Yeah, I think I'd know if an orange-creamsicle version of me was floating around firing off wicked-ass lasers. By which I mean piece of crap lasers. Brb.

[Dave steps out of the house briefly to take note of the address printed on the mailbox. The red flappy dealie is down today; what is even up with that thing anyways, he'd wonder, if he actually gave a shit.]

1448 Miller, looks like. No fucking idea what that means, though.