Do I? Looks to me like we've been getting styled at the same salon. How's Gloria? I need to book a mani-pedi one of these days, my top coat is a-chipping, my god.

[Look, he's not blind. And thanks to the numerous (if infuriatingly lacking in detail) reports, he has a better estimate of just how many people got pinched. The answer is a staggering lot. Too many. What looks shitty on Richie is the lack of sleep. The bad bad bender, the death of his appetite for food and the exponential roar of it for smokes, for booze and for little white lines. He's done worse in a few days than he has the last seven years.

But the reminders of what had been done? Those were gone. He's a blank slate now, wiped clean of that record, or else she'd be staring down some scabbed up beast, missing fingernails and torn patches of skin from wherever feather touches rubbed him too raw, sloughed the flesh off like it's the fine film off a hot chocolate.

He takes her in as she does him, and when she moves to allow him entry he's been so caught up in detailing the new scars that he nearly stumbles over the whining creature at her feet.]

What is — Jesus, did you fish that out of the Serengeti?

[Were the Orbiters playing a literal Noah's Ark? Damn.]