Hardly does Alfred finish the statement when Angel feels like an honorific ritual pyre being doused by the cold, yellow piss of the pagan gods. The stench seems to emanate from the very skin of his being. To him who has been laser-surgically inoculated with the highly experimental xenobots, his younger companion’s spirit has been all but dampening. As if only a heavenly warrior’s sword embossed on his own beer bottle could restore. Or, at least, revive from a more than comatosal experience.
But the first half of the evening seems to be still too early.
And the beer still too inviting.
They have been drinking past half an hour now in this small but relatively clean Quiapo restaurant, a sling stone’s throw away from the old distinguished church. The man in polo, in an awkwardly robotic wa
