You shouldn't give cats beer. Image by caffeinatedjedi via FlickrMax shuddered quietly beside the fireplace. He'd been released yesterday from what he called his "Korean Death Camp" (A title that was both inaccurate and offensive, as I tried to explain numerous times) and seemed to be taking the whole experience rather badly.
"I hate to ask, but I need some money."
I looked at Max over a pair of glasses I'd put on specially for the purpose of looking over.
"I need to fund my battle with alcoholism."
I nodded. I didn't think Max was an alcoholic. To be honest, I didn't think he drank much anyway. His zany antics were generally enough to get him barred from most pubs, clubs, supermarkets and petshops in town. Not that petshops sell much alcohol. Well, not person alcohol anyway. McGregor's Pets down by the McDonalds sells a special Cat Beer I think, but that's besides the point.
"Your 'battle with alcoholism'?"
"Ok." I replied. "But which side will you be funding?"
"You say it's a battle Max. You versus the alcohol. Which side will the money help?"
"Oh, the alcohol of course. I want to buy some beer."
I nodded. I'd guessed as much, truth be told. I didn't give Max any money. It's not that I actually think he has a drink problem, more the fact I just don't want to give him money.
I've already stocked up on Cat Beer anyway. And Parrot Gin. Tastes seedy.