Libertionne. Anna Tishchenko

      Tiberius opened the menu. It had a retro look, leather-bound on thick, textured paper. The first page provided information that was succinct and easy to understand: “Narcotics.” This was followed by a long list, including terms that Tiberius knew, like “cocaine’, “hashish’, and so forth, as well as the mysterious “Kiss of the Geisha’, “Anjelica, kidnapped by pirates’. A professional consultant was needed.

      “Paul,” Tiberius said, showing Moopechka the menu, “what is this?”

      “This, my little dearie, is a cocktail of narcotics. For example, ‘Cinderella’s Slipper’ is a combination of amphetamines and acid.”

      “Then they forgot to write, ‘For use near a cemetery’.”

      “No, silly. It’s like with alcohol – everything is synthetic. It’s completely safe, non-addictive, and the effect lasts about fifteen minutes. Eh, if they weren’t so expensive…” Moopechka rolled his eyes dreamily… “I would go from one of these wonderful things to another all day.”

      “Well, it makes sense,” thought Tiberius. “You could say, with care and concern for society. After all, each of us has his own narcotic.” He remembered a neighbor, a gamer, who lived across the wall. Tiberius saw him only once, when he moved into his new apartment, and it seemed like he had never left the place even once. Pale, skinny, he greeted Tiberius, who had returned from his morning run, so timidly and quietly that the latter had to guess what he was saying. This inhabitant of a virtual world ordered food from a delivery service; where he got his money from, one could only surmise. But there, in his magical, mysterious land, he was probably working miracles, flying on dragons or whatever else they do there. The walls in modern apartments were so thin, clearly for easier spying on those who were so indifferent to the fate of humanity, like Mister Stern. And until Tiberius completed a thorough soundproofing, he heard practically all the neighbors – to the right, below and above – except for him. Only occasionally in awhile did the door open, to let in a delivery, and the sound of bare feet treading to the bathroom and back. Oh great Internet, you opened an entire world for humankind, locking him into his own four walls!

      There were a few more pages of synthetic alcohol with the constant promotional message about how safe – “light, fast-disappearing effect’, healthy – “contains vitamin additives’, and fashionable – “Catch the wave! Turn on to the world of bright experiences.” A black sheep at the end of the colorful list indicated a couple of brands of “real Scotch whiskey’ (bearing in mind that Scotland had long sing passed away), a dubious wine and five lines of fine print with a frightening warning: “Alcohol is contraindicated for those with even the slightest health problems, people working at enterprises, office workers, children under the age of twenty-one’ etc. etc. At the bottom was a vignette in the form of a beautiful funeral wreath. “They could have written right away ‘contraindicated for everyone’, ” Tiberius thought, amused. Flipping through half of this hefty volume, he looked through the food options and made his choice, something called the pinnacle of French cuisine, but in reality was a slightly flame-seared piece of decent filet steak. Under the section “Chef’s choice” he found the eponymously named house specialty of the Gnarly Duck club. Tiberius with all his heart that the duck met a violent death. While the general public took a whole hour selecting the wine, with Moopechka especially ranting and raving, and decisively tiring everyone out with his comparisons of wine bouquets and aftertastes (and this after hearing in detail how they were made), Tiberius quietly slipped away toward the bar. The end of an entertaining and informative evening of socializing was drawing near, as was the trip home. He wouldn’t be able to get rid of Paul, of course, and he would probably spend the night. He had to mentally prepare himself.

      “Whiskey. Bowmore.”

      “Oh, of course. Ice, club soda?” smiled the young bartender, effeminately stretching toward the sparkling, mirrored shelf where pot-bellied bottles stood, their amber sides gleaming.

      “No, the real thing.”

      The smile instantly faded, the young man’s face stretched, and he looked at the strange client with genuine surprise.

      “But… why? Have something normal, modern. A light, quickly-passing effect.”

      “Today I’m afraid I need something heavy and long-lasting,” Tiberius chuckled.

      “In that case… May I?”

      “Of course,” Tiberius smiled, extending his hand, patiently waiting while the bartender checked his documents, record of convictions, medical restrictions and insurance coverage.

      “You’re new, aren’t you?” asked Tiberius, staring point-blank at the bartender with his impenetrable black eyes. “And I’m you’re first?”

      “No…” the youth mumbled, blushing, but then, suddenly understanding the meaning of the question, became even more embarrassed and red-faced. “I mean, yes, I’ve been working here one month, and so far no one has asked for real whiskey.”

      Hoping to smooth over the awkward situation, he quickly and obsequiously asked, “How much? A single, a double?”

      Tiberius threw a casual glance in the direction of their table. Colin was explaining something to Moopechka, seriously and intently, and the latter, his eyes bulging with zeal, for some reason trying to stuff a huge banana into his mouth. Whole. Unfortunately for Tiberius, with the heavy stare, the whole group turned toward him. Moopechka, with a banana in his mouth, waved at him with both hands. Melissa, pointing at Moopechka, made a heart shape with her fingers; Colin broke out into a sugary sweet smile. Tiberius swallowed.

      “The whole bottle, please.”

      Tiberius gulped down the first drink, and an invigorating warmth spread throughout his chest, his taut nerves relaxed a bit. He sat down, talked some more with the bartender, and turned his back to the stark reality in the shape of Moopechka and friends, and five minutes went by peacefully and pleasantly. However, as a certain romantic poet put it, nothing under the moon lasts forever. Someone’s hand playfully touched his hip, and Tiberius woke from his sweet reverie of peace and solitude.

      “Tibby. Colin and I were discussing the problems of our private life,” Moopechka reported in a low voice.

      “Your and his?” Tiberius carefully asked with a certain hope.

      “No, of course. Yours and mine. It’s time for us to try something new.”

      “What?”

      “Well, I mean role-plays. Like all normal couples. For example, a little sadomasochism would really liven up our sex life. I have some cute little handcuffs and a whip, and quite a few marvellous toys.”

      Tiberius’s imagined painted an enticing scene – Moopechka, tightly handcuffed to the bed, with a mouth gag (so the indignance would be silent), and he himself would calmly work in peace and quiet all evening. “Hey, great idea.”

      Moopechka stuck his nose into Tiberius’s glass, and recoiled.

      “You’re drinking real whiskey again? What is this… every time we