>>10381692Colby duly gets her shot of sweet but harsh 111-proof whiskey, favored by certain kinds of bikers and hillbillies with an upscale budget and a discerning taste. She leaves her card to leave a tab open. There's still some money on there.
She sniffs the glass, and takes the shot in a single big swallow. She's immediately overwhelmed by the euphoric rush of drinking spoiled paint thinner mixed with battery acid and notes of cigar ash, and understands at once that then that the King Thundarrburd, in its natural habitat, is a tough and cagey creature not to be trifled with. She exhales the fumes, shakes her head vigorously, and staggers back.
>"G-Gahh... wow, that's strong stuff." Colby's voice cracks a little, as the incendiary and caustic beverage greets the lining of her throat with the sweet, gentle cruelty of five hundred thousand tiny, beautiful steel bristles.
As the warmth begins spreading threw her body, Colby puts her back to the bar and starts scanning the crowd of assembled club patrons, people watching. But watching for two people in particular.
