"Hm." He pats himself down, realises he left his flask (full of some clear shit made in someone's bathtub, it tastes like motor oil but it's cheap) in his room, gives up. He could use another shot or two; he'll probably stop off at a bar before going home and go several glasses beyond 'a shot or two'. "I'm much better at swearing in Turkish," he says idly, steering the conversation away from anything too fucked up and awful.