Cotton hit the ceiling when he discovered his “perfectly good sardines” missing. To make amends Clifford replaced them with three fresh cans of Pride of Norway sardines. The day man put on his reading glasses and studied the label suspiciously. Rather than thank Clifford, he took the sardines to the garbage can and slammed them to the bottom. “Those sardines are packed in soybean oil. Goddamn it, did you ever eat sardines packed in soybean oil? Soybeans are what they feed to pigs. The whole mess tastes like transmission fluid.”

“I don’t eat sardines. I didn’t know.”

“There are a lot of things you don’t know, Clifford. A whole lot. Keep your goddamn hands off a man’s food! And what’s this crapola coming in with a pierced ear and that stupid turban?”

“It’s a do-rag, Cotton, not a turban. Winston gave it to me.”

A blue vein throbbed on Cotton’s neck. “You come in looking like a damn jungle bunny. Now you’re talking like one. And tell me this: How can you man your post if you’re cleaning all the time?”

“Hey, dude, I’m sorry about the sardines. I’ll get you a can of King Oscars and a box of saltines, okay? Meanwhile, what is so bad about clean? If you think I’m trying to make you look bad or rat you out, tell people I’m the lazy ass and you’re the one doing the cleaning.”

Cotton had no retort, but Clifford felt himself take a swan dive into the dark abyss of his former life. You could only read How to Win Friends so many times before the chickens came home to roost.

Not only did he continue his workouts at Gold’s Gym, he brought his own weights to work, where he spent another two to three hours pumping iron. To make up for lost ground he skin-popped huge doses of steroids and human growth hormone. In a matter of weeks he was a giant. The drugs brought to the fore long-buried primal urges.

He called his old girlfriend, Suzie Q. Suzie had a low-slung ass, but her ta-tas were looking fine. After Clifford dicked her one afternoon, she told him to ditch the cologne. “It’s worse than chloroform. While you’re at it, lose those gold chains. You look like Iceberg Slim.”

He felt like saying, “And you can lose that cellulite, you fat-ass bitch.”

She had more corrective advice. “Those muscles make you look like some kind of S&M fairy. Back off on the weight training.”

“You liked me better when I was a geek?”

“Oh yeah,” she said. “Definitely. You were smoking pot and mellow. Now you’re fucking scary!”

He sent Suzie Q a dozen red roses the next day with a note that read “Dear Suz, I’m real sorry about last night, babe. You’re a real Georgia peach. XXX’s, Cliff.”