Fred Conrad, the youngest rider on the bus, was stumbling around wild-eyed, always had been since his first encounter with narcotics at the tender age of twelve. Microdots dropped like flies around him. A broad, sweet face lived under a massive mess of tangled hair; his eyes usually invisible, sunken deep into the back of his head. The hair was clearly an extension of his personality. His rotund shape only added to the air of genuine warmth he carried with him from one d**g fest to another. When it suited him, he spoke with a totally unintelligible Scouser accent. Whenever he was drunk, this could turn into a torrent of unqualified verbal a***e. But essentially, he was a good soul. Fred cared only for one thing in this life. To be able to get f****d-up in peace. He was the easy rider from
