I clutch my crystal tumbler with a hand that shakes in rage. Condensation mists up on the glass of scotch-on-the-rocks as my fury literally burns up inside me. The dark amber fluid in my tumbler sloshes between the partly-melted ice cubes, dancing its alluring ballet over the glassy blocks. It seems to beg me to throw it back down my throat — or am I the one begging my leaden arm to hoist another hefty measure of liquour to my snarling lips? I don't know. I don't care. I knock back yet another scotch. I've long since lost count. I let the booze linger in the back of my throat, burning like the dying embers of a campfire before I swallow it down. Each time it gets a little easier. Each drink slides down that tiny bit more smoothly. I lift my chin from my other hand's fist, and feel the familiar swimming sensation as my drunken mind tries to play catch-up with my body's movements. I stare up at the wall clock, through the shafts of morning light searing through the closed blinds in my study. Half past ten in the morning, and I was already too drunk to drive to the boulangerie to pick up something to eat. Who was I kidding? I hadn't left the apartment in a week. My routine was scotch for breakfast, some blurry daytime television, staring at the ceiling and wondering who the fuck I was anymore, before a slow, steady spiral into deep depression and melancholy, medicated by doctors Jack Daniels and Jim Beam — side effects include drunkeness, loss of coordination, short-term blackouts and making everything so much worse for myself. Then, sometime around 4AM, I'd wake up on the sofa, stinking of various fluids, before collapsing into the bathtub with a cold shower beating down on my fur while I curled up, sobbing. Then, I'd probably crawl sopping wet and naked into bed, getting my wet fur all over the unmade bedding. Cry myself to sleep, then wake up hungover at some point, wondering why I bother going on, before having breakfast scotch in my study all over again. Carmelita Montoya Fox. Washed-up ex-INTERPOL agent.