Antivenom I tend to them, moving through the flat swallow-swift, clinking with each vodka Irn-Bru, cylindrical fires, hiss-fizz and evaporate sedated by the tin-itch of spirits. Smirnoff - nane ae that foreign stuff - my aunts sit wide-legged in leather thrones, they tell me when I haven't got it right - too much ice calms its bite - too much juice foams the gullet - and too much vodka prompts wraiths to rave in the vapours. Just before the singing begins my uncle tsks and knocks back his beer, saying: Ye canny kill yersel wae thi hing thit cures ye.
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