Ice clinks against the glass, and sizzles in contact with the warm air that's flushed the faces of the bartender and the assortment of people perched on bar stools before him. There's a glass slid across the wood top, an exchange of money, a mumbling rage about the high prices of the booze. A man drowns his sorrow in the elixir at one end of the bar, and a young couple flirts shamelessly at the other end with the nectar in hand.
The drug seems to have very different effects, depending on the situation of it's consumption. A young man having a twenty-first birthday celebration was handed a shot of vodka and promptly spewed it in to a trash bin after a few seconds. His friends laughed, egging him on to try another. The man just lowered his head, allowing the tussling of his hair and the friendly punches to his shoulders. There's a rather larger woman in the corner table. She sits with a cocktail glass, turning the cherry stem in the red concoction over and over again between stifled sips. The woman she is with sits across from her, a thinner creature. She holds in hand a large beer, and there is a plate in front of her that seems to hold the remains of what was a serving of nachos. They both intently stare at the TV screen, which is playing a rather bland match of golf. There's no doubt that they are rather drunk. The towel squeaks in the glass that it is drying, the cup is then placed by the bartender on a rack besides the sink. The young couple tries to escape without paying their bill, but is blocked by a man in a security shirt, not distracted by the frequent vomit being produced by the young man at the birthday table.