Clint considered the proposal for a moment, looking at the middle of the table and then trying to figure out the odds of how much something might actually get hit there. It was a hell of a lot higher than either of them actually scoring. A point. Scoring a point. Yeah, good.
"Alright," he agreed cheerfully, wandering off to raid the bar for a few beers and then a bottle of something stronger than all that. Whiskey. Never a bad choice, right? "You're on. Prepare to get shit faced with me, friendo."
The thing was, it was going to be fun. And Clint really couldn't think of anyone he'd rather be doing this with right now.