You walk into a bar just before the night shift. The bartender looks you over, because you're the only one there, except for the permanent fixture with no teeth and hollow eyes hanging over his beer.

You order a bottle of the house’s best. The bartender smiles, nods, reaches under the bar and pulls out a shot glass and a tall bottle; the good stuff, imported. He fills your glass slowly and hands it to you with purpose, along with the bottle. He takes extra care to face the label toward you, then he backs away to leave you your privacy.

Now, you could just slam down shot after shot until the bottle’s empty, but not today. Today requires special reverance and you become light-headed with the anticipation of it. So, you take up that shot glass and hold it to the dim lights, grinning. You look through the rich amber liquid, oily and smooth, and then close your eyes and breathe in the heavy aroma.

“This one’s for you, comrades.” You whisper as a prayer to whatever god you come from.

You carefully get up from your stool and carry the shot glass and the bottle just past the doorway and turn the glass upside-down. As the whiskey spatters dark patterns across the grey, weathered stone you continue, “Six souls beyond the border and I.” You put the bottle to your lips and drink deeply before coming up for air.

“War’s a bitch.”

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