumford's timing been different, but Rumford told him what his ordeal was to be only seconds after telling him he was Malachi Constant, and the ordeal was sufficiently ghastly to command Constant's full attention. Curiously, his first worry was that he would stumble, that he would think too hard about the simple matter of walking, and that his feet would cease to work naturally and that he would stumble on those wooden feet. You won't stumble, Mr. Constant, said Rumford up in his treetop, reading Constant's mind. There is nowhere else for you to go, nothing else for you to do. Constant dropped his hands to his sides, raised his eyes, and stepped off firmly toward the spaceship. He looked up, and perspective made the latter's summit seem as tiny as a needle. Constant rested his brow for a moment against the rung to which his hand clung. You have something you would like to say, Mr. Constant, before you go up the ladder, said Rumford up in his treetop. A microphone on the end of a boom was dangled before Constant. If you're going to talk, the technician in charge of the microphone said to Constant, speak in a perfectly normal tone and keep your lips about six inches away from the microphone. You're going to speak to us, Mr. Constant, said Rumford. It's probably not worth saying, said Constant quietly. But I'd still like to say that I haven't understood a single thing that's happened to me since I reached Earth. Well, said Rumford up in his treetop, if you feel we are doing you some sort of injustice here, suppose you tell us something really good you've done at some point in your life, and let us decide whether that piece of goodness might excuse you from this thing we have planned for you. Constant thought hard. And then he remembered Stoney Stevenson, his friend. He had had a friend, which was certainly a good thing. I had a friend, said Malachi Constant into the microphone. What was his name, said Rumford? Stoney Stevenson, said Constant. Just one friend, said Rumford up in his treetop. Just one, said Constant. So your claim of goodness would stand or fall really, said Rumford up in his treetop, depending on how good a friend you really were to this Stoney Stevenson. Yes, said Constant. Do you recall an execution on Mars, Mr. Constant, said Rumford up in his treetop, wherein you were the executioner? You strangled a man at the stake before three regiments of the Army of Mars. I—I think I remember, said Constant. Well, that man you strangled was your great and good friend Stoney Stevenson, said Winston Niles Rumford. Malachi Constant wept as he climbed the gilded ladder. He paused halfway up, and Rumford called out to him again through the loudspeakers. Feel more like a vitally interested participant now, Mr. Constant, called Rumford. Mr. Constant did. He had a thorough understanding now of his own worthlessness, and a bitter sympathy for anyone who might find it good to handle him roughly.
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Can't you just take some aspirin? Carter asked his brother for the billionth time, trying not to gag on the pervasive smell of alcohol-laced vomit that filled Cam and Mia's hotel room. All four of them were crammed into the tiny bathroom there. Carter wedged between Rip and the towel rod, Mia sitting on the counter, and Cam sprawled out on the floor, hugging the toilet like he'd suddenly decided to propose to it instead of his girlfriend. It would have been gross if Carter hadn't been too busy freaking out about what they wanted him to do. Sorry, little C, Cam rasped, his voice sounding like a baby bird with emphysema. You got this, though? No, I don't, Carter said, shaking his head and holding his hands up like he could ward off Cam's words by sheer willpower. I really, really don't, Cam. You don't have to do it if you don't want to, Mia said, giving him one of those smiles that made him happy she was going to be his sister-in-law. Okay, Carter said, relief washing through him. Yes, you do, Cam gritted out, making disgusting gagging sounds between the words. Need you, little bro, it's important. What? You don't want to be my boyfriend, Carter? Rip interrupted, wrapping an arm around Carter's waist and giving him a look that was probably supposed to be irresistible. Okay. A look that was irresistible. Oh, God. Carter was going to end up doing this, wasn't he? I just don't think I'd be very good at it, Carter said, since that was both true and also sounded way better than blurting out, oh my God, yes, I've wanted to be your boyfriend ever since I figured out what boyfriends were. Of course you will, Cam said slash gagged. Cam's right, you'll be awesome at it, Rip said, sounding so sure of it that for a second Carter almost believed him. Rip winked and added, probably do a better job than Cam. Mia laughed. Hey now, Cam said weakly, I, I, a truly disturbing sound came out of Cam, and not from his mouth. Oh no, Mia blurted, hopping off the counter and hustling Rip and Carter out of the bathroom like the superstar she was. He's about to heave again, and yep, there it was. They all heard it, heck, the whole floor probably heard it. My God, how can you stand that? Carter asked Mia, covering his mouth reflexively as he tried not to gag himself. I love him, she answered dryly. Then she laughed, shooting a fond look back at the chamber of vomit. I can't help it if I fell for such a lightweight. Carter laughed, but doing that jiggled his head too much, reminding him that the whole aspirin hot shower masturbation treatment he tried may have made things better, but it hadn't actually been a full hangover cure. He grimaced, rubbing his forehead. Speaking of lightweights, Rip said, grinning down at Carter and taking over the rubbing part, which felt amazing. You need a hangover breakfast. Bacon? Carter asked hopefully. Absolutely. I love you. See? Mia said, smiling at them. I'd totally buy you two as a couple right now. Rip's so sweet. You'd probably be just as bad as your brother if he hadn't been looking out for you last night, Carter. Carter blinked. Rip had been looking out for him? Well, he had made Carter drink an inordinate amount of water between every shot. Cam's voice drifted out from the bathroom. How come you weren't looking out for me, babe? Mia rolled her eyes. Because she was too busy drinking, Pukey McPukepants, Rip called back. Now hurry up and get it out of your system so you can come down to the ballroom and watch me and Carter crush this thing.
