"Valiko! Smotri Valikoko, Zarbazan prishel!"* Announced Lush and plopped next to Heren and Squatter, took a beer without asking, made Heren open it, took a swig, and started complaining that "this is no Trappiste."
Then she remembered herself (or tried to remember, the past day or so having been a smoke-stained blur punctured by bad punnery), smiled an innocent brilliant, gazillion-watt smile that could power the entire London metropolitan area and the suburbs, complimented Squatter on his cuff-links for the 20th time that week, assured Heren that Georgian soccer pales only in comparison to Ukrainian soccer (but who's counting the goals?), and clapped vigorously for everyone that she has missed, especially for burra, because he drew her a cake once, and while she couldn't eat it, she could dream of eating it, and for writers that's all that counts (so it's really no wonder that most writers end up starving in the gutter for at least one point in their aimless, debauched lives).
*-Inside joke. Disregard if you've no mastery of the Russian language (or, to put it in plainer terms, if you're just not cool enough).
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~The beginning is the word and the end is silence. And in between are all the stories. This is one of mine~
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