Smoque ‘Em If You Gotta

Nose-vacuum rails off the rainbow bend of the brass bathroom fixture. Filch that third martini. Dribble vodka on the banquette. Liquor drops like Mercury, a prismatic droplet universe refracts the oxblood leather.

What if I put that up my nose too?

30,000 feet baby! Basking in narcotics and liquor or the nuclear glow of a market hedge gone hockey stick in value. Or maybe it’s just the inner toddler stoked by the unlimited expense account. There will be Pétrus tonight!

The soccer mom in the bodycon is taking 32 bathroom mirror selfies inhaling the residue of Bolivian soil.

The pupils of the barely extant mythological beast known as the pit trader dilate as the blue cheese whiff of acceptable meat rot assaults his nostrils.

Your station may determine your spend, but in a steakhouse, no matter who you are, your appetites will be grand. And they will be met sociopathically, sycophantically, and empathetically, with a particular form of BDSM known as hospitality.