A good day to fight a good day to die.

She always hated the whiskey trader. He was a heavyset man with a large beard, who seemed to constantly reek of something a strange unpleasant odor she could never quite define. But mostly she hated the dark liquid that he pushed upon her people, that had turned half of her village into wife beaters, and thieves who would sell their firstborn for a taste of that vile liquid. It had turned her father in the space of a few years into a proud warrior and provider, loving father, and husband into something else. A vacant, decaying, husk of a human being. She saw him now passed out in the small room of they're small cabin the bottle half-full on the table beside the bed. She wanted to pour it out, to grab the rifle that hung on the wall and walk out into the village and shoot the whiskey trader dead. She knew this was a sentiment shared by more then a few in the village. She had poured it out before but her father had beaten her mercilessly for it. She had to constantly remind herself that this was not the same man who had reared her. Who had taught her how to live and be a good person in the world, who had comforted her when she was scared, when she felt helpless and in despair. She watched the whiskey trader from outside her window now, he was bargaining with an old man who was attempting to barter a belt or something for a bottle. He would demure at first, but eventually he would give the old man what he wanted. The whiskey trader seemed bound and determined to ensure death and ruin to her people, to sow the seeds of destruction for all of them. A few of the old men of the village had attempted to warn against this vice but their pleas had gone unheeded, unheard, except for a few. It would consume them all, there was no hope.