[And there's the money line. Someone probably went back to stasis, or he'd just come out of another visit. Richie tends to do his drinking up among the coffins and try to shake his way back to business on the trip down, but he could hardly blame anyone if the hopeless feelings lingered.

Though the tyke's being pure facetious about his company. Richie shoots him a look. Exasperated, but knowing.]

If you're sitting in the middle of a sixty-person orgy and there's a gal on every lap except yours, then you're still alone, my friend. Standing near something don't make you part of it.

[He supposes this means its up to him to see the sad sack home. Oh well. He'd already had his night out, it was gonna have to wind down some time.

The remark about the phone dates the man (though his dress, hair, and figures of speech were doing the job pretty damn well). From a land before Steve. Probably still doing horse n' buggy. God forbid it goes earlier than that. Can the bubonic plague survive the cryogenics?]

It does more than that. It's also the zippiest portrait painter this side of the twentieth century. Behold. [He spins the phone around. Grantaire's own besumed gape stares out from the screen. And lo, there she be. El Chupa-cock-bra.]

You're coming down with a bad case of dick-cheek, pal. A common symptom of passing out around delinquent pimple poppers.