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“Eighty-three dollars, you sad fuck,” Billy says by way of greeting. He's loud and cheerful, slurring his words a little. He slams the door shut behind him and moves into the room. Joe turns over fully on the futon to watch him. Billy's hair is standing up in its usual spikes. There's a Rorschach patch of sweat on the front of his shirt. The deep red welt running from the corner of his left eye and down across his cheekbone is darkening to purple, but the asshole is still grinning.