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Gingerbread flavored vodka, Tony thought as he held the bottle up to the light. What'll they think up next?
The smart part of him, the one that could build a working generator out of some tin cans and rusty pennies, was screaming for him to put it down. The rest of him, that big bundle of aching meat and nerves that had just taken more hits than a professional boxer from a bunch of fifties B-movie rejects, was begging Tony to hurry up and open it.
You're gonna have a hell of a hangover tomorrow, that smart part reminded himself. It was now little louder than a whisper.
But would he hurt half as much as he already did tonight?