He had me trapped, leg mangled, arm broken, chest impaled.
He reloaded his gun, calmly, as he stared at me, then pulled a hip flask from his pocket and flicked the cap off. He took a swig and then knelt down in front of me.
"You fought well. Last drink?"
I laughed, spitting up some blood.
"I always swore off it, after it killed my father. But sure."
He poured some into my mouth, before my squad arrived and saved me.
The fact i developed a drinking problem was due to the many injuries, not that one drink, I swear.
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