I'd kick the butt, without missing a step or crushing it, all the way to the corner, turn to see if they were looking in my direction, then pick it up and run to the little park behind the Santa Fe Depot where I kept my penny box of matches hidden in an old squirrel's nest. Then I'd light her up and suck up the hot, delicious smoke that made one a man and life barely tolerable.
p. 92. - Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo (1972)