"Being forced to tell the truth, eldritch abominations at the door, pissy time machines lighting you on fire -- just the usual." Peter gestures nonchalantly with his half-empty cup at the room around them. "Maybe, maybe this is one of the nice ones, but I wouldn't hold your breath."

He thinks of the hip flask still in his pocket...and thinks of this asshole hitting him with his cane. "You find some, you tell me about it," he says, taking a sip of his own substantially more alcoholic punch.