Everett didn’t know if it was the 7 shots that made him do it, but all the same, he upended the uncorked bottle of whiskey and placed it back onto the statue’s waiting paws. The glass settled in with a clink, open top resting against the dragon’s fangs. Maybe if he hadn’t been seeing the world through an alcoholic haze, or maybe if the lights had been just a bit brighter. Maybe if the stars had aligned, he’d have seen the whiskey not running out onto the counter into a mess. Rather, he’d have seen the amber liquid running down into the dragon’s gullet. Soaking into the old fired pewter.
As the bottle poured it’s last, a gleam could almost be seen in the dragon’s eye. If Everett had been more lucid, he’d even have seen the dragon’s cheeks take on a rosey hue, and maybe, just maybe, he’d have heard the sound of a chortle. And then, if Everett hadn’t finally passed out, he’d have heard the crinkling of soft metal, followed by words not quite spoken.
“Well hot damn! Now that’ll put a fire in your bones!”