"It's not like it's the end of the world," Turner says, slapping me lightly on the shoulder. "It'll just be for a week or so. Buck up, old chap. Besides, it's not even like you're the one leaving."     "You're an alright fellow, Turner," I say, nodding my head and hoisting my bloody mary in salute to his advice.  "Even if you do look like a reject from a Gibson novel." He's dressed entirely in leather; his bright features are overshadowed by green, spiky hair and boots made for kicking. My entire body aches in unison, each pulse of the music causing my body to answer with a throb of protest. Surprisingly, I've gotten decent sleep for the