I tell Critter, and he grins at me with his gnarly chipped tooth and passes me the 40. “Shut the fuck up, man,” he says, but I know he knows it’s true. We’re the toughest motherfuckers in this silicone Babylon, and when all the yuppies finally melt down in their PT Cruisers, soft as wadded-up tissues and just as fuckin’ flammable, we’ll still be here to live off their burnt-up waste. We already know how. He’s always busting my balls when I talk about the way it’s all laid out, what’s coming down, but I don’t give a shit. We’re on the same page. Like: here we are spare-changing up on Hollywood by the Ripley’s museum and the parasites have been passing us by for three hours with their “get-a-job” fat tourist shit, and I know Critter hasn’t eaten in more than half a day but he gets up to take a piss and comes back with a Dumpstered slice of pepperoni, all intact, no mold, and hands it over to me. I’d tell him thanks but he already knows so I just say “You fucker”
