The old gunslinger pulled out a flask, took a swig, and then offered it to me.
“Shot of liquid courage?” he coughed.
“No thanks, I don’t drink,” I said.
“It’s not whiskey,” said the gunslinger. “It’s liquid courage. Made by a wizard who lives out in the hills.”
I took the flask, held it to my nose, and…
It didn’t smell like alcohol.
It smelled like… well, it’s hard to describe…
It smelled like courage.
Chest-puffed out, none of the stink of fear kind.
I didn’t drink any, though.
I mean, his lips had been on the flask.
Bleeeeeeeeeeech! Disgusting!