“Time to call it a night, Londo.” Garibaldi waved the bartender away, focusing his attention on the Centauri Ambassador. “You’re drunk.”

“Yes,” Londo agreed. “Yes I am, and I feel so much better for it. Alcohol can be most beneficial. You should try it sometime; you might even find you like it.”

“Been there, done that, never going back there again. I don’t like who I become when I’m drinking. I tend to mess up spectacularly when I’ve had a few.”

“Really? How strange. I like myself much better after a few drinks. I’m altogether more pleasant to be around. A little of this, a little of that, and before I know it, all the problems and petty annoyances I have to deal with every day just seem to melt away, and life in this benighted tin can becomes positively delightful instead of merely tolerable.”

“To each his own.” Garibaldi stood his ground. “I’m still cutting you off, before you start regaling the customers with tales of the Empire’s glory days.” He leaned a little closer, trying not to breathe the miasma of alcohol fumes surrounding Londo. “There are Narns present, and I don’t want to be dealing with another diplomatic incident, if you get my drift.”

“Ah, Mister Garibaldi, my good and dear friend, has anyone ever told you that you have a bad habit of sucking all the joy out of a room?”

“It’s in the job description. Now, do you need an escort back to your quarters, or do you think you can make it on your own?”

“I’m drunk, Mister Garibaldi, a state I’m quite familiar with, and one which I find a considerable improvement over cold sobriety. I have no doubt I can find my own way.”

“Alright then, goodnight, sleep tight, and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

Londo turned to go, then turned back, shaking his head. “Bah, earth humor. Perhaps, Mister Garibaldi, you should take your own advice. I suspect the absence of those pesky bedbug bites might leave you in a sweeter mood.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it if I were you.”


The End