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It was after the seventh shot that Irvine decided to introduce himself. Any man who could down the hard stuff like that and remain perfectly clear-eyed and steady-handed was worth talking to, in his book.
He slid into the conveniently vacant stool next to the stranger and held out his half-gloved hand. "Irvine Kinneas, sharpshooter, at your service," he said, and took pleasure in the whisky-smoothness of his own voice. Alcohol made him sound like sex. That was the main reason he drank.
The other man, dark-haired and possessed of mischievous, spinning-deep black eyes, looked up in surprise. "Sorry, did you say something? I couldn't hear you over the band."
Irvine repeated his introduction.
"Ah. Miroku, pervert and monk, in that order, nice to meet you."
There were several things wrong with that, but Irvine now had nine tequilas swimming in his intestines and couldn't quite put his finger on them. "Just Miroku?" he said finally.
"Just Miroku. My family name is a deep, dark secret."
Irvine thought that was downright nifty. He had a thing for secrets and painful pasts. "Cool." Pause. "Hang on, did you say perverted? What a coincidence! Me, too!"
Miroku raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Would I be correct in assuming, in that case, that you know... ahem... where to go in this strange city?"
"But of course, my good man! Follow the leader!"
That was a night Deling City — or more specifically, those eleven showgirls at the Neon Moogle — would never, ever forget.
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