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Warhol's vices were few and far between. He was a terminable artist, and one that I never quite understood. Judy sat drinking vodka, next to her two men I reasoned to be bodyguards. Hector and Rudolfo were exactly as I described them, burly, laid of good looks, and wore matching tailored suits, no ties, collar open. Pay no attention to them, Warhol explained to me, touching my arm. They're not with her. Both are figments of her imagination, I expect. Or what she'd like us to believe. Have you seen her daughter? She's the apple of her mother's eye. Judy called out, almost as if with a sixth sense of what we were talking about. Are you telling fibs again, Fabian? Fabian's her little nickname for me. Warhol's hand brushed the air, raising a middle finger toward Judy's entourage. It was a playful moment, backed by Mama Cass playing on the hi-fi. Hector is with the CIA, you know, he whispered. I heard he killed a man in Bonn. As to what I thought was mere fable told to make the mood more interesting, became the exact temperament when Hector patted the back of my shoulder. I only broke his arm, and it wasn't in Bonn, it was in Boston. His voice cut through the hairs standing on the back of my neck. His accent was Latin in flavor, a touch of upper class British thrown in for good measure. He drank like a fish, a tumbler of scotch in each hand. Hector Dejalet. He held out his scarred hand, a firm grip. Grantham, Lockwood, I replied back with a grimace. Warhol rolled his eyes and walked away. Leave now, you'll never shut him up. He was referring to Hector's clause for party conversation as I was soon to experience. Don't believe everything he tells you. I'm not with the CIA. What do you do? I was searching the room, looking for Juliet, obviously on a trip somewhere. I'm sort of in between jobs. Hector downed the last of his two appetizers and pulled out a flask from an inside pocket. Mouthwash? I declined. I could tell an alcoholic's calling card anywhere. Chalk that up to my father's effervescent aroma of stale molten rye. It brought back memories of Christmas morning in Connecticut. Rudolfo is a KGB agent. Bet you didn't know that. KGP? Here? I laughed. Andy Warhol, Judy Garland, and the KGB? The taste of bullshit was in the air. I went along with it. Although Hector's six and a half foot, 250 pound frame sort of told me to go along with it. His presence was like a game of Russian roulette. He had no choice but to play. Soviet Embassy? They don't know we know. He's Cuban. Aunt has a sister living in New Jersey. She has three children. Husband left her for a dancer in Poughkeepsie. It was a lot to take in. I didn't know where to put it all. My mind wandered as he continued. Juliet had already left. She ended up sleeping it off in a Long Island hotel with several lesbians. Something tells me I should have been there with her.
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The room went completely dark, and a screen appeared in front of him and began playing an audiovisual clip, with the message being actively captioned on screen by a somewhat comical cartoon-like man dressed like a caricature of a bard. This is likely the start of the orientation we were told about, he thought, as he stopped what he was doing to focus and listen. Welcome to Dungeon Quest, the only live-action, full-function dungeon delve roleplay on Earth. And that's right, you guessed it, you found it here first. Sareth groaned. This was already absolutely terrible and seemed to be the orientation. But before we can get started, there are just a couple of things you need to know. The first thing is simple, you all start out at level one, and as you complete quests, craft items, finish missions, defeat monsters, or even defeat each other, you'll gain experience that will help you level up. As you level up, you'll gain new powers and abilities, and boost most of your stats. To check your status, all you need to do is say status screen, or mentally summon your status screen, and it'll appear in front of you. Be careful where you use this, as it pretty much ruins your vision and leaves you very vulnerable. Lastly, you'll find that your bodies have undergone a few changes in the last few minutes. No worries, you still have all your equipment, even if things don't quite look the same. Be looking to upgrade as soon as you can. Oh, and before I forget, this is a forever game. You'll be able to leave and re-enter the dungeon later, after completing the orientation. I mean, after all, this isn't a prison. But if you die here, you die for real. There is no simulation or play-acting. This is real violence, and you will be put into kill-or-be-killed situations. Oh, and lastly, if you do manage to leave the dungeon, if you tell anyone what you've seen here, you'll be killed instantly, regardless of where you are. Hope you enjoyed Orientation, and have fun!
