Through her drunken stupor, Helen is pretty sure she's just been called a fascist. Enraged, she slowly stands up, coffee dripping over her torso and staining her skirt. Her eyes are fierce, even if they can't see beyond 15 feet. In a voice pulled from the depths of hell, she demands, "DID YOU JUST CALL ME A FASCIST?"
Gerald entered the bar, a soaking ferret close behind. "This really is too much, ambassadors. I expected civility, even if alcohol is in--what the hell are you doing?"
He stared confused at the German ambassador, who wasn't wearing much of anything and was taking great pains to augment her albedo via reflective fluids. "Well, then. I guess we've reached a new low." He then saw Helen drenched in coffee and staring furiously at one of the ambassadors. "Helen, what is going on?"
She turned around and promptly fell on the floor, having lost what little balance had kept her at equilibrium. "Oh dear," Gerald said, "drunk again are we?"
"Not my fault," said Helen miserably.




