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Everytime Jim went into a bus station, it smelled like stale urine. There were always these sketchy character hanging out in the urine-smelling place, up to nothing neither good nor bad, just nothing, just these hollow-eyed junkies lolling around, killing and wasting time, figuring out how they could scam together enough bread to shoot into their ass or wherever these sub-lifes stuck smack-brimmed needles, snifffling. Jim hated these scum with a dead-eye passion somewhere in the nether-vicinity of dull loathing and passionless hate. Get the fuck away from me. Don't bother me. Don't come near me. Leave me the fuck alone or so God help me I will jam my fucking fist down your fucking throat so fucking fast that you won't know what fucking hit you. Jim wondered if he used the word "fucking" too many times in this sentence, but he really didn't give a fuck. Junkies didn't understand anything other than ugly violence, really, and rational arguments were beyond the comprehension of a heroin-addled brain. So Jim really had no other recourse when he was at some pee-stinking place like a bus station other than act like someone not to be messed with. He didn't LIKE acting like a tough shit - he really didn't - but he knew, and he knew this from bad experience - that doing the compassionate understanding routine with addicts was a very, very poor strategy indeed.