Shots Of Whiskey Quotes

I'd much rather be someone's shot of whiskey than everyone's cup of tea.

Awesome! I'd just bullied Jesus into doing a shot with me. Nobody would ever believe it, but I didn't care. We ordered the insanely expensive stuff, seventy-five dollars for a 1.75-ounce pour of premium Irish whiskey, because if you're doing a shot with Jesus, you don't buy him scotch.

It's a terrible thing, what we did,” said Francis abruptly. “I mean, this man was not Voltaire we killed. But still. It’s a shame. I feel bad about it.” “Well, of course, I do too,” said Henry matter-of-factly. “But not bad enough to want to go to jail for it.” Francis snorted and poured himself another shot of whiskey and drank it straight off. “No,” he said. “Not that bad.

Me? I go wherever the wind blows…and wherever the whiskey shots are half price.

I try to be as quiet as possible as I get comfortable, but the rustling of the sheets causes Hannah to stir. A soft moan ripples through the darkness, and then she rolls over and a warm hand presses against my bare chest. I stiffen. Or rather, my chest does. Down below, I’m softer than pudding. That’s whiskey dick for you, which is damn sad considering I only had five shots. Man. Me and alcohol really don’t mix.

Fuuuuuuuuuuck." Kynan scrubbed his face. "I could use a double shot of whiskey right now." "I'm sure Flicka keeps hard liquor behind the bar." "Flicka?" "I don't want to say her name." "So you're calling her horse names?" Ky coked a dark eyebrow. "I can't wait to see how she reacts to Mr. Ed.

you say you love me with your shot of whiskey you say I'm the one with your glass of champagne but then you don't say a word with your cup of coffee

Maybe you could just keep that in reserve. Maybe just take a shot at startin over. I dont mean start again. Everybody’s done that. Over means over. It means you walk away. I mean, if everthing you are and everthing you have and everthing you have done has brought you at last to the bottom of a whiskey bottle or bought you a one way ticket on the Sunset Limited then you cant give me the first reason on God’s earth for salvagin none of it. Cause they aint no reason. And I’m goin to tell you that if you can bring yourself to shut the door on all of that it will be cold and it will be lonely and they’ll be a mean wind blowin. And them is all good signs. You dont say nothin. You just turn up your collar and keep walkin.

That's why I read so much. A book isn't going to hurt me. A book isn't going to form some opinion about me that could wreck my life. I learn about so many new and great things from reading. I keep to myself with a good book and a shot of whiskey and I'm right with the world.

Less knows so well the pleasures of youth—danger, excitement, losing oneself in a dark club with a pill, a shot, a stranger’s mouth—and, with Robert and his friends, the pleasures of age—comfort and ease, beauty and taste, old friends and old stories and wine, whiskey, sunsets over the water. His entire life, he has alternated between the two.

That was intense and freaking hot. Like a shot of... Whiskey. I want more Whiskey please.

I shot it back and closed my eyes, considering a trip to the liquor store. But there wasn’t enough whiskey in the universe to help me make my decision.

He went to her head like a shot of whiskey but tasted a whole lot better. He sent the same fire curling into the pit of her belly with none of the bitter acid on her tongue. Instead, he was smooth and rich and sweet like fine chocolate, and for once in her life, Abby didn't worry about the treat going straight to her thighs. She rather hoped he would.

The farmers of western Pennsylvania laid the foundation of the American whiskey industry.

The echo of the first shot, like the first sip of whiskey, burning...

Just the usual. Aspirin, vitamin C, a shot of whiskey.” That last was my great aunt Maureen’s remedy for whatever ailed you. She usually came down with “something” once a week.

Sitting on a bar stool and sipping a shot of Jack Daniel's washed down by a cold bottle of beer is an impeccable routine. I cannot think of a better ritual.

If you wanted to kill me, why haven't you smothered me in my sleep?" "No sport in that." She gestured towards the ceiling. "Can I expect to be strung up on that bar and gutted like a deer?" He looked up at the bar and frowned. "Too much sport. Lots of heave-hoeing. Big mess to clean up after. Instead, why don't you just drink the poison-laced whiskey?" He extended the glass toward her again and when she didn't move he said, "No? Okay then." He shot the drink. She might not want the edge taken off but he sure as hell did.

To some, whiskey is a crutch. It's a drug, it leads to addiction, it dulls the senses and damages the mind. To others, whiskey is a medicine. A shot of bourbon can chase away what ails you, whethere it be a sore throat or a broken heart.

I would prefer to be shot, myself, if I get that sick,” Call said. “Once there’s no avoiding death I see no point in lingering.” Augustus smiled at the comment, and poured himself a little more whiskey. “We’re all just lingering, Woodrow,” he said. “None of us can avoid dying—though old Scull did the best job of it of any man I know, while that old bandit had him.

Rough night?" Zay asked. "Oh, no. Glorious, thanks. Mum had me cross-checking data on solid Veiled all damn night.Fuckin' A, there better be a shot of whiskey at the end of this damn morning." "Nola said she'd have fresh coffee," I said. "Whiskey. I'll say it slow: whiiiskey.

He takes a kitchen chair and sits in the yard and all the ducks come around. He holds up the cheese curls in one hand and caramel popcorn in the other and his audience looks up and he tells them a joke. He says: So one day a duck come into this bar and ordered a whiskey and a bump and the bartender was pretty surprised, he says, "You know we don't get many of you ducks in here." The duck says, "At these prices I'm not surprised.* And he tosses out the popcorn and they laugh. 'Wak wak wak wak wak. I was shot in the leg in the war.' Have a scar? 'No thanks, I don't smoke.

I'd like a whiskey too." Olivia's husky voice came from beside him. The barkeep raised his bushy brows, but poured her a shot and slid it to her. To Brody's utter surprise, she slung it back as though she regularly spent time in taverns. "Will you never do anything normal?" -Olivia and Brody

Maybe he never did. Less knows so well the pleasures of youth—danger, excitement, losing oneself in a dark club with a pill, a shot, a stranger’s mouth—and, with Robert and his friends, the pleasures of age—comfort and ease, beauty and taste, old friends and old stories and wine, whiskey, sunsets over

Who dies best, the soldier who falls for your sake, or the fly in my whiskey-glass? The happy agony of the fly is his reward for an adventurous dive in no cause but his own. Gorged and crazed, he touches bottom, knows he's gone as far as he can go, and bravely sticks. I sleep on. In the morning I pour new happiness upon the crust of the old, and only as I raise the glass to my lips descry through that rich brown double inch my flattened hero. I drink around his death, being no angler by any inclination, and leave him in the weird shallows. The glass set down, I idle beneath the fan, while beyond my window-bars a warm drizzle passes silently from clouds to leaves. How to die? How to live? These questions, if we ask the dead fly, are both answered thus: In a drunken state. But drunk on WHAT should we all be? Well, there's love to drink, of course, and death, which is the same thing, and whiskey, better still, and heroin, best of all—except maybe for holiness. Accordingly, let this book, like its characters, be devoted to Addiction, Addicts, Pushers, Prostitutes and Pimps. With upraised needles, Bibles, dildoes and shot glasses, let us now throw our condoms in the fire, unbutton our trousers, and happily commit THIS MULTITUDE OF CRIMES.

