 The midnight glancers and the topless dancers. The gander freaks, car-packed with speakers. The G's with the 40s and the chicks with beepers. The northern lights and the southern comfort. And it don't even matter if your veins are punctured. All the crackheads, the critics, the cynics. And all my heroes at the methadone clinics. All you bastards at the IRS. For the crooked cops and the cluttered desks. For the shots of Jack and the caps of meth.