Alan's fingertips have settled, instinctively, around the rim of his glass, proceeding to twist it—with that certain abstracted sensitivity—as they would a radio dial. As if there might exist some less violently colorful setting, an angle at which the scotch he requested will emerge. (Toying, as he does so, with asking Shrieky if perhaps the fluid currently blaring in their glasses had, in a prior life, induced a sparkle in many a toilet bowl.)

“I'm sorry? No,” he says—not balking, not refusing, simply stating a fact. “I'm afraid that isn't possible. Besides, Ki is my designated singer for the evening. I've instructed her to consume double the alcohol--speaking of which.” With a smile, he nudges his glass toward her.