“Damn it!” Lon slurred, tilting the bottle upside down. “We’re all out.” Some of the absinthe splashed from his glass to his neckcloth, leaving unseemly green splotches on the white linen. Ricard laughed, dealing another hand as he spoke. “I do think you’ve had quite enough anyway, old friend.” Lon ignored him, raising his glass to his lips and further sloshing out more green liquid. “Did anyone bring any more? Where are we going to find any in this hell hole? Merde, they probably make their own grog in bathtubs. Liquor from pommes de terre.” I picked up my fresh cards and replied, “It’s not so bad here, Lon. Have you seen the…