"You're not the only one. But you know what they say... Opinions are like assholes." Fisher simply could not resist. "Oh, so you're king of opinions, too?" he jibed. Well, maybe he would get a black eye tonight. Certainly wouldn't be the worst date he'd ever been on. (Hold on there, little boy! Who said anything about a date? Just because he paid for the alcohol doesn't mean he's trying to seduce you.) Fisher laughed at his own thoughts. Of course it wasn't a date, and of course he wasn't being seduced. And dear God what a horrid thought that was to begin with.
"That's true," Fisher admitted to James' stereotypical drunken tirade. "I sure as hell don't know shit about you. I simply can't figure you out. Gimme that," he added, taking the bottle from James' weak grasp and drinking three large gulps. God, it was awful. It burned and stung the entire way down, as though it was fighting every inch. He shuddere, then handed the scotch back. "I suppose if you're gonna drink until you die, I can't stop you." But he couldn't leave him there to rot, could he? Could he?Why the hell not? Because he, Fisher, had been there before. Maybe if someone had cared enough to take care of him, or at least try, things might have been different. Or at the very least, he'd have less liver damage.
"I can't stop you," he repeated, "but I guess I can make sure you get home safely." He slid his shotglass in front of James, indicating that he should pour him another.