Yea, for even Czar has his soft side, and about four thirty after a long day nailing up drywall and running pipe it is time to indulge in my hobby. My passion really. Mm.
I head home and kick off my shoes. Yeah. The stench is almost overpowering, but everybody likes his own brand, as they say. Then I eat something, drink some orange juice. Wash.
Now, it is time. I head to my table, unable to withstand the craving any longer. From my special drawer in the fridge I pull out an ice cold bottle of Rolling Rock. It is so cold in my special drawer that frost springs into being on the sides of the bottle. Ah, Latrobe's finest, what would I do without thee?
And then, I head into the freezer and find the bottle that even the czarina doesn't know is there. This is the equivalent of a mistress. Mine and mine alone. Not the family's, not the wife's, mine. Jaegermeister. Ice chunks are wrapped around the bottle, forming cold trickles of water as the bottle enters the heat of my apartment.
The two green bottles, one olive, the other a deep forest, sit side by side. The Rolling Rock label is painted on. The Jaegermeister's paper label is peeling slightly. The deer looks forlorn. It's cross is upside down. I savor the moment.
I then pull forth my ceremonial drinking tumbler; a Japanese made sake glass I bought in Chinatown, New York City. I pour a shot into it. It holds slightly more than an average shot glass, that's why I like it so much. The thick black liquid stares at me like the eye of a shark. (Does it roll a white lid across its circular surface when I swallow? The idea makes me tremble.)
then I crack the beer. The strangulated hiss unleashes a thick white fog from the top of the bottle. Like the mists of Scotland, drifting rapidly across the green hills of my homeland; so too does the mist roll over the lip of the green Rolling Rock bottle.
Now I am ready. The first shot is always an effort of will, akin to boarding a rollercoaster. I have butterflies as I lift the shot to my lips and then... the experience is a whirlwind of sensations, the icy flow of the liquid, the burning of the alcohol, the sweetness of the licorice. The flow of beer washes the sticky residue from my mouth, and I sink back, awaiting the first angelic warmth from my belly that will sing me to sleep.