They say revenge is a dish best served cold. This isn__ correct. Revenge is a dish best served lukewarm or at room temperature (depending on the room) with a side of sauerkraut lightly sprinkled with pepper, a generous helping of golden brown roasted potatoes, and a large loaf of marble rye, washed down with any kind of unfiltered wheat beer.But whatever you do__nd remember this, as it can be a matter of life or death__on__ put any sort of fruit in the beer. Fruit doesn__ belong in beer.

Together, they read on his papers a survey of the most common words found in suicide notes and mass murder letters. Shame had come up over fifty times. Anger, thirty times. Corona, once. Heineken, once. Beer, thrice. On the next page, an advertisement by the National Health Board with the message __nable to cry? Call us now.

My professional life had started and here I was at a professional dinner full of uninhibited drinking.

Driving down deserted early morning roads. Round and round. Round downtown. Through naked streets. Lips pursed on two litre bottles of beer, but pursuing the lips of freedom's night. Swapping cars. Winding up at karaoke bars or Bolsi- the best place in town. For the food. For the folk. For the service. For the crema de papaya. And for that late night dawn's whiskey coffee.

Bburke used to, whenever he went to the city to catch a Yankees game, throw his money around to every homeless man on the street, feeling it was the right thing to do; except one time he did that and he got to the stadium and realized he didn__ have enough money for the Bud Light tall boy he always got during the third inning. And in him he felt an unyielding rise of contempt for the himself of only hours ago, that he was something and now is something and that they aren__ the same somethings. But that the change was Barmecidal and it was just him, this moneyless and beerless man in the bleachers. Man made in God__ image, yet some men are homeless and some are beerless, and there must be this big bearded guy miles and miles in the sky who doesn__ have a home and can__ even catch a buzz.

Gareth Miller grabbed the beer first, then the hotdog, because if there__ one thing you don__ want to be caught dead without at these sorts of events it__ beer. The hotdog was strictly for show, a prop, a way of blending in.Burst of static in his right ear: __-man, you read me? What__ yo_ twenty, dawg?__areth departed the concession stand, stopped, looked down at his hands, and tossed the hotdog into the first trash receptacle he saw. Raising his wrist to his mouth, he spoke into the cuff of his long-sleeved tee. __oncession stand, Section B. Over.__llowing his hand to linger by his chin, he gingerly scratched his cheek as if he had meant to do it all along. The same voice: __o, I__ in position. Ready when you is.__areth cringed while crossing the wide concourse, checking both directions. The giant hallway was the main drag of a ghost town, its only residents a solitary custodian sweeping debris into a portable waste bin and the concession crew to his rear.