The yobs who cornered them on the way out of a bloody supper of contraband, antisocial animal flesh were young, large and bristling with testosterone. They wore killsport armor with strategic transparent panels that revealed their steroid-curdled muscles, visible through the likewise transparent insets they'd had grafted in place of the skin that covered their abs and quads. There were three of them, grinning and flexing, and they boxed in Art and Linda in the tiny, shuttered entrance of a Boots Pharmacy.
"Evening, sir, evening, miss," one said.
"Hey," Art muttered and looked over the yob's shoulder, trying to spot a secam or a cop. Neither was in sight.
"I wonder if we could beg a favor of you?" another said.
"Sure," Art said.
"You're American, aren't you?" the third said.
"Canadian, actually."
"Marvelous. Bloody marvelous. I hear that Canada's a lovely place. How are you enjoying England?"
"I live here, actually. I like it a lot."
"Glad to hear that, sir. And you, Miss?"