One drink, then off to bed.

After Harkum leaves, Michelle took a deep breath and sighed. By now, it is late in the evening and most of the patrons have left for home and for their beds. The few stragglers remaining are either asleep or softly speaking among each other, leaving Michelle mostly alone.

Strolling across floor, Michelle made her way to the throwing range. As she crossed the white line that marked where the competitors would throw their knives, the girl reached for the throwing board and lifted it off its catch in a complicated manuvere. Behind the wooden circle that made the scoring knifeboard, was a series of gears, levers, and belts designed to make the whole thing work.

The mechanism behind it was actually quite simple - just crank it up, flip a switch, and watch it spin - but it was in the minute details that the complexity hit home. Michelle spent many late nights tuning the machine, but the board would never spin cleanly and ended up bucking on a regular basis. Incidentally, this meant that she knew exactly where and when the 'kicks' would happen, and compensated for them perfectly. Michelle liked to think of it as the 'house advantage'.

The poor suckers were so distracted by the beauty in front of them that they never kept their eyes on the target. If they just looked long enough, they would realize the throwing board didn't spin right. And then it was all a matter of timing and following through. But no, they always tried to finish first and finish fast. How typical of men.

"One White Russian," A deep, baritone voice rumbled from behind her, "for the lady."

Turning away from the throwing board, Michelle found herself facing a wall of faded-white cotton draped over a barreled chest, belonging to the bartender. Much higher up, above the mountain of muscle, was the snow-capped peak; a well-trimmed, almost-white beard lining the square jaw of a handsome older man, with a beaming smile that shone as white as his shirt. In his raised hand was a small, polished tray carrying a single glass, filled with a creamy white liquid cocktail known as the White Russian.

Traditionally, the White Russian was made with three parts vodka, two parts coffee liqueur, and two parts milk. But to Michelle, it might as well have been made with seven parts Heaven.

"Thank you, Andrei." She smiled warmly and took the drink off the tray. "A taste of your little, snowy country, eh?" Michelle politely teased him as she sipped her drink, letting the cool **** trickle down her throat, warming her with every inch.

"You order the same drink every night, Michelle. And I tell you the same thing each night: The White Russian is not from Russia at all." Andrei spoke softly but his accented voice seemed to shake the air around him, "It just uses Russian ingredients and, back in '49, a Belgian decided that it was a catchy name."

The huge barman stared down at Michelle with tenderness, as if looking at his own daughter, and said "But I can see from the glazed look in your eyes that you're not listening anymore. And so I will return to my position and leave you to your thoughts." He gave a mock-bow to Michelle, winking at her as he righted himself, and turned back.

Watching Andrei lumber back behind the bar, Michelle couldn't help but be continually be surprised by the large man. Quick to smile and slow to anger, Andrei Rojenko was the owner and bartender at the establishment since Michelle first met him more than a year ago. Many a time has she been struck speechless by how quick and clever he was, deceived by his joviality and ponderousness.

Finishing her drink and replacing the scoring board, Michelle walked over and placed the empty glass on the bar, getting an appreciative nod from Andrei. With her nightly drink finished, Michelle strode through the parlor toward the stairs to her room, ready to retire for the night. She walked a little unsteadily though and accidentally trod on someone's foot.

"Watch your fucking step, woman!" A man in his early-thirties barked, shouldering his way past the lithe girl and almost knocking her off her feet. Michelle almost loset her balance and had to grab onto a nearby table for support. As she pushed herself upright, Michelle glared at the man who pushed her.

It was just Theodore, Andrei's adopted son. He was a scumbag and a troublemaker since he showed up at the bar, three months ago, but Andrei was not a man to turn away his son, even if he was lazy, rude, and did nothing but insult his father and everyone around him. And watching him saunter up to her throwing board, Michelle felt a fresh wave of rage for the man as she noticed him trying to open the machine to get at the levers and gears behind the wood.

"Go play with your own toys, Theodore." Michelle growled back at the upstart. "That one's mine."

"I do whatever I want, whenever I want." He snarled running his hand through his greasy, black mop of hair, but he walks away from the board and takes a seat at the bar.

Andrei glances at his adopted son and then to Michelle, giving her an apologetic gesture. She shook her head sympathetically and turned back to the staircase. But before climbing the steps, Michelle caught one last look at Theodore staring at the throwing board. Nothing seemed to happen though, as he made no move forward, and by the time her head hit her pillow, at the top floor where her room is, the young knifethrower thought nothing more of it.