Gula
"Hello Sir. Isn't our Miss Trinket a fine piece of ass?"
Effie turns red through a combination of embarrassment and anger as Haymitch drapes a heavy arm around her shoulders. He's roaring drunk, swaying dangerously against her. She feels light headed just from the radiating fumes.
The sponsor, so eager to speak to her five minutes ago, shifts nervously.
"Are you going to give Twelve money then?" Haymitch's smile is predatory; the businessman backs away.
"How much have you drank?"
"Two... three?" He turns away slightly to vomit on the carpet beside her feet. "Bottles, that is..."