<strong>RUTH</strong><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide</div><div class="spoiler_body">“No, you can't.  The last thing you want to be out there is useful and weak.  Cringe isn't the only person out there who wants to sit on this throne, you know.”  Some throne, with those little wheels that scrape on that wood floor.  Esther leans back, and the chair leans with her, until her feet dangle and don't reach the ground.<br/><br/>“You think it over.  Maybe give me a little wiggle on your way out the door.”  She offers Ruth a little grin, a quiet reminder that even if things are maybe amiable right now, easy going and pleasant and diplomatic, Esther is just one of those forces that Ruth -- and so much of the rest of Gomorrah -- lives beside; principled, maybe, but she's exercised her own kind of force in the past, and she could do it again, no sweat.  Isn't that kind of scary?<br/><br/>“And hey, if you really are going to make a move on Cringe, don't keep me out of the loop.  I'd rather have a little warning before we have to clean up the mess.  Figure out who's going to move into that vacuum, right, 'cause fuck if I want to worry about the market,” she says, and she's kind of trailing off by the end of it.<br/><br/>So, if that's that, <strong>Ruth</strong>, what're your plans?  What do you do?</div></div><br/><strong>AMBROSEA</strong><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide</div><div class="spoiler_body">”It will stain your lips, and each time your tongue passes them, you'll taste it, and each time you taste it, you'll want more.”<br/><br/>She sets that finger on Ambrosea's lips and spreads the gel in two smooth motions, one across the lower lip and then over the upper.  It's the tiniest bit waxy, and it's sugary-sour on the tongue.  “Like that,” Cringe says.  <br/><br/>It's certainly not the same kind of stuff as Ambrosea makes, not near it, but that sour tinge does come with its own influence, a kind of euphoric relief and comfort that sets in not more than a few moments after it's spread onto the lips.  It's very comfortable.<br/><br/>Millions, still naked, has made her way over to the record player.  She lifts the pin and pops up the record, flips it over before settling it back down.  The whole time, Cringe is distracted from Ambrosea, staring daggers at the woman touching her record player, ready to pounce if she should do anything to fuck it up.  She doesn't.  Cringe relaxes, and Millions returns to the pile.<br/><br/>“Different, but nice, isn't it?  Just the right amount, too,” she says, and scrapes the last of it from her finger onto the rim of the bowl, and then she sets it aside.  She leans against Ambrosea and that pile of stoned bodies she's using as a chair, wraps an arm around the cult leader and takes hold of her hand, slips her fingers between Ambrosea's.  Those entwined fingers guide the hocus' hand to low on her stomache, not far off from the hemline of her low, low cut pants.<br/><br/>The record player is like, “Picture this – frezing cold weather, you got clouds on your lids and you'd be on the skids...”<br/><br/><strong>Ambrosea</strong>, just for the hell of it, tell me what is the most stressful thing in your life right now, like what is it you're thinking about when you've been in bed for four hours just trying to get to sleep but your mind just won't stop worrying long enough to doze off?  Also, are you seriously about to fuck Cringe, because it seems like that's where you're headed, and do you really think it's a good idea?  Your call: Tell me one reason it's a good idea, and I'll give you one reason it's bad, or give me one reason it's a bad idea, and I'll let you know if it's not that bad or if it's actually worse.  Then, you know, what do you do?</div></div><br/><strong>HAVEL</strong><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide</div><div class="spoiler_body">Calling what Morgan's got a kit is maybe extensive.  Yeah, she's got some shit that could pass for bandages, and she's got a canteen full of pure clean water (thanks, Esther!), maybe enough narcs to keep Yankee passed the fuck out for a little while, but that's about it, right?<br/><br/>So Morgan's like, “Yeah, I think you're right, Captain.  I don't think Yankee's ever gonna ride again.”  There's a pretty upset groan from further off at that suggestion.  “I'll get Ruth,” she says.<br/><br/>So she's there a few moments longer, putting these things into Havel's hands because he's blind, right?  It's not like she can just leave a box out there and drive off.  Once he's got it, knows what he's got, too, then she's ready to go, and her exit is signaled by her bike roaring up like some kind of mythic beast.  Like maybe a wyvern or something.<br/><br/>Havel's got some time to think, some time to play doctor too if that's what he hopes, but it'll be tough without any real vision to speak of, or rather, a <em>single</em>, commanding vision, like just the sun and nothing else forever.  It might be a little while before Ruth or another biker show up on the road.<br/><br/>Man, it's hot out here on the asphalt.  A person could cook alive out here, easy.  Someone said once that human meat has a lot in common with pork, whatever the fuck that is, I guess you don't really want to find out, right, <strong>Havel</strong>?  While you're out here turning into bacon, maybe tell us a little bit about how it is you came to be head of a huge fucking motorcycle gang.  Hey, by the way, does the Company offer a consolation to prize to people who get wrecked for the gang?</div></div>