Whiskey. Whiskey was good. She could do whiskey. Had she ever had whiskey? George had never been a drinker while she was alive, being only eighteen, and put-off by the social interactions required in places where eighteen year olds gained access to alcohol. After death, however, was a different story.
Amidst Mason, Daisy, and Death, alcohol was always avaiable in the house (that Mason had stolen), and the bars where people routinely kicked it. Daisy had gotten a Spontaneous Combustion reap in a bar, and George would have been lying if she said she didn't smell the ghost of Human Barbeque every time she walked into one.
"Cheers." George replied, considering making the liquor last her a while. A quick glance at her post-it reminded her that time was nobody's luxury, let alone hers, and drank the whiskey down with the enthusiastic disreguard of someone without a liver to worry about(Not that George didn't have a liver, since she was fairly certain she still did. It was an Undead Liver, and therefore laughed in the face of substances such as alcohol and--if Mason was any indication--pain thinner.)
She pulled a face at the taste when she was finished. That had actually been quite disgusting. A minute was needed to sort out her features into something less wrinkly before she could address the hard-drinking man again. "You wouldn't happen to be a Mr. R. Erikson, would you?" She asked, doing her best to imitate Daisy's 'genuinely interested' tone, and coming up several sentiments short.