<i>Lagniappe</i><br/>Louisiana French idiom meaning a little extra or bonus gift.<br/><br/><script class="js-extraPhrases" type="application/json">
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</div>Dustin Granger Fontenot, or simply Dusty was how the world knew him before the illness had spread. To him, things had already gone to shit before that. In many ways, this was even an improvement. He didn't have to interact with people so much anymore. Hunting was good. Wild game had replenished, and generally Dusty could sustain himself on the swamps and rivers. Occasionally, he had to take to land for certain supplies. It was a routine he'd settled into. Some things had started to become predictable. Those that set up some sort of permanence in a few of the Louisiana towns knew of him. Not his name, of course, but the big brute with the gun who minded his fucking business. They were the lucky ones apparently. He didn't understand it much, but apparently they'd won the genetic lottery. Those remaining had immunity to the sickness that had seeped into everything. A product of worldwide warfare that had backfired and turned in on itself, destroying everything. Society had collapsed, but for Dusty it worked. He'd never been a part of it anyway.<br/><br/>Dusty had stashed an old diesel pickup close to one of the boat ramps for when he make his ventures back to land. His humble home, little more than a shack, hidden in some remote part of the swamp. His jon boat was beat to hell, though it always had been. He used to make a living pulling boats out of the swamp and restoring them. The heaping hunk of dented aluminum was one of those restoration projects, but she ran fine. Motor had been restored and pieced together as well, and it was often what sent him into town for parts. Without the skiff, he couldn't pull his home around to more opportune hunting.<br/><br/>Ol reliable, the truck started up as it always did, and off he went. Taking the long stretch of road before he hit city, going the direction of new Orleans. An unusual sight along the way. Someone pulled off to the side of the road, fiddling with their bike. It looked like they were having a time of it, and initially Dusty had simply driven past. What made him turn around, he wasn't sure. Been a while since he'd set eyes on someone, and maybe he was feeling that sort of lonesome he didn't want to admit. The rust bucket idled to a stop and Dusty leaned over to manually roll down the passenger side window.<br/><br/>"<i>Gardes don</i>," he commented.<br/><br/><div class="bbCodeSpoiler">
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</div><br/>"You new? Ain't no place ta be broken down. Not da way te world turn." he said in a deep, thick cajun accent. His eyes assessed the situation. The guy was attractive, and if not for that Dusty may not have turned around. Consider him shallow. Not that he was gay, not really. He just had a peculiar interest in men. Men that looked like that blond young man sweating over his bike, seeming like he could use a hand.  "Dat ting got a spare hidden somewhere?"<br/><br/>There was a shotgun sitting in the passenger seat, and a pistol at the man's hip. All precaution and fair warning to anyone who might decide they wanted to see the sort of stuff he was made of. Not a threat, just simply where he'd slung it as he went on his way. Large, callused hands remained on the steering wheel, expression neutral. A bit curious.<br/><br/><div class="bbCodeSpoiler">
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