ub everyone glistened with sweat, including him. The glass felt good in his hand, and he lifted it, ice tinkling as he sipped the dark liquid. It burned as it slid down his throat, and he grimaced. Only the best for Derrick Nestor. The whiskey kept behind the bar had been aged for over fifty years, and it was only opened for him, one night a year. This night, when everything fell apart, he became a different man. For the past ten years, he’d sat in this club, in this very seat, and drank this whiskey until the sun came up and he was escorted out, usually drunk. And usually after he’d started a fight and won. “That’s your
