The smell of whiskey on your breath. Your cold hands as they slide across the bare skin. The burns from the light cigarettes that have been stolen only to make the pain of your hand go away. The feeling of hatred and the burning of your rather as you rule over this land you call your home as a cruel and mighty tyrant what will it take for you to stop the whiskey. If I may as for a favor, can you at least warm you bare hands before they hit the skin.
