Four shot glasses filled with absinthe rose together.

“To the death!” We chorused happily. It was our traditional toast, somehow managing to be the phrase that encapsulated our good luck and yet also dared the gods to do their worst. We reasoned that if actors owned “break a leg” then we could have “to the death”. Anything bad that followed would be in relation to us defying the gods.

The shot glasses met together with a satisfying clink and we consumed the amber colored liquid with gusto.

We waited together for the spreading heat to make its way to our heads.

Old man Warner smacked his lip in appreciation. “Never better, never better. Now who wants the honor of beginning this cold winter eve?”

Three pairs of eyes turned to me.

“Oh no! My work is far from ready.” I protested.

George chuckled, fat rolls dancing. “If we waited until you were ready, we’d all be pickled and entombed, lad!”

Theresa, the only woman among us, egged him on with cries of “Hear, hear!”

Reluctantly I stood and began my story.