CAD4-039
Barista: Jericho Myerscough
Date: Jan-6-2020
Receipt: CAD4-039
Subject: Business as Usual
Fuck me. We put away enough whiskey to drown a banshee last night.
Blinked and now it's morning—a heavy, loud, bloody blistering morning. Head’s like a drum and my mouth tastes like peat bog. Right rancid. Rach’s giving me side-eye across the breakfast table, stirring sugar into her tea like it personally offended her. Can’t tell if she’s cross about missing out on the fun or if it’s about the black hound she swears she saw lurking in the shadows behind the Inn last night. Black hounds? Oh, come off it. That’s fairytale stuff.
…Never helps to be the only sober one out, does it?
Been asking if she’s sure she saw it.—Lord knows none of us can back up her claims. Not after last night. But, then again, ”Wails of the dead are heard from howls of a black hound.” Or… something to that effect. An omen to keep an eye on. Rach is one of those types—sees things, hears things, knows things before the rest of us do. So I just wanted to be certain—’course the question earns me a look sharper than a cold wind off the Atlantic. Jackie, to her credit, doesn’t laugh outright, does that thing where she lifts her mug just high enough to hide her smirk. No help at all.
Eoin, our host and master of last night’s revelry, just ambled in looking far too put together for a man who matched me drink for drink. He’s even whistling, the bastard. Gives me a nod, grinning like he’s got a secret he’s dying to share but won’t—not yet. Fuck me, what the hell did we even talk about last night? That’s the danger of staying at “The Gross Wyrm,” innit? Eoin’s a good lad—for the most part. But whisky’s his lifeblood, and the bastard never runs dry.
“Grand night, how’s that?”
Always is with Mr. O’Dwyer. Bloody con artist of the Coffee Trade.