"Oh my god!" she groaned the next morning, rolling off the bed with a thump, and run-crawled to the bathroom. She got the lid of the toilet open just in time to discover that vodka is not nearly as smooth coming back up as it is going down.

"Burns, does it, malysh?" said a darkly amused voice from the doorway.

"Fuck you and your ‘molysh' bullshit," she replied between bouts of nausea. "I'll give you a pet name that'll make even your goddamned mafia ears ...