"It's from Japan. Nooo. It's from right heah, on top of your apartment building. And it tastes like a fucking orange," Dusty said with a laugh after taking the offered slice.<br/><br/>"Hooch will do ya betta dan rotten fruit," he reasoned. Even if the young man didn't make it for himself, he could trade it, and it would keep with no expiration date. Ripe fruit was much more finicky, with a smaller trade window. The trade mentality had been around their parts long before the world turned. Many of the backwoods locals were self sufficient, and what they didn't get for themselves, they traded with someone who had what they needed. "But good on you for tinking ahead and planting. Got to work on your hunting and fishing skills though. No wonda you're so damn skinny."<br/><br/>"For now I trade you. My half of todays catch for da fruit. I bring you more meat next time, and you put me another bag togeta." Hinting that Dusty's pop in visits might be a regular thing. "Jerky, probably. Don't think you can smoke nothing without drawing attention to yourself."<br/><br/>"We ain't in the city no more," Dusty pointed out with a grin. "I come up dis way sometime, to check how da hunting and fishing is, but I'm more south. In the real heart of the bayou swamps, out towards black bay for right now. A little rough on da houseboat, but fine in the calm seasons. Nobody out dere eida. Good hunting, still secluded." No one could pinpoint him really if they wanted to find him. Anyway close to Dusty knew he came to them, and would pop up as he made his circuit.<br/><br/>"You picked da worst place, I think,<i>Etranje</i>, but I guess dis looks more dangerous to you." For Dusty, the further they got away from the city, the closer it looked like home to him. He didn't like having to sleep with one eye open at night, but so far the young man seemed to keep to himself and make it just fine. Surviving, sure, but living? Dusty wasn't living life unless he was deep in the swamp, wrestling up an ornery catfish or something even more dangerous. A lonely life, but one he was used to. Dusty navigated them through places that didn't seem possible, skidding the boat across shallow places, or those filled with weeds. He had a discerning eye for the riverways, and an instinct about it until he found them a spot that looked promising.<br/><br/>"Should be bass, perch, crappie, if you can hook em. If you can't, catfish are damn reliable." As bottom feeders with a good sense of dead things, there wasn't much they wouldn't hit. "Don't know if you're up for helping me pull a gata over, but maybe after a bit of liquid courage." He nodded back to the cooler, then pointed out the eyes and snout camouflaged in the water not far from them. Not big enough to worry over. "Just don't fall in," he warned, picking up a pole to try to snag them some of the more predatory fish. He baited his hook with the bucket of live shrimp and crayfish sitting in the cooler.