George swallows his third glass of wine, then raps his knuckles once again.

"One more, for the road."

His voice is slurred just a bit, and his deathly pale complexion is now ruddy from all the alcohol he has consumed.

The physician tells the bartender, "Did you know there's a culture far far away where the number 4 means death?"

"I heard about it in some seminar I attended at university. Very tiny people with black hair and almond eyes like elves, only human."

"Their mourning clothes are white, not black. Isn't that strange?"


The good doctor finishes his wine with a nostalgic sigh, then plinks coins on the bartop and moves towards the door. His tolerance must be fairly high, for he weaves only a little as he walks.