So here goes.
Okay, so this narrator walks into a bar and orders a drink--whiskey, I think it was (Jamison's? probably, though it'll become alternating shots of Jaegermeister and rot-gut tequila later in the night, because some nights go that way, out of necessity)--and by the time the bartender turns away, half the whiskey has gone down in one long, slow, exquisite burn, and there's someone (a woman? a man? these things are hazy and fluid and the narrator's lips remember the flavor of both the smooth, soft skin of her neck and the rough stubble of his cheek, and these distinctions are, in the end, distinctions without a difference, and differences without meaning) sitting at the bar next to you; ((s)(he)) raises a glass, touches it to the narrator's, and says "To Fortune, and to Change," and then, with a smile that raises gooseflesh on the skin, a smile that rends the sky and lays cities to waste, a smile that catches the narrator's breath with jagged hooks of desire(fear?), a smile that ultimately leads to a breathless tangling of limbs atop the bar as the acrid mists spill from the broken skies and sirens wail and falter and die, "And to the beginning of a whole fucking new era."