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I rode into Carson City with a pocketful of silver. I was powerful thirsty. The saloon looked as good a place as any to whet my whistle, and seeing as I was also powerful hungry and I reckoned I could buy a slice of meat pie which the chalkboard outside so greatly ballyhooed.
“What ya got fer whiskey, pardner?”
The barkeep put his fancy city dentures in all spry. “We got nine varieties of single malt Scotch, but I don’t suppose you can afford any of those. We also have this bottle of piss, which might better match your station.”
I took the opportune to set my sack of silver on the bar. “I’ll take a single malt, thank you kindly.”
The barkeep poured out a little glass, tossed my sack of silver on a scale, and took all but one coin.
“Now you wait a cotton pickin’ minute! That was fourteen ounces of silver, pardner.” I took a pull of the whiskey. It tasted like piss.
“That’s what single malt piss costs.”
“You said it was Scotch!”
“I meant piss.”
Now I didn’t even have enough for a slice of meat pie! I held up my last coin. “How many malted piss can I get for this?”
Date Written: January 15, 2004
Author: Ewan Snow
Average Vote: 3.3333