Artemis

by Andy Weir

You don’t expect J. Worthalot Richbastard III to clean his own toilet, do you?

blond as a Hitler wet dream.

Irina opened the door and frowned at me like I’d just pissed in her borscht.

I had a plan. And like all good plans, it required a crazy Ukrainian guy.

Get “Myrtle Goldstein’s Formulation #3.” That’s good shit. No idea what the ingredients are. It could be termite carcasses and Italian armpit hair for all I know. I don’t care. It makes the Gunk palatable, and that’s what matters. I

“You’re a pedantic little shit, you know that?”

Somehow he assumed I was the aggressor. Just because I wanted to claw that bitch’s eyes out and shove them up her urethra.

An economy is a living thing. It’s born full of vitality and dies once it’s rigid and worn out. Then, through necessity, people break into smaller economic groups and the cycle begins anew, but with more economies. Baby economies, like Artemis is right now.” “Huh,” I said. “And if you want to make babies, somebody’s got to get fucked.”