I think that's what they made my work uniform out of. Bubbling pitch and the shards of sacrificed ideals. Plus a little deep-seated abject mortal terror and I guess sort of a nice cotton lining so it doesn't chafe.

[The waitress hasn't swung by yet, which strikes him as a little odd, and so he pauses in the discussion to flag one down; one order of chicken poppers and a cherry coke later, he's back in action, reaching across the table to steal a potato chip and making very sure not to accidentally touch the guy across from him as he does so.

It wouldn't kill him outright, probably, but it might take a couple years off his borrowed life. Close brushes with Death usually do, for people.]

You think someone's gonna hold that against you, in the end?