“Fucking Hamas,” Hunter groused. “I can’t believe those monsters are doing this.”

Cracky murmured calming noises as Hunter used a microplane grater to shape his friend into a pleasing angular shape. It had been a few bad days for Cracky. He was down to the size of a Clementine.

“Anti-Zionism is not the same as anti-semitism,” Finnegan said in a frightened gulp. She had her catchphrases installed at the atomic level.

“No, no, I like Jews just fine. The girls are a bit hairy for my taste, but you can work on that. I mean that Hamas owes me money and the fuckers are using the war as an excuse to not pay me.”

“You’ve done business with Hamas?!?” Finnegan asked, her Penn programming slipping a cog.

“Just some guns, and rocket parts, and they wanted a few hundred GoPros for some reason,” Hunter said. He took a few more passes on Cracky, burnishing his hide to a pleasing gray-white. Hunter turned him around a few times to admire his work as Finnegan gawped aghast, and then he kissed the little rock of crack tenderly.

Finnegan swallowed a few times before she could resume her AWFL facade. “I, uh, don’t know what to say.”

“Say ‘Thank you, Dad,’ say “I’m so happy I don’t have any student loans, Dad.’”

Hunter scraped all the Cracky shavings into a couple of fat lines and hoovered them off the desk with a large-bore McDonald’s straw. Red-eyed and snorfling, he grin crookedly at his daughter.

“How do you stay alive?” she asked.

“Clean living,” Hunter said as a chunky line of blood began to creep down his face.