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'Hello, Shadow,' he said. 'Don't fuck with me.'
'Okay,' said Shadow. 'I won't. Can you drop me off at the Motel America, up the interstate?'
'Hit him,' said the young man to the person on Shadow's left. A punch was delivered to Shadow's solar plexus, knocking the breath from him, doubling him over. He straightened up, slowly.
'I said don't fuck with me. That was fucking with me. Keep your answers short and to the point or I'll fucking kill you. Or maybe I won't kill you. Maybe I'll have the children break every bone in your fucking body. There are two hundred and six of them. So don't fuck with me.'
'Got it,' said Shadow.
[...]
The boy opened his jacket and took out a silver cigarette case from an inside pocket. He opened it, and offered a cigarette to Shadow. 'Smoke?'
Shadow thought about asking for his hands to be untied, but decided against it. 'No thank you,' he said.
The cigarette appeared to have been hand-rolled, and when the boy lit it, with a matte black zippo lighter, the odor that filled the limo was not tobacco. It was not pot either, decided Shadow. It smelled a little like burning electrical parts.
The boy inhaled deeply, then held his breath. He let the smoke trickle out from his mouth, pulled it back into his nostrils. Shadow suspected that he had practiced that in front of a mirror for a while before doing it in public.

- American Gods by Neil Gaiman, Introduction of Technical Boy

Description

'Hello, Shadow,' he said. 'Don't fuck with me.'
'Okay,' said Shadow. 'I won't. Can you drop me off at the Motel America, up the interstate?'
'Hit him,' said the young man to the person on Shadow's left. A punch was delivered to Shadow's solar plexus, knocking the breath from him, doubling him over. He straightened up, slowly.
'I said don't fuck with me. That was fucking with me. Keep your answers short and to the point or I'll fucking kill you. Or maybe I won't kill you. Maybe I'll have the children break every bone in your fucking body. There are two hundred and six of them. So don't fuck with me.'
'Got it,' said Shadow.
[...]
The boy opened his jacket and took out a silver cigarette case from an inside pocket. He opened it, and offered a cigarette to Shadow. 'Smoke?'
Shadow thought about asking for his hands to be untied, but decided against it. 'No thank you,' he said.
The cigarette appeared to have been hand-rolled, and when the boy lit it, with a matte black zippo lighter, the odor that filled the limo was not tobacco. It was not pot either, decided Shadow. It smelled a little like burning electrical parts.
The boy inhaled deeply, then held his breath. He let the smoke trickle out from his mouth, pulled it back into his nostrils. Shadow suspected that he had practiced that in front of a mirror for a while before doing it in public.

- American Gods by Neil Gaiman, Introduction of Technical Boy