'Crowley, please,' he says with a little grimace. Antonio really isn't him. A moment later, he turns his slightly oily smile back on. 'And that is why it's better to just drink straight from the bottle. No use trying to stand on ceremony at sea; should've seen all the nice white breeches the Navies of the world used to ruin with port, trying to dine like gentlemen.'

He spends a moment contemplating whether the name Chachacat rings a bell, before offering a laconic little shrug. 'Can't say that I do. But I don't spend much time Below these days. You're not Satanists, by any chance, are you?'

Not that everyone personally acquainted with a demon or two is necessarily a Satanist, but Crowley would like to know at what price this drink is coming. Satanists still irritate him on a fundamental level.