Where do they teach you to talk like this? In some Panama City "Sailor wanna hump-hump" bar, or is it getaway day and your last shot at his whiskey? Sell crazy someplace else, we're all stocked up here.

Look,” said Whiskey Jack. “This is not a good country for gods. My people figured that out early on. There are creator spirits who found the earth or made it or shit it out, but you think about it: who’s going to worship Coyote? He made love to Porcupine Woman and got his dick shot through with more needles than a pincushion. He’d argue with rocks and the rocks would win. “So, yeah, my people figured that maybe there’s something at the back of it all, a creator, a great spirit, and so we say thank you to it, because it’s always good to say thank you. But we never built churches. We didn’t need to. The land was the church. The land was the religion. The land was older and wiser than the people who walked on it. It gave us salmon and corn and buffalo and passenger pigeons. It gave us wild rice and walleye. It gave us melon and squash and turkey. And we were the children of the land, just like the porcupine and the skunk and the blue jay.

Harper unlocked a drawer in his desk and removed a bottle of Vat 69 whiskey and two shot glasses. He uncorked the bottle while explaining that policy permitted him to give each crewman a shot to loosen his tongue before reviewing a tough mission.

Darth Maultini, please.” They stopped and stared. “A what?” He shot them a suffering expression. “One ounce sweet vermouth, one ounce vodka, one ounce whiskey, two ounces pomegranate cherry, and two lemon wedges cut up and spread around the glass.

Rooster here has missed Ned a few times himself, horse and all,' said the captain. 'I reckon his is on his way now to missing him again.' Rooster was holding a bottle with a little whiskey in it. He said, 'You keep on thinking that.' He drained off the whiskey in about three swallows and tapped the cork back in and tossed the bottle up in the air. He pulled his revolver and fired at it twice and missed. The bottle fell and rolled and Rooster shot at it two or three more times and broke it on the ground. He got out his sack of cartridges and reloaded his pistol. He said, 'The Chinaman is running them cheap shells in on me again.' LaBoeuf said, 'I thought maybe the sun was in your eyes. That is to say, your eye.' Rooster swung the cylinder back in his revolver and said, 'Eyes, is it? I'll show you eyes!' He jerked the sack of corn dodgers free from his saddle baggage. He got one of the dodgers out and flung it in the air and fired at it and missed. Then he flung another one up and he hit it. The corn dodger exploded. He was pleased with himself and he got a fresh bottle of whiskey from his baggage and treated himself to a drink. LaBoeuf pulled one of his revolvers and got two dodgers out of the sack and tossed them both up. He fired very rapidly but he only hit one. Captain Finch tried it with two and missed both of them. Then he tried with one and made a successful shot. Rooster shot at two and hit one. They drank whiskey and used up about sixty corn dodgers like that. None of them ever hit two at one throw with a revolver but Captain Finch finally did it with his Winchester repeating rifle, with somebody else throwing. It was entertaining for a while but there was nothing educational about it. I grew more and more impatient with them. I said, 'Come on, I have had my bait of this. I am ready to go. Shooting cornbread out here on this prairie is not taking us anywhere.' By then Rooster was using his rifle and the captain was throwing for him. 'Chunk high and not so far out this time,' said he.

A BOILERMAKER KILLS GERMS DEAD. "Where'd you get that idea?" BOOK. WHAT'S BOILERMAKER? Travis said, "A shot of whiskey dropped into a glass of beer." Einstein considered that for a moment. KILL GERMS BUT BECOME ALCOHOLIC. Travis laughed and ruffled Einstein's coat. "You're a regular comedian, fur face." MAYBE I SHOULD PLAY VEGAS.

Peppermint Whiskey? Hell, reindeer, keep up this niceness and I may have to take ya back home with us.” I lean close to him and whisper loudly, “You've already got a reindeer. You couldn't handle two of us.” He pours himself a shot before responding. “Ha! You obviously didn't know my rep in the North Pole before Randy or you'd never make such a ludicrous statement.

Moving on was always the end plan. New York,he remembered, was a fair distance away.It should be far enough. As for tonight, he was going to have a shot of whiskey in his tea to help smooth out the edges. Then by God, he was going to sleep if he had to bash himself over the head to accpmplish it. And he wasn't going to give Keeley another thought. The knock on the door had him cursing under his breath.Though she'd been doing well,his first worry was that the mare with bronchitis had taken a bad turn.He was already reaching for the boots he'd shed when he called out. "Come in,it's open.Is it Lucy then?" "No,it's Keeley." One brow lifted, she stood framed in the door. "But if you're expecting Lucy,I can go." The boots dangled from his fingertips, and those fingertips had gone numb. "Lucy's a horse," he managed to say. "She doesn't often come knocking on my door.

The blooper’ as Watson described it, 'was too unbelievable to keep secret for more than a few minutes.’ He dashed over to a chemist friend in the neighboring lab to show him Pauling’s structure. The chemist concurred, 'The giant [Pauling] had forgotten elementary college chemistry.’ Watson told Crick, and both took off for the Eagle, their favorite pub, where they celebrated Pauling’s failure with shots of schadenfreude infused whiskey.

Less knows so well the pleasures of youth - danger, excitement, losing oneself in a dark club with a pill, a shot, a stranger's mouth - and, with Robert and his friends, the pleasures of age - comfort and ease, beauty and taste, old friends and old stories and wine, whiskey, sunset over water. His entire life, he has alternated between the two. There is his own distant youth, that daily humiliation of rinsing out your one good shirt and putting on your onw good smile, along with the daily rush of newness: new pleasures, new people, new reflections of yourself. There is Robert's middle age of selecting his vices as carefully as tiles in a Paris shop, napping in the sunlight on an afternoon and getting up from a chair and hearing the creak of death. The city of youth, the country of age. But in between, where Less is living - that exurban existence? How has he never learned to live it?

And just like that, I’d taken my first shot. I didn’t tell Jamie it was my first one, I didn’t think I needed to. I wanted to hate it, to detest it, to grimace and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and reach for a chaser. But we set the glasses back on the counter slowly, our fingers brushing, and Jamie’s eyes were on my lips where leftover whiskey remained. My tongue traced the liquid, and he inhaled stiffly, eyes snapping up to mine. Cat, meet mouse.

