“We didn’t actually go, like, all the way.”

“Do you think she’s hot?”

“How the Hell should I know? It’s been twenty years. She moved to Minnesota the following summer. I was totally despondent until soccer started.”

“No, you retard, I meant ‘FunEgal.’”

“I told you: ‘she’ is probably a man—like the guy who just walked in.”

A huge man with a buzzcut lumbered into Hal’s like a bull entering a very small china shop. He might have been an ex-football player; he certainly would’ve looked more at home lugging amps at a Metallica gig, or beating up a paparazzo for Mr. Combs. The giant looked around, wincing slightly, then slowly crossed the linoleum towards Andy and Damien.

“Cool, my fries,” Damien said and spun crazily to the greasy floor.

“What the fuck!” Andy yelled from where he’d landed. “My porn! That guy’s taking my porn!“

All Damien could see from where he lay was the guy’s ginormous Nike trainers weaving through the diner’s narrow aisle.

“That dude is stealing my porn!“