Wine and Gun

Herstal looked at the drink list with harsh eyes-the drinks had bizarre names, and it was specially marked below to order the order with the "correct name", otherwise the bartender would be grateful.

He knew the other two were looking at him with interest, just to see which way the scales would swing between ordering the drink he wanted and spitting out those weird names, which often made him wonder, Did Olga choose this store just to torture him?

He was silent for a while, then looked up from the drink list and said to the bartender, "Glory hole, thank you."

Sure enough, he heard Albarino let out a low laugh next door.

"I don't know if I should stand up right now and exclaim 'Oh my God, Mr. Amarette finally ordered a drink with alcohol!' Or—to be honest, that drink is basically made up of a lot of juice, I Guess it only had a few drops of vodka in it," Olga pointed out with the same interest in discovering the New World.

"I know, I've had a really tough day," Herstal told the truth.

This sentence is true, he had to have a whole day of discussions with a guy who doesn't know the law at all, and the main reason why this discussion had to happen is obviously that his son SM abandoned the body of the girl after playing with it. In the river - if nothing else, can they think a little bit before doing such a thing?

In the end, the case and the pungent smell of that client's cigars gave him an almost overwhelming migraine that even a $1,500-an-hour consultation fee couldn't relieve.

Usually, when he's in this situation, he chooses to go home, take his medicine, and sleep in the dark, and the noisy environment of this bar is very different from the dead silence of his home. He sat there watching the bright spot of the bartender's glass flickering, wondering why he was sitting here for a few seconds.

Indeed, a lot of things that happened to him confused him. Those clients who didn't seem to use their brains to think about problems, the bunch of white daffodils and wheat ears on his desk nearly two weeks ago, didn't know what they were doing. What the hell the Sunday gardener himself—and Albarino Bacchus, who diligently went to his lunch at least two days a week.

In the end, Herstal didn't kick him out, nor did he turn down Olga's invitation to a bar night. A voice in his heart pointed out that it was irrational. He's either going to get out of the way of all this shit, or get involved in this weird game, and shouldn't be swaying on that midline.

And Olga blinked and said lively, "Can you soothe your 'difficult day' with 12 degrees of alcohol?"

"I'll order a second cup," Herstal replied condescendingly.

When the cocktail came up, he was still thinking about these unknown things. The glass was hazy with a layer of water mist, and the ice cubes collided crisply at the bottom of the glass. Olga is right, the base of this jītaka is almost non-existent vodka, the spicy taste is diluted to almost nothing, and it is just sweet to drink.

Some people will definitely describe it as "like love".

He sits in silence for his first and second drinks, though that doesn't actually make him forget the annoying faces of those clients, and if he's not mistaken, he'll have to kill time next week on these guys.

When Herstal had finished his second drink, Olga was saying: "...To be honest, I waited every day for him to fight back."

"A Westland pianist?" Albarino snorted casually. "Bart wouldn't like your idea."

"That's logical. There's a lot of discussion on the Internet about his biblical perverted murder confrontation with the gardener. It's unreasonable for someone like him who likes to write letters to the police department to not fight back?" Olga said slowly, "Although It's really bad that more people die, but I think it's going to happen sooner or later and it's wise to be mentally prepared for that."

She paused for a moment, and just as she was about to continue speaking, the phone rang as if she were dying. She picked it up and looked at it, groaning: "My editor called. I told him that I wouldn't change the seventh draft if I died."

But it was obviously useless. Olga threw the two of them apologetic glances and squeezed through the crowd with a mobile phone like a bomb, apparently rushing out to answer the phone. The remaining two people were silent for a while at the bar, and then Herstal suddenly spoke up, which was actually followed by the words just now.

"Maybe he doesn't care what the Sunday gardener is up to," Herstal said slowly, putting down his glass.

And Albarino snorted softly, the pleasure in his voice overflowing unpleasantly, and the end of the sentence was like honey: "Or, he was speechless because he Chose to throw in the towel to the gardener."

Herstal sighed softly, the pain he had accumulated all day attacked him, making his sun twitch and twitch, a feeling that sweetness could not heal. He drank the contents of the glass, pushed the glass back on the table, and slid off the bar stool.

Albarino watched him happily, and it was entirely conceivable that countless people would be fascinated by those mint green eyes. Herstal walked around Olga's empty stool to his side, pressing his elbows on the wooden surface of the bar, looking down at him.

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