Well, if it’s helped, that’s great, but I wouldn’t advise you to use every snippet I said to you as a child in your adult life. Half the time, I was throwing stuff at the wall in the hopes it would keep you balanced and well-grounded in that school full of toxic assholes.” “What?” “I hate to admit this, but I don’t know everything.” Sonya drained her glass of whiskey in one shot and made a face. “Do you have any idea what it’s like, to be the mother of a prodigy? To know your child is brilliant and destined for greatness but will still have to work four times as hard as people with a fraction of her intelligence? I was furious when your classmates were rough on you, but I figured my job was to keep you calm and focused and not let you lose this opportunity. I couldn’t let you be angry, or at the very least, I couldn’t let you show that anger. Because then you would be that angry Black girl, and everyone would dismiss your intelligence or worse, suppress everything that makes you you. So I—” She stopped, and inhaled sharply. “I guess I suppressed you. My God. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.

H-ey, Atticus!” I thought he would have a fine surprise, but his face killed my joy. A flash of plain fear was going out of his eyes, but returned when Dill and Jem wriggled into the light. There was a smell of stale whiskey and pigpen about, and when I glanced around I discovered that these men were strangers. They were not the people I saw last night. Hot embarrassment shot through me: I had leaped triumphantly into a ring of people I had never seen before. Atticus got up from his chair, but he was moving slowly, like an old man. He put the newspaper down very carefully, adjusting its creases with lingering fingers. They were trembling a little.

Leaving Forever My son can look me level in the eyes now, and does, hard, when I tell him he cannot watch chainsaw murders at the midnight movie, that he must bend his mind to Biology, under this roof, in the clear light of a Tensor lamp. Outside, his friends throb with horsepower under the moon. He stands close, milk sour on his breath, gauging the heat of my conviction, eye-whites pink from his new contacts. He can see me better than before. And I can see myself in those insolent eyes, mostly head in the pupil's curve, closed in by the contours of his unwrinkled flesh. At the window he waves a thin arm and his buddies squall away in a glare of tail lights. I reach out my arm to his shoulder, but he shrugs free and shows me my father's narrow eyes, the trembling hand at my throat, the hard wall at the back of my skull, the raised fist framed in the bedroom window I had climbed through at three A.M. "If you hit me I'll leave forever," I said. But everything was fine in a few days, fine. "I would have come back," I said, "false teeth and all." Now, twice a year after the long drive, in the yellow light of the front porch, I breathe in my father's whiskey, ask for a shot, and see myself distorted in his thick glasses, the two of us grinning, as he holds me with both hands at arm's length.

Viking suddenly knocked back a shot of whiskey and straightened his cut. “Flame, my man, how do I look?” I stared at Viking’s cut and his long red hair. Why was he asking me this? “The hair good? I fucking washed it. The beard too.” I stared at the door and waited for Maddie. “Fuck, man. I even shaved my pubes.” Viking leaned in. I stepped back. “Between you and me, I ain’t ever seen the anaconda looking so damn perfect. And shit brother… it’s some fucking length and width. Thinking Ruth could be the one to tease it—my little snake-tamer. Oh shit. Not little. My fucking massive, asteroid size, snake tamer. I took some pictures just to celebrate its glory. You wanna see?” I shook my head. I didn’t want to see it.

Less knows so well the pleasures of youth— danger, excitement, losing oneself in a dark club with a pill, a shot, a stranger’s mouth—and, with Robert and his friends, the pleasures of age—comfort and ease, beauty and taste, old friends and old stories and wine, whiskey, sunsets over the water. His entire life, he has alternated between the two. There is his own distant youth, that daily humiliation of rinsing out your one good shirt and putting on your one good smile, along with the daily rush of newness: new pleasures, new people, new reflections of yourself. There is Robert’s late middle age of selecting vices as carefully as ties in a Paris shop, napping in the sunlight on an afternoon and getting up from a chair and hearing the creak of death. The city of youth, the country of age. But in between, where Less is living— that exurban existence? How has he never learned to live it?

I’ve downed two shots and a tumbler of whiskey by the time Racer and Tucker show up. The House of Reardon, our go-to bar, isn’t very far from where we all live, kind of in the middle, but given my race to get some alcohol into my system, I’m a few drinks in already. “I brought reinforcements,” Racer says as he tosses a box of Swiss Rolls in front of me. I can always count on Racer to bring Little Debbie snacks, our sacred lover. “Your text made it seem like you needed to suckle at Debbie’s teet tonight.” “I do.” I rip open the box, tear open a wrapper, and pop an entire roll in my mouth in seconds. “I guess so,” Racer says, a little astonished. “Tucker close?” “Right here,” Tucker says, pulling up a chair next to me at the bar. He pats my shoulder and tosses a box of Zebra Cakes in front of me. My boys know me well. “Zebra Cakes? Dude, I brought Swiss Rolls. Zebra Cakes are piss when it comes to times like this.” “It’s all I had left. Emma’s been eating all my Nutty Bars.” “Why even buy Zebra Cakes? You know that frosting turns into a paste.” From the corner of my eye, I see Tucker run his hand over his face. “Emma got them. When she shops, she literally doesn’t consider which ones she buys; it’s just a sweep of her arm over the shelf. Can’t complain about that.” “I guess you can’t.

A pirate! A black patch covered her rescuer's left eye. The elastic holding it in place drew a thin line between his dark brows and across his forehead. His dark hair was wet, and slicked back off his lean face. His strong jaw was hazed with dark bristle. His face bore the austere lines of a man hounded by demons and comfortable with danger. He looked scruffy, unkempt, and strangely appealing. Tally attributed her reaction to being delirious with shock. "Seen enough?" he asked dryly as she continued to stare. "Or do you want me to turn around?" By all means, do. "Sorry. I wasn't really looking looking-I zoned out there for a second." Very smooth, Tallulah. "I wasn't looking looking"? Oh, brother. She blew out a sigh. He wasn't quite a giant, but he was solidly built, and towered over her own not insubstantial five foot nine by a good five or six inches. Six foot four of sheer power, hard muscle, and sex appeal. His broad, darkly tanned shoulders gleamed with moisture. Salt water glittered like tiny diamonds in the hair on his chest and on the silky dark hair on his thickly muscled legs. His hands and feet were enormous. "Understandable." His mocking and enigmatic gaze took in her clinging clothes, bare feet, and grim hold on the railing as his boat rode the swells. There wasn't a thing she could do about her appearance, so she didn't bother fiddling. Besides, she didn't want to draw attention to the wet transparency of her blouse. Not that he looked the type to be crazed by lust. Especially for a woman like her. Perversely disappointed, she realized that far from being crazed with lust at the sight of her size A boobs, the pirate hadn't even noticed he could see right through her shirt. That one, piercing, whiskey-colored eye locked onto her, and Tally's stomach did a weird little somersault. Adrenaline still raced through her body at a furious clip. She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Tally Cruise." Pleased she sounded coherent under the circumstances, she thrust out her hand and smiled. "Michael Wright." He took her hand, not with his right, but his left. His thumb brushed the back of her knuckles. Little zings of electricity shot up her arm.

