Grant: Overseers meeting. How long have you been an overseer and haven’t done an audit?
Marozi: Six months.
Grant: Nothing to worry about. We’ll have a beer afterwards.
Marozi: I don’t drink.
Narration(Grant): So the diamond smuggler is too holy to drink. Hilarious.
Narration(Grant): This is turning into a long drive.
Narration(Grant): Young people these days! Anti-this prohibitionist-that!
Narration(Grant): If only some thing or person was banned, the world would turn magically into a shiny utopia of groves on a hill where people practiced love without borders or some such nonsense. Xander had gotten out of that phase pretty quickly.
Narration(Grant): In fact it happened the first time he walked through Washington DC. The shock of beholding American bureaucracy for the first time…
Narration(Grant): …and little churchgoing Xander had sat down that night,
Narration(Grant): and chugged three fifths of gin in a row. Like a pro.
Narration(Grant): Did me proud. Only later did I figure out he could only get drunk for a few seconds at a time. The poop.
Narration(Grant): James Marozi has launched into a contrived lecture on abstemiousness. Don’t remember exactly when.
Narration(Grant): He’s shaping up nothing like young Vespasian Xander. What had Eugene insisted on calling himself in this phase? Vinny?
Narration(Grant): The pretend-Italian year of the black-eyed six-foot-six telepath.
Narration(Grant): He’d been as bad as a teenage girl dyeing her hair ridiculous colors in the washroom every Friday night.
Marozi: So where exactly are you taking me?
Grant: Prison.