... Epilogue:
"Four fucking joints worth of primo weed for a single fucking pack of rolling papers!", exclaims Tommy when he hears the deal I've made for a "Bugler" set.

"Don't forget the fucking tobacco," I counter, flaunting a near-full pouch sporting the familiar blue & white trumpeting icon, "The guy threw it in when I told him what you assholes did to my Camels."

Tommy gives me the finger.

"Aw, jes chalk it up t' the costa doin' business, T!" roots Bobby, using his cheesy southern drawl to joke away a sudden burp of humiliation.

But it's the acid reflux from so poor an exchange rate which immmediately follows that draws Amway attitude—"Shhhiiit, now let's git good 'n ripped 'n deal a little dope, boys!"

With gummed papyrus in hand we hit the head, each rolling and then firing up his own personal antidote to the Butterfly's bite, a sting that left its toxins.

Tokes later, I'm handing my short to a prospective customer standing just inside the mens room door. Niz approaches grinning like, uh, ... well, ... a Jack-o-lantern, flashing a shiny new baggy after hearing the guy's "yeah, how clean is it? challenge. But when the kid's best offer peters out at "four tickets to next week's Soft Machine show straight up for a dime bag", Bob hastily repo's my joint.

"No, man," Bob says, drawing deep on the double-barreled doobie,"—we crash concerts."

Then, with the client's rapt attention, Niznik exhales his terms, "Cash only, kid."