And oh, what a distillery! It was cold, full of cobwebs, with small pockets of activity taking place, as limited production was ongoing. It was more of an archaeological site than a place of business. In other words, it was fantastic.

Drinking whiskey is not about impressing others. It’s about enjoying yourself. And while an educated palate may help increase one’s exploration of whiskey, it is not a requirement.

Often when legends are written, the rowdy and rebellious get better press.

It’s not a coincidence that whiskey most often comes from countries with a strong beer/ale culture.

Whiskey is made from water, a grain, and yeast.

Ellie shrugged. “You know what they say, whiskey gives you balls.” She passed him a shot. “Here, have one. Maybe then you’ll grow some too.

Whiskey is many things to many people, but at the very root of its popularity lies the story.

Bourbons sell their southern heritage. Scotches sell their dominance and their place as market leaders. Irish whiskeys seem charming and an exotic alternative to the dominant Scotch whiskey. What does Canadian whiskey have?

In her career, she'd closed multi-million dollar deals without a hint of nerves. Now she needed a jumbo-sized bottle of antacids just to get out of her car. Or a double shot of whiskey. God, she was losing it.

There are two things that a woman from Kentucky knows. The first is horses. The second, how to drink bourbon.

What can I get for you, Princess?” a low, deep voice rumbled. Maddie’s head shot up and a man blinked into focus. Her mouth dropped open. In front of her stood the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen. Was she hallucinating? Was he a mirage? She blinked again. Nope. Still there. Unusual amber eyes, glimmering with amusement, stared at her from among strong, chiseled features. She swallowed. Teeth snapping together, she tried to speak. She managed a little squeak before words failed her. A hot flush spread over her chest. Men like this should be illegal. Unable to resist the temptation pulling her gaze lower, she let it fall. Just when she’d thought nothing could rival that face. Shoulders, a mile wide, stretched the gray T-shirt clinging to his broad chest. The muscles in his arms flexed as he rested his hands on the counter. A tribal tattoo in black ink rippled across his left bicep. Oh, she liked those. Her fingers twitched with the urge to trace the intricate scroll as moisture slid over her tongue. For the love of God, she was salivating. Stop staring. She shouldn’t be thinking about this. Not now. Not after today. It was so, so wrong. But she couldn’t look away. Stop. She tried again, but it was impossible. He was a work of art. “You okay there?” The smile curving his full mouth was pure sin. That low, rumbling voice snapped her out of her stupor, and she squared her shoulders. “Yes, thank you.” His gaze did some roaming of its own and stopped at her dress. One golden brow rose. Before he could ask any questions, she said, “I’ll have three shots of whiskey and a glass of water.” His lips quirked. “Three?” “Yes, please.” With a sharp nod, she ran a finger along the dull, black surface of the bar. “You can line them up right here.” When he continued to stare at her as if she might be an escaped mental patient, she reached into her small bag and pulled out her only cash. She waved the fifty in front of his face. “I assume this will cover it.” “If I give you the shots, are you going to get sick all over that pretty dress?” He leaned over the counter, and his scent wafted in her direction. She sucked in a breath. He smelled good, like spice, soap, and danger. She shook her head. What was wrong with her? She was so going to hell. She pushed the money toward him. “I’ll be fine. I’m Irish. We can handle our liquor.” “All right, then.” The bartender chuckled, and Maddie’s stomach did a strange little dip. He

Let me guess, you haven’t eaten.” “How’d you know?” She traced her fingertip over the edge of the empty shot glass. “I’m astute that way.” Tongue-tied, she picked up her water again and took a long gulp, draining it. The ice clinked as she placed it on the chipped counter. “Thirsty?” he asked, in a low voice that vibrated in her belly. She straightened and tried to look proper. “It’s important to stay hydrated when you get drunk.” He laughed. “And why the rush to get drunk, Princess?” “Stop calling me that.” The scowl she’d intended died halfway to her lips. Another meaningful glance at her attire. “If you don’t like being called a princess, maybe you shouldn’t wear such a sparkly dress.” “I suppose you have a point. I’m normally more of a jeans and T-shirt kind of girl.” The last shot of whiskey sat in front of her, and she took a little sip. A drop of alcohol clung to her lower lip, which she licked. His gaze tracked the movement, eyes darkening to burnished gold. The tip of her tongue stalled mid-swipe and retreated to press against her teeth. Was something happening here? Appreciating the view was one thing, but she needed to be good. She’d been good for a very long time and now wasn’t the time to break her streak. Maybe the alcohol was playing tricks on her, making her imagine things. She gave herself a tiny mental shake. “What’s your name?” he asked. He was a stranger. She shouldn’t tell him her name. She shot back. “What’s yours?” Again, the corners of his mouth twitched. “Mitch Riley.” She sighed. Well, now he’d been forthcoming so she had to tell him hers. “Maddie Donovan.” He held out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Maddie Donovan.” She slipped her palm into his. His grip was warm and sure, and a tingle raced along her arm. She snatched back her hand as though she’d been burned. “Hard day?” he asked. “You could say that.” “Wanna tell me about it?” “No thank you.” “Don’t you know you’re supposed to confess to your bartender?

By our seventh anniversary, we had five kids and weren’t done yet. Raven was blessed with easy pregnancies and could run around until the moment of delivery. Oh, and did those deliveries become legend. When River was born, the whole crew was laughing their asses off in the waiting room because of Raven’s profanity-laced rants. Our twins came two years later. During their deliveries, a drinking game started with the crew and club guys. Every time Raven screamed a cuss word, Tucker told the guys at the bar and they’d take a shot of whiskey. Half of the guys were wasted by the time Savannah was born. As Avery joined her sister, the other half of the bar was just as drunk off their asses. The obstetrician nearly begged Raven to use pain meds. She refused of course. No one was telling her what to do. For Maverick’s birth, the hospital moved Raven to a room at the end of the hall and kept the other laboring mothers as far away as possible. Another change the third time around was how Raven refused to allow the club guys free fun based on her laboring pains. To play the drinking game, they had to donate a hundred dollars into the kids’ college fund. We figured at least one of our kids would want to do the education thing. The guys donated the money and got ready for Raven to let loose. In her laboring room, she even allowed a mic connected to overhead speakers at the bar. Despite knowing they were all listening, my woman didn’t disappoint. One particular favorite was motherfucking crustacean cunt. When Maverick’s head crowded, she also sounded a little bit like a graboid from Tremors. Hell, I think she did that on purpose because we’d watched the movie the night before. Raven was a born entertainer. That night, we added a few thousand dollars to the kids’ college fund, the guys had a blast getting wasted to Raven’s profanity, and I welcomed my second son. Unlike his angelic brother, Maverick peed on me an hour after birth. I knew that boy was going to be a handful.

