The Culture (IX.)

Rhiel's house was always humid with bodies: tattooed and slump-jawed gargoyles sitting sentinel on a bare mattress on the floor, watching with glazed hunger while others sat at the edge of Rhiel's computer desk rolling blunts that they dipped and passed. Their women lay about them in the smoke, hunched over their pregnant bellies and bitching for empty bottles in which to flick tufts of ash. They did not speak but with each other. They had grown there, shadows of the den.

Fly Prometheus (VIII.)

Rook struggled to keep the kid against the wall, taking shots at his ribcage with his free hand and spitting in his face. The oft-silent husband swiveled his head back to the room, "Get in this nigga's pockets!"
The sullen crew leaped from the bed and turned the kid's jeans inside out while he squirmed and gurgled. The Master Bag fell from his fingers, Rook followed it with his eyes, and foolish or desperate the kid took the opportunity.

Rook (VII.)

I don't understand that time I had to wait. Rhiel had gone to re-up, and I wasn't about to leave and come back and cause a bunch of traffic. In the TV room, billows of milky smoke wrapped behind her husband like the back of a wispy, gnarled chair, enfolding his sturdy ebony arms and anointing the heads of his accomplices sitting around him. His ethereal majesty faded into vapor then, lighter than the cash in my pocket.