The room was a shrine to death. The walls were adorned with various animals, pictures of successful hunts, et cetera. Michael raised an eyebrow, “Oh, wow. So, uh, you like to hunt, huh?”
“Most honest profession there is,” Mr. Thomas shot back, without turning to Michael. Mr. Thomas eventually settled down into his (definitely real) leather chair and beckoned to Michael with a soft wave.
“Come, sit,” He instructed. Michael just nodded and sat on the only other available seat-- a footstool-- just adjacent the chair.
“Do you drink? Don’t answer that. Of course you don’t drink,” Mr. Thomas eyed the obviously uncomfortable Michael for a moment and smirked.
“Have a drink.”
“No, I’m okay.”
“I insist,” Mr. Thomas said, popping out his chair. He headed toward the other side of the room and behind a cavernous bar. He ran his hand across the old oak bar, like he was sliding his hand down a woman’s back.
“Really, Mr. Thomas, I don’t want anything.”
“Nonsense,” the man said. He turned away toward the endless bottles on the wall and carefully ran his finger over multiple bottles before snatching an old scotch. “You’re a man, right?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re a man. You’re 18. You can die for your country, so you can have a drink. Come over here,” he commanded.
Michael meekly made his way over to the bar and sat on one of the stools-- was it zebra?
“That’s genuine zebra fur right there.”
“Oh, well, they’re very nice,” Michael smiled.
The man pulled two glasses from under the bar and smacked them on the oak, “They’re horseshit is what they,” He said, pouring the scotch. “Cost me two thousand bucks,” he murmured.
Mr. Thomas slid one glass toward Michael.
“Drink.”
The man weakly clinked Michael’s glass and just as quickly as it was poured it was gone.
“Smooth going down, but it gets ya right there at the end,” he said. “A lot like my first marriage.” Michael smiled again.
Michael put his nose to the glass and took a whiff. He began coughing, which caused the man to start to laugh. “Easy there, son. You’re supposed to drink it, not inhale it.”
Michael, reeling from the scotch decided to end it quickly. He held the glass to his lips, tipped it back, and gulped.
Michael could barely hear Mr. Thomas clapped over the searing heat in his head.
“Now that we’ve loosened up a bit,” the man said. “Let’s get down to business.” Mr. Thomas slapped both hands down on the old oak bar and smiled.
“Why should I let you date my daughter?”