McDaniel, stay, if you would. We have a game to finish and business to discuss.” Van Buren strode to the chestnut bar and poured two glasses of Glen Garioch, 1958 whiskey. He downed a shot of his favorite beverage and refilled before facing McDaniel. The dark burgundy walls and the lingering spicy scent of recently-smoked Gurkha cigars soothed him. “You play a good game of poker. Do you play often?” Van Buren approached the table with the drinks. “Every Friday night.

The only thing we chase our shots with are high-fives.

Victoria was so wrong about me. I expected them to put me first, above everyone else. I am selfish. I am weak. I am bad. And I need Jasper. I need him like I need air to breathe. No—somehow, that cliché doesn’t seem quite right. He’s more like a shot of whiskey after a hard day. A burst of heroin in my burning veins. He is my drug. My ambrosia. I can’t live without him.

Warm honey, a shot of raw whiskey, and a little hot puff of smoke wafted from his mouth like a fine and rare brandy being decanted. -- Chloe San Valentine from 3 WISHES

Do we have anything chocolate in this kitchen? Anything?" "I think there's some chocolate syrup in the fridge. But we don't have any milk. Not that it was me who drank it. That would be the witch." Della glanced back at Kylie. Kylie reached into the refrigerator and found the chocolate syrup. Oh, hell, beggars couldn't be choosy. She squeezed a line of chocolate all the way up her index finger and popped the digit into her mouth. "So the meeting with the Brightens didn't go well?" Della asked. "No, it went fine," Kylie mumbled around her chocolate-covered finger. When the sweetness disappeared, she pulled her finger out and aimed the top of the bottle down and gave the digit another squirt of sweetness. "Then why are you sucking chocolate syrup off your finger like it's whiskey? Wait! I know why, I heard about the fiasco with your dad and mom-the whole pregnancy thing. Hilarious." Della dropped her elbows on the table and laughed."Not hilarious." Kylie frowned. "How did you hear about it?" Della shrugged, looking a little guilty for bringing it up. "Someone heard it go down. Everybody was talking about it. Sorry." She made an apology face. Kylie moaned. "Will I ever stop being the source of gossip around here?" She held her head back and squeezed a good squirt of chocolate straight into her mouth. "Now that's gross!" Della chuckled. Kylie brought the bottle down and licked her lips. "I didn't touch my lips to the bottle. I just poured it into my mouth." "And on your chin." Frowning, Kylie wiped her chin with the back of her hand. "Sorry, I'm feeling desperate." She snagged a bowl and spoon and went back to the table and emptied a half a cup of the sweet feel-good stuff into her bowl. "Damn," Della said. "You are feeling desperate." Kylie scooped a spoonful of chocolate into her mouth, licked the spoon clean and said, "Monique crawled into the stall with me." "Who? What stall?" "Monique. Lucas's Monique. She climbed into the bathroom stall with me in the restaurant bathroom." "Oh, shit! Did you two like duke it out or something?" "No." Kylie licked the spoon. "I just peed all over myself." She took another spoonful of chocolate into her mouth. Della sighed. "Are you okay?" "I will be after I finish off this bottle," Kylie said. Della half grinned. "If I was a real friend, I'd stop you from drinking it." Kylie shook her head. "If you were a real friend, you'd help me finish it." "Shit. Why not?" She pushed over her glass of blood. "Give me a couple of shots." Kylie arched an eyebrow. "For real?" "Yeah." Della pushed her schoolbooks to the side. "Screw homework, let's get drunk off chocolate. I could use a pick-me-up, too.

respect for this, people don’t have respect for that. No manners these days.  She watched as the steam shot out of the spout and Cake lifted it gently off the heat, pouring the dark liquid into a cup that read Sweat is just your fat crying. She smiled a little and took it.  ‘You know,’ he said, ‘no pressure or anything, but there’s an open competition coming up and—’ Her phone started buzzing in her rucksack on the chair just inside the door, cutting him off. She put her coffee down, a little glad they didn’t have to have this conversation again. ‘Hold that thought,’ she said, unzipping it and fishing around under the hydration bladder. She pulled it out, held up a finger to signify that she’d just be a minute, and then took the call, stepping back into the gym. Behind her, Cake slurped on his coffee. ‘Roper,’ she said, lifting it to her ear, drawing in a lungful of stale sweat. ‘What is it?’ ‘Got a body,’ he said bluntly, the heavy night of drinking apparent in his gruff voice. No doubt he’d been woken up by a call from DCI Smith a few minutes before. He was grunting like he was trying to pull on a pair of trousers. ‘Washed up in the Lea this morning. Fresh one. Hour or two in the water at the most, supposedly.’ She pressed her lips together, rolling it over in her mind. ‘A body? Bit above our pay grade, isn’t it?’ Roper grumbled. He’d been a detective for years, but a few bad cases had him working larceny and assaults mostly. A body was usually reserved for the more senior investigators. ‘Maybe we’re moving up. Maybe it’s because Henley’s finally come to his senses and seen that we’re shining examples of what detectives should be in this goddamn city.’ ‘What’s the real reason?’ He sighed and she could almost smell the beer and whiskey on his breath. ‘It’s a homeless kid. Arms all tracked out. Drowned by the look of it.’ ‘So why’s this being kicked up to us and not being logged as accidental or—’ ‘Kid’s hands were zip-tied together and his fingernails have been ripped off.

My sleep was partially initiated by the shot of whiskey followed by a bottle and a half of wine that Seth and I drank silently, sitting in our favorite spots at opposite ends of the house—him in the TV room, me in the window seat in our bedroom. Each of us returned rather furtively to the kitchen for refills, hoping not to encounter the other.

