Rush says nothing but simply arches a brow, his features composed and disdainful.

Poison would be an uncomfortably apt description, he notes scornfully, surveying the selection of alcohol with frosty indifference. A brisk scan of the rows of dark- and clear-colored glass uncovers nothing so palatable as Scotch, and he scowls. He seizes some typical, revolting, American whiskey by the neck of its bottle and rejoins Asadi at the front.

"And what the fuck," says Rush, dubiously eyeing the plastic, colorful rectangle laid atop the counter between bottle and olives, "is that. Exactly."