The Italian nodded, beginning to absolutely demolish the display of his life water. When one shot left his lips, there was a single breath before another hit. He could feel the smooth drink burn his throat mildly, before being replaced with a warm feeling in his stomach as each shot hit and filled him with enough alcohol that he felt he could do a neat party trick involving his burps and a lighter.

"Now this is some quality shit," he said, stopping at the fifteenth shot and holding it up. There wasn't much of a daze with his own eyes, nor did he slur his words. It was far too early in the night... day... some shit.

"How ya' handlin' your shit, little man?" A cheeky grin was replaced by a quickly emptied glass, then the other four. Twenty down, and he wanted more. Liver damage never felt so heavenly.