Anyone care for a drink?” Rolly asked as he pulled out a bottle of Bulliet bourbon whiskey. It was his favorite drink, and the girls had been nice enough to pick him up a bottle a few days before. “I’ll take a sip,” I said with a nod. I guessed that his willingness to share it with us said a lot about how he felt. I tossed the meat into the skillet along with a handful of morel mushrooms that looked like they had been picked fresh today. Then I accepted the bottle of whiskey and took a sip. The alcohol warmth was a nice way to end the day. I passed it back to the old man. “We should grab a bottle of soda. We worked hard today and can use the calories.” “Plus, I noticed that some of it started to go flat,” Bailey said. “I don’t know about you guys but I would rather drink it while it still has the bubbles.” “At least it still makes a decent mixer when it’s flat,” Tara said with a shrug. “I’ll go grab some kitchenware and soda,” Anna volunteered with a chuckle. “Just don’t eat all of that meat without me. It is starting to smell really good.” The meat sizzled in the pan as one side of it started to sear, and the smell of fresh cooked meat mixed with the wild mushrooms started to fill the air. “Don’t worry, Tav has enough meat for all of us,” Tara teased. “He most certainly does,” Paige agreed as she stared at me with a hungry look in her eyes. “I just want some of that venison,” Rolly said as he shook his head. “You guys have to wait until I go to bed to eat anything else.” “Of course, we aren't animals,” Bailey said. “Speak for yourself,” Paige growled as she shot her friend a wicked grin.

There is no rhyme or reason for any of it. Life is just a casino—numbers, probabilities, and cigarette smoke—that is all we are. Life is like this. You walk into a casino. You walk over to the bar and the bartender gives you two shots of cheap whiskey. You walk in hungry, tired. Maybe you’re already a bit drunk. The whiskey goes straight to your head and you light a cigarette—you know, to calm the nerves. You walk over to a craps table. But with all of the smoke, with your eyes blurry from the alcohol, you can hardly tell what it is. Nonetheless, the dice are rolled. Nobody asks you any questions. They roll the dice and whatever the number is, that’s how long you have to play. That’s life. Just a numbers game.

Steven unplugged the tub with a motion of his toe. “You’d better turn your back, Emma, because I’m about to stand up if I can manage it.” Emma complied quickly, praying Steven would be able to execute the feat on his own, that he wouldn’t fall and crack his skull open. She held her breath. “Can’t do it,” he said on a frustrated sigh, and there was a splash as he settled back into the water, which was steadily draining down the pipes. “You’ll have to help me again.” “Oh, dear,” Emma fussed. Then she went to the end of the tub and, keeping her eyes carefully closed, put her arms under Steven’s and tried to hoist him to his feet. This required both of them to give their utmost, but they succeeded, and Emma hastened to hold the robe out to Steven, keeping her head averted. They were just beginning the arduous trip back up the stairs when Doc Waverly himself knocked at the glass in the back door, an affable smile on his face. Emma had never been gladder to see anyone in all her life. Doc opened the door and came inside at her nod. “Afternoon,” he said cheerfully. “Giving our patient a bath?” Emma flushed. “Actually, he gave himself a bath. I just helped him downstairs.” “Liar,” Steven whispered, his warm breath caressing her ear. “His wrapping is wet, though,” Emma went on, speaking in an unnaturally loud voice, as though to drown out anything more Steven might say. “I’ll change that,” Doc Waverly said. He took Emma’s place under Steven’s arm, and she bolted immediately for the stairs. “I’ll put fresh sheets on his bed while you’re bringing him up,” she called back. She had managed the entire task by the time Steven and the doctor arrived at the doorway of the guest room, so slow was their advance. Steven was ashen with pain, but he smiled at Emma when he saw her step back from his freshly made bed. “Thank you,” he said. “I think you could use a shot of whiskey,” said the doctor, “and so could I.” After

Because you care. You’ll always care; it’s who you are, Steele. Steele growled at the sound of his best friend’s voice in his head and pulled the half-empty bottle of whiskey back out of the cabinet, this time not bothering with a shot glass. He tipped it back and gulped a couple times, wincing at the harsh burn. He’d do it until he couldn’t hear that voice anymore. Until he could get some peace, maybe even some sleep. You won’t find peace unless you’re fighting for what’s right. Gulp. Gulp. He

EL-FAYOUMY: Do not bait this great man, lady! He presided over the appeal of Attila the Hun when you were nothing more than a cheap shot of whiskey on your great-great-grandfather’s first unpaid bar tab! JUDGE LITTLEFIELD: Well said!

Uh-huh. I’m a very smart guy. I haven’t a feeling or a scruple in the world. All I have the itch for is money. I am so money greedy that for twenty-five bucks a day and expenses, mostly gasoline and whiskey, I do my thinking myself, what there is of it; I risk my whole future, the hatred of the cops and of Eddie Mars and his pals, I dodge bullets and eat saps, and say thank you very much, if you have any more trouble, I hope you’ll think of me, I’ll just leave one of my cards in case anything comes up. I do all this for twenty-five bucks a day—and maybe just a little to protect what little pride a broken and sick old man has left in his blood, in the thought that his blood is not poison, and that although his two little girls are a trifle wild, as many nice girls are these days, they are not perverts or killers. And that makes me a son of a bitch. All right. I don’t care anything about that. I’ve been called that by people of all sizes and shapes, including your little sister. She called me worse than that for not getting into bed with her. I got five hundred dollars from your father, which I didn’t ask for, but he can afford to give it to me. I can get another thousand for finding Mr. Rusty Regan, if I could find him. Now you offer me fifteen grand. That makes me a big shot. With fifteen grand I could own a home and a new car and four suits of clothes. I might even take a vacation without worrying about losing a case. That’s fine. What are you offering it to me for? Can I go on being a son of a bitch, or do I have to become a gentleman, like that lush that passed out in his car the other night?

The Y-Go Inn is a very unusual tavern. At most places they serve you a shot, but here you get an explosion. The whiskey is not only frisky but risky, the beer is queer, and the only chaser you get is a guy with a blackjack who runs after you when you don’t pay.

do believe women! I am a feminist! I have been in the trenches, fighting this fight since I was a girl! How many young female artists have I mentored?” Meena retrieved the decanter from the bookshelf and poured a shot of whiskey into Inder’s glass, swirling it a few times before drinking it down. “You’re still a child, Kabir. You don’t know anything about the world.

The order, for completists, is WHISKEY SOUR, BLOODY MARY, RUSTY NAIL, DIRTY MARTINI, FUZZY NAVEL, CHERRY BOMB, SHAKEN, and STIRRED. She’s been the subject of many shorts (JACK DANIELS STORIES, BURNERS, FLOATERS) and has appeared as a supporting character in many of my other novels (SHOT OF TEQUILLA, THE LIST, SERIAL KILLERS UNCUT, BANANA HAMMOCK, FLEE, SPREE, THREE, TIMECASTER SUPERSYMMETRY). Due to popular demand, she’ll be back again in another novel, LAST CALL, being co-written with Blake Crouch.

Like this cousin of mine who unfailingly mutters before the first sip of his favourite whiskey, ‘Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Rahim...’ ¬¬¬¬¬ – ‘In the name of the creator, the merciful and compassionate...’ – as if by force of habit. A very perplexing invocation to the very god who forbids it, that sure would leave Him wondering, “What the heck was that all about, son?” That irony is my clan, in a nutshell.

