Usually, the sort of folks he was used to hearing call anyone 'dear boy' were old and patronizingly generous people. The sort whose kindness a street punk like Splot felt bad about taking advantage of, especially in the middle of a depression.

Funny thing was, Mr. Fell here didn't look all that much like someone's grandpa. And he didn't seem the shady kind of false-nice, either!

"I'm Jacuzzi Splot!" He offered meekly, barely managing to make it through his own name without a nervous stutter. "I don't really have any clue where I'm going, that's just the trouble! "