He moved to the bar, elbowed in and ordered a Bitter Root beer—in a bottle.
Dobie squeezed beside him, punched him in the arm. “Why do you wanna drink that foreign shit?”
“Brewed in Montana.” He passed the bottle to Dobie, ordered another.
“Pretty good beer,” Dobie decided after a pull. “But it ain’t no Budweiser.”
“You’re not wrong.” Amused, Gull tapped his bottle to Dobie’s, drank.
“Beer. The answer to so many questions.”
Chasing Fire
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By Benreis - Own work, CC BY 3.0,
https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=22785086
500 beers for those hot summer days ahead.
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He'd have killed for a beer. A big, frosty mug filled with some dark import that
would go down smoother than a woman's first kiss. A beer in some nice, dim, cool
bar, with a ball game on the tube and a few other stool-sitters who had an
interest in the game gathered around.
Captive Star