[color=#999900]A young man saunters into the pub, a large brown glass bottle cradled in one arm. Dodging past a departing throng of thoroughly pissed individuals, he pauses briefly at the bar next to a older, auburn haired woman and her escort, placing a plastic card in the hand of the former with a grin and a wink, and patting the back of the latter and making a brief verbal exchange before turning eye to the tables. Spotting his hosts, Corey and Miller, he cocks a brow and hoists the bottle into view when he catches the attention of one of the men, grabbing a glass from the bar before making his way over.
"Gantlemen," he begins as he arrives at their table, placing the unmarked bottle on the table between the two and taking a seat.
"You 'ave my gratitude for the invitation. I'd love t'be stayin' an' gettin' pissed, but I've t'meet wit' an important individual on Freeport 1. So, it's with regret that I only 'ave time to share one drink wit' you fine gentlemen, but in 'ope that you'll forgive this slight, I bring a gift."
He picks up the bottle, bites the cork, pulls it clear and spits it over his right shoulder as he pours himself a double, "Its me gran da's own recipe. Pure pot, sixty five thirty five, an' aged eight years in a real wooden cask."
He lifts the glass in toast. "To the day when every last bastard son of Crete 'as met 'is just end. May they all die slow; wit' our 'ands at their throats." he proclaims before draining the glass and placing it on the table upside down.
The problem with troubleshooting is that real trouble shoots back.