It used to be just a lame cliché. Another pile of crap that his mother spewed on a daily basis. Two-peas-in-a-pod kind of crap. Like biscuits and butter. Mutt and Jeff, Frick and Frack, Thing One and Thing Two. Her bullshit knew no bounds. But partners in crime came true. After their stint in juvie, they graduated from grab-and-run shoplifting and palming shitty Wal-Mart jewelry to pawn for chump change to drug deals in dark alleys, liquor store hold ups, and snatching purses from stupid bitches who just sling their bags over their shoulders. Easy pickings — one slice of a sharp knife through the strap and those bags were gone before the dumb broads knew what hit ‘em. Todd tapped Nick’s shoulder and handed the joint back. Nick always got the last hit. He sucked smoke through the tiny nub until he was getting nothing but air, opened the alligator clip, and tossed the bit of rolling paper that remained to the alley floor. He pocketed the clip and surveyed the pedestrians who paraded past on the darkened sidewalk.
