Jaxom is burdened with the mental image of himself, old and decrepit, whacking youngsters with his cane. He groans out loud. "Fuck that, I never want to look that old. Sweet alcohol poisoning, take me away." Not that it's physically possible for him to get that drunk; gene therapy is a marvelous thing. But he can have fun trying, right?

He takes another long pull at the hypervodka, thinking. "So why are you still hanging around an old geezer like me in the future, anyway? ...oh God, don't tell me we got married or something."