"I ain't sayin' it ain't real," Sloth said with a put-on southern drawl. "Just sayin' it ain't all it's cracked up to be." She hesitated over the GPS. Was it number 3 or 8? It was just Wrath's crashpad really. She only knew the suburb for certain. Didn't she?
"I feel like we've met," she said as she dithered over the address. "But it could be all the substances I abused yesterday. I think it was yesterday." She scratched her head and found a twig, and rolled down the window to flick it at a passing man.