"Smells like you're on the rag too," Sloth muttered, taking the cigarette. "You're like one of those crazy women who paint with their monthly as a way of 'taking it back' or whatever." She sat back on her knees and inhaled deeply. "He'll die in a couple of days anyway, if he doesn't do the job himself sooner. Humans don't last long in despair like this. No hope, no hope for you." She said the last bit in a sing-song tone, and blew smoke out into Tim's ear. He groaned faintly in response, gripped in a dry, black agony, and Sloth smiled.