I messed up, Nick. I’ll understand if you tell me to get the hell out of here. My head has been all over the place lately. I know it’s not an excuse. I appreciate you not screaming at me right now or telling me to gather my stuff and fuck off. If I were in your shoes, I’d be furious. I can take your wrath. I know this is your shot, your chance to get in Cody’s good books and prove yourself.

I haven’t been drained that low in a long time. I shouldn’t have tried to take so much all at once,” I muttered, wanting to apologise but not quite finding the right words beyond that statement. “Well feel free to just steal all of mine then,” Darcy spat icily, clutching her neck tighter. I had the urge to heal her, but knew if I tried to touch her again, she’d only recoil. The ambulance pulled away and I glanced around, double checking Darius wasn’t here and I was glad to find he’d listened to me for once. That was something anyway. “Come on, I can drive you girls back in my car,” I offered. I’d left my Faerrari parked at the Acrux Hotel when I’d last visited Tucana, opting to stardust home because I’d been too drunk to drive. But I hadn’t had any magical drinks tonight, so I’d healed myself of the effects of the whiskey I’d consumed before coming to get Darius from the nightclub. Tory’s lip curled back as she glared at me with poison in her gaze. “We’re not going anywhere alone with you,” Darcy said bitterly, distrust in her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I snapped, stepping forward to get hold of her. I’d protect her tonight whether she liked it or not. Tory moved to intercept me and Caleb joined her too like a prime asshole. “You don’t fucking touch her again,” Tory growled. I narrowed my eyes at her, about to object, but as my gaze slid to Darcy over her shoulder and I saw the wall in her eyes that told me to get fucked, I knew I wasn’t going to win this fight. “Bastard,” Darcy hissed at me, looking woozy. Shit, I needed to heal her. And I could get her a blood replenishing potion back at the academy. “Come on, girls. The bus is gonna leave soon,” Caleb said, tugging Tory after him but she dug her heels in, waiting for Darcy. I opened my mouth to try and find the words that would convince Blue to stay with me, but she walked straight past me with her cheek turned and Tory threw me one more filthy look before they all headed down the street to the bus stop where mountains of students were gathering. Professors were among them and I knew they were safe enough in numbers, but my feet were still rooted to the pavement as I watched Darcy leave. You drank way too much. You have to get a grip. How are you going to keep feeding from her if you act like a monster every time your teeth are in her? I’d never had this problem before. The only thing I could compare it to was when my magic had been Awakened and my Order had Emerged. That first feed had made me feel like a ravenous beast with a bottomless stomach, and yet it still didn’t have a pinch on what it was like to feed from Blue. Caleb led Tory and Darcy past the queue straight onto the bus and my hackles rose as they joined Max and Seth on the back seats. And as Seth pulled Darcy close to him and nuzzled against her cheek, that feral animal in me awoke once more. I took out my Atlas and shot an update to Francesca, anxiously scoring my fingers through my hair. Just as the bus pulled away and rounded a corner, the FIB appeared on the street and I was immediately surrounded by three agents with dark frowns on their faces. “Lance Orion, you need to come down to the station and make a statement,” Captain Hoskins said and I sighed, knowing it was going to be a long ass night. I agreed and as I was stardusted away to the precinct, my heart was tugged in another direction, nearly forcing the stars to guide me elsewhere. But the captain ensured I made it to where he wanted to take me and I made a silent prayer to the stars that Darcy wouldn’t end up in Seth Capella’s bed tonight. Because I wasn’t sure I could control the demon in me who’d want his head for that. (ORION POV)

Before the apocalypse, there was a certain dignity in having a quiet drink in one’s office. The day’s work accomplished, laid out before you, and a shot of bourbon or whiskey was a celebration of a job well done. Mayor David Wilson realized that all the dignity was lost when drinking a batch of grain alcohol—made in the town’s spare bathtub—from a Gerber baby food jar. He slammed the empty bottle on the desk

I need a villain that will raze this world and everyone in it to the ground just to please me.

Have you ever seen a sunrise while eating cheese and being wrapped in a tortilla blanket?

He has the skin color of rich brown caramel, and I would do anything to lick the piece of skin just below his throat to see if it tastes the same. Hell, I might need to lick lower than that to ensure the taste is truly heavenly. For research purposes, of course.

I look at my image in the mirror again, and all I see is the struggle to survive that is etched on my skin.

Certain dives on New York City’s Bowery offered as much as you could drink from a rubber hose connected to a liquor barrel until you had to stop to take a breath; this would set you back a mere three cents. For two cents more, however, certain places would provide a shot of whiskey and a woman to go with it.

I like to be adventurous in this, and so today I have a carrot, turmeric, a clove of garlic, frozen mango slices, half a banana, apple juice, and a shot of whiskey.

She held on to his shoulders, mooring herself to his hot, pulsing body. The contrast to the frigid sea went to her head like a shot of whiskey.

She is so good, your wife.” “Yes,” said Alexander. “So fresh and young. So lovely to look at.” “Yes,” said Alexander, closing his eyes. “And she doesn’t yell at you.” “No. Though I reckon she sometimes wants to.” “Oh, to have such restraint in my Bessie. She used to be a fine woman. And the girl was such a loving girl.” More drink, more smoke. “But have you noticed since coming back,” said Nick, “that there are things that women just don’t know? Won’t know. They don’t understand what it was like. They see me like this, they think this is the worst. They don’t know. That’s the chasm. You go through something that changes you. You see things you can’t unsee. Then you are sleepwalking through your actual life, shell-shocked. Do you know, when I think of myself, I have legs? In my dreams I’m always marching. And when I wake up, I’m on the floor, I’ve fallen out of bed. I now sleep on the floor because I kept rolling over and falling while dreaming. When I dream of myself, I’m carrying my weapons, and I’m in the back of a battalion. I’m in a tank, I’m yelling, I’m always screaming in my dreams. This way! That way! Fire! Cease! Forward! March! Fire, fire, fire!” Alexander lowered his head, his arms drooping on the table. “I wake up and I don’t know where I am. And Bessie is saying, what’s the matter? You’re not paying attention to me. You haven’t said anything about my new dress. You end up living with someone who cooks your food for you and who used to open her legs for you, but you don’t know them at all. You don’t understand them, nor they you. You’re two strangers thrown together. In my dreams, with legs, after marching, I’m always leaving, wandering off, long gone. I don’t know where I am but I’m never here, never with them. Is it like that with you, too?” Alexander quietly smoked, downing another glass of whiskey, and another. “No,” he finally said. “My wife and I have the opposite problem. She carried weapons and shot at men who came to kill her. She was in hospitals, on battlefields, on frontlines. She was in DP camps and concentration camps. She starved through a frozen, blockaded city. She lost everyone she ever loved.” Alexander took half a glass of sour mash into his throat and still couldn’t keep himself from groaning. “She knows, sees, and understands everything. Perhaps less now, but that’s my fault. I haven’t been much of a—” he broke off. “Much of anything. Our problem isn’t that we don’t understand each other. Our problem is that we do. We can’t look at each other, can’t speak one innocent word, can’t touch each other without touching the cross on our backs. There is simply never any peace.” Another stiff drink went into Alexander’s throat.

