Brent held up a bottle against the light revealing a fat whitish worm at the bottom.
“Here we have a traditionally brewed mescal from the state of Jalisco, Mexico. Workers hand gather the larvae of a maguey moth for each bottle.”
He poured hefty shots into two glasses, handing one to Barney Trujillo. The city council member took a sip, grimaced, launched his torso forward coughing. Everyone laughed.
“This Santa Fe style Versailles crap is turning my stomach,” said Carter, “and that’s hard to do.”
“Agreed,” said Minoa.
“For contrast, here is a double-distilled one-hundred percent scorpion mescal.” Brent held up a squat round bottle of amber liquid. At the bottom curled the tail of a scorpion. “The venom is not poisonous when ingested. You can even eat the scorpion for an extra burst of protein.”
Minoa stared. “Looking at that is making me flash back to some scary moments in the Ecuadorian rainforest.”
Trujillo waved his hands back and forth. “Find yourself another victim, Brent. I’ve had enough.”
Brent downed the scorpion mescal in one long draught. Set down the glass with a cough.
“That has a bite to it. Robust, high proof, invigorating. Only for caballeros with hoo-eh-voze. It’s better than a shot of testosterone. Real hombres should try it.”
Minoa saw Findley Malbore moving to the front of the room. He accepted a glass from Brent, then watched with a half-smile as Brent guzzled another long draught.
“I can’t believe he drummed up another aristocratic guinea pig,” said Carter.
Brent set the glass down, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, paused. Suddenly a shudder convulsed his body. Was he suppressing the urge to vomit? People looked every which way, embarrassed for their host. When he straightened up everyone sucked thin desert air and stared. Threads of blood trickled out of both nostrils.
Eldon ducked around Minoa and hurried to his side. “Brent, you’ve got a nosebleed.”
Brent grabbed a handful of cocktail napkins, held them to his nose. When he pulled them away to peer at the red stain, burgundy rivulets shot out of both nostrils, running over his mouth, down his chin.
“Maybe you should lie down for a minute.”
Brent looked at him like a puzzled child, then groaned and folded over.
“Brent, are you okay?” Eldon patted his back. “Maybe you should lay off the poison potions.”
Brent struggled to straighten up. An enraged expression passed across his face. He tried to smile but one corner of his mouth didn’t cooperate. Rearing back his head his mouth gaped open, then tipped forward to pour a torrent of blood onto his glacial linen shirt as he slumped to the floor.