Pleasant. Even sarcastically, it's an absurd word choice. Johnny snorts. "Yeah, it's real fuckin' copacetic."

He peers closely at his hand, struggling to see how bad it is in the dim filtered moonlight, which is sort of a lost cause. It's probably all right. He just wishes he had a handkerchief or something.

"Frequently, yes," he says. "To me, anyway. I'm blessed by having a fucking target painted on my ass, apparently." He keeps moving, looking around uneasily. "I mean, usually not when I'm with someone else. So count your blessings, I guess." Or maybe he should be counting his own. Whatever.