section7mfu | Snapshots~ " Up the creek, so to speak" (Reply)

They were in trouble, with not enough money in their pockets and no guns or communicators. They needed to get cash and get out of town, whether that was by land or by sea, it didn’t matter, though the Russian did prefer land...

The UNCLE agents were seated in a seedy bar in Veracruz, off the Gulf of Mexico and watched two other men sitting at a table, staring each other down as shot glasses filled with liquor were set up in front of them.

It was a good old fashioned drinking contest. There lots of money to be had by the winner and Napoleon came up with the brilliant plan that his partner, being the tough Russian drinker that he was, should try his hand at the challenge and earn them the cash they needed.

“Fine, I will do it, but I cannot not guarantee what will happen. We have not eaten in a few days and I may not get my usual results when trying to drink someone under the table. Keep in mind he is a local and is drinking...”

“You have a better shot at than I do chum, but if you can come up with a different idea, then I’m game,” Napoleon cut him off.

Illya shrugged his answer, not having a clue as to what else to do.

Soon the table was cleared for the next match and the glasses were poured, with everyone in the bar except Napoleon betting against the ‘gringo’.

“This is going to be good,” Solo confidently snickered to himself.

Illya downed his first shot, making a strange face as he swallowed his drink, then the challenger drank his. The two men continued back and forth, turning their empty glasses bottoms up on the coarse wooden table and picking up their next drink.

Napoleon counted them, well over a dozen already. “You okay there?’

Illya sat as stiff as a mannequin, staring glassy-eyed while his opponent swayed. Everyone in the room moaned, fearing the favorite might pass out.

One more drink...Kuryakin slowly hefted the glass in his hand, stopping suddenly as he keeled over; his head hitting the table with a dull thud, to the cheers of the crowd.

The other man swallowed one more drink before he too passed out, but still, he was one shot ahead and declared the winner.

“Aw crap, Illya what’d you do to us?” Napoleon groaned.

He helped his partner stagger to his feet, holding him tight about the waist. They headed out of the cantina and into the street. Napoleon for once had no idea what they were going to do, as he’d lost the last of their money betting on his friend.

”I thought you Russians could hold your vodka?”

“Wodka?” Illya slurred, his accent becoming unusually thick, “Dot was teh-quila...you bolvan, ”he hiccuped and passed out again, dead weight in his partner’s arms.