Rush snorts and drags the bottle back to him with a prolonged rasp over wood.

"Aye," he says, raising it in toast. "Bang t'rights."

He is certain he will regret the entire sequence of events he has since set in motion as well as the result of them as it will be, inevitably, the sort of headache reminiscent of having one's brain pressurized and driven unremittingly into the back of one's own skull.

Intoxication allows the luxury of freely dismissing logic, so he throws the bottle back and drinks.