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I sit up in bed and look around, but I don't see anything. Then I hear the noise again. Who's there, I whisper. My mom is not upstairs in my room. I can still hear her downstairs yelling for me. As I throw back the covers and turn to climb out of bed, I see my Supreme Man toy standing on the floor nearby, which is a little strange. He's my favorite toy, and I always leave him on my desk. He looks as if he's staring right at me, but when I go to look away, my toy speaks. Hi, John, it says. Oh, wow. My Supreme Man toy speaks. You… you can talk, I stutter. Yes, I can talk. In fact, I can do a lot of things. We all can, he says with pride. After a few deep breaths, I move closer to the edge of my bed. Am I dreaming still? I ask aloud. No, you are not, my toy replies. Supreme Man suddenly floats up several feet off the floor, then flies toward me with his blue cape swishing behind him, and lands smoothly on top of my bed. I came because of your dream. I can't tell you everything, but I was sent to help and to teach you some things, John. Teach? Look, Supreme Man, what can you teach me? You're just a toy, I laugh. You will soon see that I am much more than just a toy, he replies with a serious expression and a confident tone. I start to say something, but my mom calling again stops me. John! Okay, Mom, I jump out of bed and quickly dress, then pick up my talking toy and head downstairs for breakfast. Hey, Mom, it's still early and the bus won't be here for a while, so after I eat, may I go out front and play with my action figure toy? Yes, John, you may go play for a few minutes, but only if you finish your breakfast. I stuff my mouth with cereal while I watch my toy next to me. My mom is humming a tune like she does every morning, and I can't help but grin. She has no idea I have a talking toy. I wonder what she would say if she knew.
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Amy Beckett, smart, annoying, sheltered. She'd last about five minutes down here in the real world. But she hadn't backed down when I'd gotten in her face. She might be shy, but she had a spine. And she hadn't gone all doe-eyed and melty over me. But there'd be something, something a lot more interesting, stupid. I make it hard on myself. This place was packed with women. I looked back to the nurses. One of them caught my eye and gave me a smile. I smiled back, but it was a weird feeling, like when your tongue keeps wiggling a loose tooth even though it hurts. There was something about Beckett. She was all buttoned up and smart and efficient. And her body was hidden under those shapely green surgery scrubs. But there were these little things, like the blue eyes that had gone from frosty to steam and hot when we'd glared at each other just right. Or her creamy skin, that pale throat leading down into the neckline of her scrubs, tempting me with thoughts of what she might be wearing underneath. I imagined a black lacy bra and sexy little black panties, silky fabric stretched over her firm ass cheeks. My fingers sliding under the material at the front and down and in, and her letting out a high, shocked little squeal of pleasure as I parted her slick and folds. And that red hair, the hair most of all. Not fake, cherry red, not auburn like fall leaves. Full on glossy copper, bright as a flame. I'd only seen a single lock that had escaped from under that tight surgical cap. Just a hint that under all that cool formality there was something scalding. All I could think about was pulling it free and letting it spill down her back in a shimmering wave. I'd roll the strands over her breasts with my palms until her nipples jutted out, hard and perfect, and my kiss swallowed up in her moans. I turned away from the window, feck, now I was rock hard in my pants. Well, fine, the cock wants what the cock wants. I'd find her, work my magic on her, and get her into bed like all the rest.
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My pounding headache has now come full-blown, so, when the plane touched down in Paris, it was almost like a sigh of relief. That slowly came crashing down when I got the phone call from my mother, followed by the second call from my father. I was just hanging up with him when the redhead stepped inside the door, looking around, and smiled at me, making me groan. For once, I wish people didn't know who I was. I put the phone on the table and checked my schedule for the next week. We have seventy-five restaurants in Paris, and I have to visit fifty of them. I'm making my notes when I get up and go to the kitchen to see how things are going when Frederic comes to see me. Les quatre femmes canadiens ont dégusté bouteilles de vin et tartes imbouvables. The four Canadian women said that this bottle is intrinkable, he says, air-quoting drinkable. I grab the wine from him and smell it, noticing it smells a bit stronger than it should. Looking at the table, I spot the redhead watching me, so I grab the bottle and go to the table. Quel est le problème? What is the problem, I ask, not even trying to be nice about it. Le vin n'est pas bon. The wine isn't good, she says. Il a un goût de vinaigre. It tastes like vinegar. I stare at her, not saying a word. Taste it, she finally says in English. You'll see.
