You are young, you are strong, you can withstand anything.

You've drunk with lumberjacks — and stood your ground like a tree,


you've stumbled out of harbor taverns — sea-legs wobbling, but the last man standing,


you've taken moonshine from a Romanian babushka and dungaree-clad hillbillies — and can still see out of both eyes.



You've drunk Irish pubs dry and melted the snow around Moscow drinking halls with your vodka breath.

You can tell tequila varieties apart by the taste of the worm.


You've traded station-bum brandy for their rubbing alcohol out of pure charity — and then drunk it yourself.

There's no herb left in southern France and no fruit left in Austria that you haven't enjoyed distilled into schnapps.


In Scottish distilleries, barrels are named after you, and in Belgium, beers.


In China you've tried things Western doctors would have strongly advised against.


African medicine men speak in awe how you withstood their attempts to kill you.

Hemingway would have dedicated a book to you.


You would have carried Bukowski home.


Lemmy would have taken you on tour.


The Cranberries warned you.


But now you face the Karen of all drinks. And the manager isn't on duty.


You face the plutonium dragon of the dungeon's lowest level.


Your spaceship is hurtling toward a singularity:


The Zombie.