*Dexter sat at the the bar of the South Wall corner club, gulping down glass after glass of Mazte. Two days had gone by since his father's funeral. His death has affected Dexter in ways unimaginable. Joy had been replaced by sorrow, compassion had been replaced by hate. Not even the rays of the sun would warm his body any more. The only comfort he could find was in the bottom of a glass and the occasional embrace of the local prostitutes.*
"Hey, Bacola. Hit me up with another one."
*Bacola Closcius, the publican at the South Wall Cornerclub poured Dexter yet another glass of newly brewed Mazte. A few seconds later this glass was empty as well.*