“Excellent,” he says. “Here it is. Famous hot celebrities. If either of us disagrees with the other person’s choice, then the person who made the bad call drinks. No pauses allowed. You have to give a name instantly. Delay means drink.”

“Dead or alive?”

“What?”

“The celebrities,” I say. “Can we choose dead ones?”

He thinks about that for a moment. “Yeah, I don’t care.”

“Deal. I like it. You first.”

Tank hits his cigarette. “Scarlett Johansson.”

“Great opener,” I say. “Linds—”

“Drink,” he says, cutting me off and passing me the bottle.

“Why?”

“That was a two-word delay. Thanks for the compliment, though.” He laughs. “Drink, fool.”

I hoist the bottle, raise it to my mouth, and take a healthy swallow—which is followed by a long wheezing sound. My eyes water from the alcohol burn, and the bourbon feels like lava as it flows into my stomach.

I exhale deeply.

“There,” I say. “Got the first one out of the way.” I cough. “It’s like the devil torched my throat.”

“Give a name or drink again.”

“Lindsay Lohan. Have you seen her lately? She’s—”

“Shut up,” Tank says. “No commentary. The Olsen twins.”

“Beyoncé.”

“Shakira.”

“Emma Watson.”

“Who’s she?” he asks, squinting.

“The girl who plays Hermione. She’s hot now.”

“Oh,” Tank says, thinking. “Yeah. She did get hot.”

“Drink.” I pass him the bottle.

Tank laughs. He takes a gulp and hardly makes a sound, just a smooth exhale followed by a hit on his cigarette.

“All Maxim models,” he says.

“Miley Cyrus.”

“Drink!” Tank hands me the bottle. “Oh my God. Drink twice!”

“Dude, she’s totally hot!”

“Sorry, bro,” he says. “She’ll always be innocent little Hannah Montana to me.”

“Fine.”

I take two generous swigs and feel the bourbon reversing its course in my stomach, but I have no intentions of puking in front of my best friend. I swallow hard to keep the booze and bile down.

“Jimmy Fallon,” Tank says, laughing.

“Drink.” I roll my eyes and pass him the bottle. “I see where this is headed.”

“So join in.” Tank takes a mammoth drink.

“Okay,” I say. “Oprah.”

Tank laughs so hard that he spits a mouthful of Jim Beam all over himself. Still laughing, he offers me the bottle. I grab it and drink. It goes down easy this time. My throat, esophagus, and stomach seem numb to the sting and burn.

We stub out our cigarettes and share the rest of the bottle in silence, draining it quickly. Typical for us. Then we hear a train horn in the distance. Judging from the volume, the engine will pass in about five minutes.

“Another smoke?” Tank says.

“Yeah.”

He puts two between his lips, lights them both and hands me one.

“Buzzed?” he asks. “If not, we could always go to Huey’s and wait for a buyer.”