Hiro's hand twists away, accepts the indigo zeppelin with an overdramatic flourish. "Muchos grassyass," he thanks Pobble, or -- perhaps -- merely states: the local choice of seating will result in a great deal of grassy asses. Another murderous drag, albeit slightly more casual, and he passes it off to Daisy again. "Whatchoo on, anyway?" he asks the punk girl, smoke curling out around the words.