Three people were seated at a small, round table in a cozy dining room. A bottle of scotch sat on it in the middle, two shot glasses next to it, both full. It was quiet and dark in the rest of the house, which was soon to be vacated once Henry got his affairs in order, but that one table was lit up brightly with a single light fixture. So, there
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Oh, shush, we'll let him someday. Just not right at this very moment.
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And off the record, my tolerance really is still no good. Never was, and probably never will be. Such a shame.
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You're not alone...well my tolerance is a little higher maybe, but I would venture to say not by very much. Get enough in me and I'll still spill my guts, not just figuratively either.
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We're just a couple of regular lightweights. Good to know I'm in similar company.
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