04-27-2023, 02:00 AM
Alistair had spent the week with a newfound flush of cash from Mr. Petrovich., his patron. It had been a whirlwind of a few months, having left Ohio, landed in Moscow, and now fought for an alcohol mogul. Or so he thought.
Alistair had spent the week wandering, getting his bearings, seeing sights, bumping into people on the street, and making all kinds of cultural faux pas. Such as tipping. He had always tipped in America. Typically, to a cute waitress. In Russia? He had tried tipping and was looked at like he was insane. He laid the money down on a table and was shouted at, being told that the cute female was not a prostitute.
He had learned quickly. On the third interaction, a patron had leaned over and said, "Stupid American. We don't tip in Russia."
Alistair had doled out some money for a new suit. Mr. Petrovich had recommended he check out one of his accounts, Nebesa’s Gate Casino. Alistair had strolled in late and headed straight for the bar. The name outside read: “Empyrean.”
As he stood there surveying the room, leaning against the bar with his Manhattan, he noticed a commotion in the distance. A stretcher rolled across the casino in contrast with its elegance. The paramedics disappeared into a dark room in the back. Alistair turned to look at the bartender. "What's that about?"
The bartender looked up. “An older man passed away. Heart attack or something. It happens sometimes,” he explained before changing the subject. Alistair noticed his gaze didn’t linger long on the direction, almost as if he was uncomfortable bringing it up.
“How’s the drink? Want anything else?”
Alistair shook his head for now.
Alistair had spent the week wandering, getting his bearings, seeing sights, bumping into people on the street, and making all kinds of cultural faux pas. Such as tipping. He had always tipped in America. Typically, to a cute waitress. In Russia? He had tried tipping and was looked at like he was insane. He laid the money down on a table and was shouted at, being told that the cute female was not a prostitute.
He had learned quickly. On the third interaction, a patron had leaned over and said, "Stupid American. We don't tip in Russia."
Alistair had doled out some money for a new suit. Mr. Petrovich had recommended he check out one of his accounts, Nebesa’s Gate Casino. Alistair had strolled in late and headed straight for the bar. The name outside read: “Empyrean.”
As he stood there surveying the room, leaning against the bar with his Manhattan, he noticed a commotion in the distance. A stretcher rolled across the casino in contrast with its elegance. The paramedics disappeared into a dark room in the back. Alistair turned to look at the bartender. "What's that about?"
The bartender looked up. “An older man passed away. Heart attack or something. It happens sometimes,” he explained before changing the subject. Alistair noticed his gaze didn’t linger long on the direction, almost as if he was uncomfortable bringing it up.
“How’s the drink? Want anything else?”
Alistair shook his head for now.