“How do you feel?”
“Like I've been blown by Royce Gracie” Harold winced. “Thrown. Thrown by Royce Gracie.” He cradled his head and rested his elbows on the kitchen table. “Never again.”
“That's what you said last year.” Jasfoup filled the kettle from, Harold could only assume from the noise, the Niagara Falls in his kitchen. The hissing of the kettle sounded like gravel being dropped on a corrugated iron roof.
“And I meant it. How was I to know that old bloke would be mixing the drinks? Who would have thought to put saltpetre in the Martinis?”
“That's an alchemist for you. They can't stop tinkering.”
“I thought alchemy went out with the fifteenth century.” Harold gestured to the cupboard over the kettle. “Hand me the effervescent salts, would you?”
Jasfoup opened the cupboard. “Alka-Seltzer?”
“Them's the fellows/” Harold held up his glass of water. “Alka me.”