Ninety One Whiskey Quotes

Next to the defeated politician, the writer is the most vocal and inventive griper on earth. He sees hardship and unfairness wherever he looks. His agent doesn’t love him (enough). The blank sheet of paper is an enemy. The publisher is a cheapskate. The critic is a philistine. The public doesn’t understand him. His wife doesn’t understand him. The bartender doesn’t understand him. These are only some of the common complaints of working writers, but I have yet to hear any of them bring up the most fundamental gripe of all: the lifelong, horrifying expense involved in getting out the words. This may come as a surprise to many of you who assume that a writer’s equipment is limited to paper and pencils and a bottle of whiskey, and maybe one tweed sports coat for interviews. It goes far beyond that. The problem from which all other problems spring is that writing takes up the time that could otherwise be spent earning a living. The most humble toiler on Wall Street makes more in a month than ninety percent of writers make in a year. A beggar on the street, seeing a writer shuffling toward him, will dig deep into his rags to see if he can spare a dime. . . .

What do you want that couldn’t wait until the morning?” Arik asked as he led the way inside. The Pride’s king headed to the bar he’d had installed in the corner of his living room. He pulled a bottle of whiskey from a shelf. He poured them each a generous dollop. “I want permission to go after the Northern Lakes Pack.” “Am I going to regret asking why?” “They’re threatening Arabella.” “Who’s that?” “Jeoff’s sister.” Arik tossed back the fiery liquid before asking with a frown, “Why the fuck would I let you start a war over Jeoff’s sister?” “Because those pricks attacked us on home turf.” A snort escape Arik. “Ah yes, that puny attempt at a kidnapping. You caused quite a stir with your antics. Part of your stunt even made it onto YouTube before we could squash it. I had to have our PR department spin a Twitter thread on how it was part of a scene being taped for a movie.” “You can’t blame me for that. I had to stop them.” He did, but what he didn’t tell Arik was he’d never once thought of the repercussions of his actions. He saw Arabella in danger and had to go to her rescue. Bystanders and witnesses be damned. “I can see why you’d feel like you had to act. I mean, they made you look silly by catching you off guard like that, but, next time, could you be a little more discreet?” “No.” Why lie? The reply took his leader aback. “What do you mean no? Discretion is a fact of life. One girl isn’t worth drawing undue attention to ourselves.” “One girl might not be, but my mate is.” Want to stop conversation dead? Drop a bombshell. “Close your mouth, Arik, before you catch flies.” Only Arik’s mate could hope to tease him like that and get away with it. Dressed in yoga pants and a sweatshirt, Kira emerged from the bedroom and perched on a barstool. “Did you hear what he said?” a still astonished Arik demanded. “Yes. He’s fallen victim to the love bug. I think it’s cute.” “I would have said impossible,” Arik muttered. “You and me both, old friend. But, the fact of the matter is, I’m like ninety-nine percent sure that Arabella is supposed to be mine.” “And the one percent that isn’t sure?” “Is going to get eaten by my lion.

restaurant, nicknamed "The Municipal Crib" for the number of city officials who dallied there. Margaritte and the owner of Marchand's, Pierre, had contacted Fremont Older after Rolf had raised the tariff for each ninety-day liquor license renewal to $10,000. They offered to testify before a grand jury. And so the war began. We settled in for The Dictator, featuring the emerging legend in American theater, John Barrymore. The door opened behind us and the light from the hallway caught my attention. A tree-stump of a man moved next to Adam Rolf, close enough that I could hear his labored breathing. "Annalisa, I'm not sure you've ever met Mr. John Kelly," Rolf said. The broken-nosed thug plunged into the seat next to Rolf, looking as though meat packers had stuffed him into his tuxedo. "Mr. Kelly here represents our interests along the waterfront. I'm about to announce his candidacy for a supervisor's seat next election." "Miss Passarella," he growled with whiskey breath. "Mr. Kelly. Excuse my ignorance, but are you the one they call Shanghai Kelly?" "We try not to use that nickname," Rolf laughed. I was gratefully distracted when Barrymore arrived on stage to a thunderous reception. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Rolf click open his pocket watch and offer a peek to Kelly, who smiled. The seemingly innocuous gesture disturbed me greatly. The room seemed to tilt and the chair wavered beneath me. The end could not come soon enough.