Let the costume party commence!

[apocalypsos]

Okay, so, here's the deal. I've never mixed drinks before.

Oh, all right. Total lie. This one time, when Wolvie wasn't looking, I took all of his beers and mixed 'em with Dr. Pepper. I didn't drink 'em or anything, 'cause ... uh, they frightened me. Liquor shouldn't, you know, talk to you or try to grab you by the neck. Bad liquor. No pretty paper umbrella.

So, I found this book in the library, right? And it's got all kind of recipes for Bloody Marys and Sex on the Beach and ... Alien Urine Sample? EWWW. Nobody order that, 'kay? Ick.

Comments

[vivian-shaw.livejournal.com]

Balvenie. I must admit I was terribly proud of the Scots' affinity for whisky; my so-famous adversary condemns it as a snare for the soul, you know, and I would have to agree.

[wal-lace.livejournal.com]

Who gives a fuck about the soul? Alcohol keeps me alive.

They're a bunch of hairy sheep-shaggers, but the Scots did one thing right.

Hey, they're playing your tune. Fucking Jagger.

[vivian-shaw.livejournal.com]

I must admit to a certain interest in the fate of souls--occupational hazard, you know. Personally I find them boring as heaven, but *wry* one does one's job.

*finishes his martini and reclaims the bottle of single-malt* So. How's your floppy-haired friend?

[wal-lace.livejournal.com]

The little bastard got a job. Knew he had it in him.

And he lost the hair, too. That was a fucking shock when he came back from the barber.

Last I heard he'd got a job in television. Playing Doctor bloody Who of all people. But apparently it didn't last. Poor bastard.

Here's to Paul bloody Marwood!

*snatches back whisky bottle*

[vivian-shaw.livejournal.com]

*chuckles dryly* You may be surprised to learn that he will end up breaking hearts playing a British naval officer opposite a terribly sexy Welshman. But he'll never forget you.

*lights a black cigarette and leans back against the chair, letting his hair flop becomingly over one eye*

[wal-lace.livejournal.com]

I thought he said there would never be a big enough paycheck to take him back within spitting distance of Wales.

Oh, wait, that was me. Bastard rustics.

[vivian-shaw.livejournal.com]

You did have a time of it in Wales, I recall.

[wal-lace.livejournal.com]

If you mean we nearly got raped and eaten by gangs of rampaging inbred cow-fuckers, then sir, you recall correctly.

Evil bastards, the Welsh.

[vivian-shaw.livejournal.com]

Not only the cow-fuckers, but also the rampaging Uncle Monty. Poor Marwood still hasn't forgiven you for that one.

[wal-lace.livejournal.com]

The little tart knew what he was getting in to.

[vivian-shaw.livejournal.com]

Actually, he didn't...he was rather amusingly horrified about the whole thing. I expect it was good for him. Built character, and that.