"They call it conduct disorder when you're a kid," he says. "And antisocial personality when you're an adult." He shrugged. It didn't matter. "Blunted affect, total lack of remorse, irritability and aggressiveness, lack of ability to plan." The last symptom he listed off wasn't one of his, but it was common with the disorder. Or so he'd heard.
He wrinkled up his nose at her. "It's not because I look like a coked out bunny, is it?" he asked. In fact, Sparrow didn't look like a coked out anything. He was a healthy weight, had no needle marks anywhere near any vein, had eyes that dilated the way they were supposed to. But his teeth and nose had conspired to make him look pretty bunny-like.
Road warriors. Yeah. He shook his head. "I guess. It's a lot like where I lived in New York." He paused. "Except they had oranges in New York. I never thought there'd ever be anything New York had on the zombie apocalypse, but there we have it."
And then, abruptly, "You know, bars are... great places to have sex."