“Justice is a dish best served by an army of waiters over a number of courses, accompanied by complimentary wine. The courses are of course allegories for corrective beatings and the wine is just wine, we all need wine.”
He stared at Jacob expectantly.
“Oh, yes. Wine.” Jacob rummaged noisily in the trunk he had been sitting on.
“Take some time to think on that my boy. At risk of stretching the metaphor, enjoy the appetisers but make room, the first course won’t be far behind,” he scratched his nose and looked off thoughtfully. “Too much?”
“Yes sir,” Jacob replied, handing him a half filled glass of red wine.
“Well damn it all Jacob,” he sniffed at the glass curiously, “stop me next time.”
He stood in the musky twilight cellar and swirled the drink against the light, variously sniffing and sipping at it.
“Your taste isn’t the best, young Stipan, but I’ve seen much worse. Have our money by Friday or it’ll be a spot of the one-two for the first course.”
“Oh Dmitar’s Balls. Yes, yes. Goodbye Stipan,” he warmly but firmly slapped the trussed young man on the cheek and left the basement and its smell of blood and piss.