We’ll find him, sir.” “No you won’t,” Childermass said. “Because Peter has done it again.” He then flew into a tantrum that lasted more than five minutes. He repeatedly kicked the side of a car. He snatched the machine gun from his bodyguard and shot out two searchlights. Grown men got in each other’s ways trying to make themselves scarce. Childermass dropped the machine gun and hit himself in the face with his fist until they were able to subdue him and sit him down and pour whiskey into him.

If you want my opinion . . .” Brooke said, lifting a decanter of whiskey. “I don’t.” Brooke, of course, was undeterred. To the contrary, a keen anticipation lit his eyes. The man possessed a cutting wit, and used it to draw blood. Some gentlemen angled trout while on holiday; others shot game. Arthur Brooke made it a sport to disenchant— as though it were his personal mission to drive fancy and naiveté to extinction. He said smugly, “My dear Mrs. Yardley, you have assembled a lovely collection of words.” Portia eyed him with skepticism. “I don’t suppose that’s a compliment.” “No, it isn’t,” he answered. “Pretty words, all, but there are too many of them. With so many extravagant ornaments, one cannot make out the story beneath.” “I can make out the story quite clearly,” Cecily protested. “It’s nighttime, and there is a terrific storm.” “There you have it,” Denny said. “It was a dark and stormy night.” He made a generous motion toward Portia. “Feel free to use that. I won’t mind.” With a groan, Portia rose from her chair and swept to the window. “The difficulty is, this is not a dark and stormy night. It is clear, and well-lit by the moon, and unseasonably warm for autumn. Terrible. I was promised a gothic holiday to inspire my literary imagination, and Swinford Manor is hopeless. Mr. Denton, your house is entirely too cheerful and maintained.” “So sorry to disappoint,” Denny said. “Shall I instruct the housekeeper to neglect the cobwebs in your chambers?” “That wouldn’t be nearly enough. There’s still that sprightly toile wallpaper to contend with— all those gamboling lambs and frolicking dairymaids. Can you imagine, this morning I found myself humming! I expected this house to be decrepit, lugubrious . . .” “Lugubrious.” Brooke drawled the word into his whiskey. “Another pretty word, lugubrious. More than pretty. Positively voluptuous with vowels, lugubrious. And spoken with such . . . mellifluence.” Portia flicked him a bemused glance. He added, “One pretty word deserves another, don’t you think?

General, but heartily evaluated by me, Surgeon Particular. I rarely discriminate my alcohol, but today I decide to stick to generation-proved staples of comfort and problem solving: vodka and whiskey. Starting in reverse alphabetical order I take a shot of cinnamon whiskey, which sails down smoother than Titanic, traces of familiar warmth reminiscent in my stomach for a minute straight, tongue pleasantly on fire. Next comes a complimentary and mandatory apple martini (Friday night’s special for ladies), provided

Last Wednesday, though, he’d opened his mouth and before thinking better of it, revealed more about his interest in his new partner than he should have. Nothing like being misjudged and shot down by the man he’d lusted after for three years. How was he supposed to work with Aidan Talley? Jamie

watering holes had been packed for hours, with revelers throwing back shots of whiskey, hot toddies, and eggnog as they prepared to brave the cold for the traditional outdoor countdown. It seemed as if every city resident, young and old,

I’d give a hundred bucks for a shot of rye whiskey, he thinks, and swallows hard. I’d give a million to blow her fucking brains out.

These shmystal-crystals, Akiva. What do people do with them? Do they talk to them and wait for an answer? Do they hold them up to the sun and tan their faces? What?” “I’m not a crystal expert, Rav Schulman, but I think they’re used to communicate with the dead.” The old man shook his head with disapproval. “I will never understand the fascination with the dead.” “We all die.” “Yes, we do, but we all live as well. People should concentrate on bettering their lives, not trying to second-guess the other side. If they live righteously, they’ll have nothing to worry about. Boruch Hashem, I’ve made it this far. Now one might even say I have one foot in the grave—” “Rabbi—” “Not that I’m ready to die.” The old man stood and took out two shot glasses. “But if it happens, it happens. People who fear death do not fear God. Besides, Akiva, what do the sages teach us about Torah?” “It was meant for the living not the dead.” “Correct!” Schulman filled the glasses with whiskey and handed one to Decker. “So, my friend, let us live and learn and do mitzvot as Hashem commanded us.” He held his drinking glass aloft. “To life—l’chaim.” “L’chaim,” Decker said.

I can’t explain why, but a whiskey sour is a drink for a man whose mother made him practice piano a lot when he was a kid. A man who drinks whiskey sours also probably throws a baseball like a girl—limp wristed. A man who drinks whiskey sours and then eats that silly little cherry they put in the bottom probably has a cat or a poodle for a pet. In other words, I wouldn’t go on a camping trip with a man who drinks whiskey sours. Scotch drinkers are aggressive. They order like they’re Charles Bronson trying to have a quick shot before returning to the subway to kill a few punks and thugs. “What’ll you have, sir?” asks the bartender. “Cutty. Water. Rocks. Twist,” growls the Scotch drinker. I think maybe Scotch drinkers wear their underwear too tight. You have to watch people who drink vodka or gin. “Anybody who drinks see-through whiskey,” an old philosopher once said, “will get crazy.” Indeed. Vodka and gin drinkers are the type who leave the house to get a loaf of bread, drop by the bar for just one, and return home six weeks later. With the bread. I wouldn’t go on a camping trip with anyone who drinks vodka or gin, either. They’re the types who would invite snakes, raccoons and bears over for cocktails and then wind up getting into an argument about tree frogs. Bourbon drinkers never grow up. Eight out of ten started drinking bourbon with Coke in school and still have a pair of saddle oxfords in the closet. Bourbon drinkers don’t think they’ve had a good time unless they get sick and pass out under a coffee table. Then there are the white wine drinkers. Never get involved in any way with them. They either want to get married, sell you a piece of real estate or redecorate your house.

There was once a mean house cat who would drink your whiskey and bite you; now there’s a friendly dog, Peeve, for whom you can buy “shots” of dog treats, the proceeds from which are donated to animal shelters.