"You see me, Rydell? I was fuckin' Jesus' son, man. Fuckin' Hank Williams, motherfucker." Creedmore beamed, yet Rydell saw the thing that was waiting there to toggle into rage. Someone handed Creedmore two tall cans, already opened. He passed one to Rydell. Creedmore splashed cold malt liquor down his chest, rubbed himself with it. "Damn, I'm good."