Selkie Peak, Sunday Evening, Philosophy and Boone's Farm

[onapalebicycle]

George had known she couldn't stay here forever, as much as some part of her wanted to. It was like she'd told Rube; being her almost made her feel like she wasn't dead.

But she was dead, and she had obligations, and there was a plane ticket with her name on it. She couldn't bitch too much. Life wasn't fair, and death wasn't fair. That was all

Comments

[apocalipped]

"You need to make extra certain to really pronounce the 'kweh' sound," Jono decided, reaching into the bag and pulling out the package of red plastic beer cups that he'd ordered along with the wine. He considered them for a moment, and then shrugged and stuck them back into the bag. Why bother? They had the bottles right there, and it wasn't like either of them was diseased. She wasn't going to catch the dreaded mutant from him, and he wasn't terribly likely to catch the dead in turn. "That's how you know it's going to really 'kwench' your thirst. Even if it is likely to taste like cow droppings."

It tasted like country. It made perfect sense.

[onapalebicycle]

"Technically, they're not promising to quench anything," George reasoned. "They misspelled it so they're not on the hook. It doesn't have to taste like anything, it doesn't have to quench anything, it just has to have alcohol in it."

Which was what they were looking for, wasn't it?

She unscrewed the bottle cap -- all class -- and held the Kwencher aloft, to clink with whatever bottle he selected.

"Bottoms up?"

One hell of a toast, there, George.

[apocalipped]

"Bottoms up," Jono replied, reaching for whatever happened to be closest to his hand. Fuzzy Navel, and he was going to even take a moment to be amused by that before uncapping his own bottle and clinking it against George's. "And with any luck, this won't end up being complete rotgut."

Not that he seemed particularly concerned about that as he upended the bottle and took a decent-sized swig.

[onapalebicycle]

It tasted ... it tasted like nail polish. No, it smelled like nail polish. It tasted like fruit punch, but not good fruit punch. Like the really cheap kind of fruit punch, the kind that was green and nobody wanted to drink, and they had watered that shit down and then poured some straight alcohol in there to fill in the volume. But not enough to make it any good at getting you hammered in a hurry, at least, not with a Reaper's tolerance, anyway. Vaguely sweet, vaguely fruity, a little burn. Not even interesting enough to be complete rotgut the way drinking straight tequila was.

"I'd vote a no on kwenching," she announced, staring at the bottle with a frown. "But I'd say we did good on finding crappy wine. How's your fuzzy navel? By the way, is that a navel orange or, like, is your navel going to sprout fur?"

She'd still hang out with him. Just FYI, Jono.