Did I seriously just wait sixteen hours to get slapped in the face in front of the dead pope? I didn’t even get to have a moment with him. I walk him out and then get on my hands and knees and scour the carpet for cocaine residue, mistakenly rubbing cigarette ashes on my gums. I come to in an ambulance with vomit all around me, even the paramedics are covered in vomit. On a routine visit to the probation office, I scan my hand and get an unexpected notification that I have been randomly selected for a drug test. Luckily, my dad gave me his pee, which I had warmed up in the microwave before biking over, so I’m not worried. I ordered two-hundred hissing cockroaches from Madagascar and convinced my old friend Serena to release them in the club in exchange for a hundred bucks. I sit down and feel something hard stab me in the butt. I push the blanket over to reveal a nine millimeter glock. I pick it up and examine it. I pop a piece of bubble-gum in my mouth and bite down on it. To my absolute horror, I feel a piece of my back molar crack off into my mouth. I pretend nothing happened and carried on with the shoot, swallowing the tooth. We fight like hell, and we’re not above throwing a few punches, but we always hug it out… and strangely, it only reinforces our bond.