"By their garbage shall ye know them," Christie yells, like a preacher, a clowny preacher. "I swear, by the ridge of tears and by the valour of my ancestors, I say unto you, Morag Gunn, lass, that by their bloody goddamn fucking garbage shall ye christly well know them. The ones who eat only out of tins. The ones who have to wrap the rye bottles in old newspapers to try to hide the fact that there are so goddamned many of them. The ones who have fourteen thousand pill bottles the week, now. The ones who will be chucking out the family albums the moment the grandmother goes to her ancestors. The ones who're afraid to flush the safes down the john, them with flush johns, in case it plugs the plumbing and Melrose Maclaren has to come and get it unstuck and might see, as if Mel would give the hundredth part of a damn. I tell you, girl, they're close as clams and twice as brainless. I see what they throw out, and I don't care a shit, but they think I do, so that's why they cannot look at me. They think muck's dirty. It's no more dirty than what's in their heads. Or mine. It's christly clean compared to some things. All right. I'll please them. I'll wade in it up to my ass. I could wade in shit if I had to without it hurting me. I'd like to tell the buggers that."1 Beamrider 04:12
2 Single Celled Organism 06:54
3 Condiitiions 04:06
4 Fetal Position 06:57
5 Vaanitaas 05:48
6 Baare Haands 05:20
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