Smoking had always been a part of his life. His mother had popped him out between two cigarettes and his father could rarely be seen without a cancer stick, often falling asleep on the couch with a lit cigarette. Cutter had stolen his first from his mom when he was twelve, a fairly late start into the world of addiction considering his surroundings. And even after his injury he had found himself unable to quit, the first thing he did after leaving the hospital was buying a pack of smokes before making a few calls.
"Drink sounds just perfect. We'll see how far we get before one of us is ready to give up." Which would be interesting since they both were stubborn, Cutter really didn't like giving up with anything.
The question caught him off guard and he really had no idea what to say at first. It wasn't bad, considering the fact that he had been stabbed, but it probably could have been better. After all those pricks at the hospital had assumed that he would get back in shape if he managed to tone it down somewhat. No diving, which wasn't a problem for him, no sports - which was harder, since they had a zombie apocalypse at hand and running, climbing and the likes were pretty much part of a daily routine - and they told him to quit smoking and drinking, which in return had him ask if they wanted him to stop living. "I'm still breathin'. Could be worse."