“Where, exactly, did you get a martini?” Coulson asked, rubbing his forehead with one hand.
“Bar, I guess. I don’t know, to be honest,” Tony said, not really concerned. “When you’re a Stark, martinis are, just, a naturally occurring substance. Like air. Or grass. You just look around and boom, martini.”
(Wharrrblegarble. My paint program froze up and this was my last saved point and I don’t wanna art anymore on this and and run on sentences.)