The Spoils of the Trade
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"We've hit a new low," Howard says as he scoops a quarter of the tiny can of cat food onto his dirty plate. He pushes the remaining seventy-five percent onto Orc's plate – Orc's fingers are too big and clumsy to just let him eat it right out of the can.
"Rock bottom," Orc says. "How much did you trade for this?"
Howard looks quizzically at Orc, unable to tell if Orc was trying to be funny or not, then shrugs. "A teenth of crystal to some cokehead in the Human League. I told them it was pretty much the same thing. Moron'll snort anything."
Howard chokes down the cat food – what once must have been tuna flavor – and thanks whatever deity may or may not be in the FAYZ that he hasn't ended up with botulism poisoning yet. His stomach cramps, demanding more.
Orc gives him an appraising stare. If anything, all the beer's made Orc gain weight, but Howard's thin as a rail. His dark veins stand out against the jagged angles of his wrist bones.
"You know, I don't know if I even need to eat, being made of rock and all."
Howard raises an eyebrow and looks down at Orc's plate, at the disgusting old cat food that still looks so tempting to his starved body.
"No," he says, pushing Orc's plate across the table. "Better not risk it. I think beer's just empty calories anyway."