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Gluttony just got back from a deep-fried-Twinkie-eating contest in Memphis, while Sloth spent the weekend with a group of students at MIT who just bought a new Xbox.
    “They never cracked a textbook, man,” says Sloth, slouched in his chair with his feet on the table. “Just ordered pizza and drank beer and played video games for, like, thirty-six hours straight. The only time they left the dorm room was to go take a leak. It was beautiful, man.”
    The thing about Sloth is that he’s narcoleptic.
    He also watches too much television, never exercises, hasn’t washed his hair since Woodstock, and always wears the same Sex Pistols T-shirt.
    “What kind of pizza?” asks Gluttony around a mouthful of pastrami and rye.
    “I don’t know,” says Sloth. “Pepperoni and sausage. Canadian bacon. What does it matter?”
    “Pizza matters, dude,” says Gluttony. “Pizza always matters.”
    The thing about Gluttony is that he’s lactose intolerant.
    At six feet tall and over three hundred and fifty pounds, Gluttony is never more than fifteen minutes from his next meal. His favorite wardrobe is a Hawaiian shirt and baggy sweats. His favorite food is everything.
    “So what’s up with you, Fabio?” asks Sloth, slouching down further in his chair.
    “Same old, same old,” I say. “Just watching humans make bad choices based on what you guys throw at them and reassigning them to their less-than-optimal fates.”
    The woman at the table next to us gives me a dubious glance, as if she thinks I might not be completely sane. Like she can talk. Nine years from now, she’ll be chopping up her ex-husband and feeding him to her three cats.
    “I wouldn’t want your job, man,” says Sloth. “Too much work.”
    Gluttony laughs, spraying us with food as he finishes off the last of his sandwich. “Imagine that. You not wanting to work.”
    “Like you’re any better, fatso.”
    “At least I’m not a slacker.”
    “Eat me.”
    “Don’t tempt me,” says Gluttony. “I’m still hungry.”
    Two young, slender women wearing NYU sweatshirts come into the deli and glance our way. The leggy blonde whispers to the buxom redhead and they both laugh.
    The blonde is going to pose for Playboy and spend most of the next ten years pursuing a modeling and acting career, taking walks on the beach at sunset, and getting turned off by mean people. The redhead is going to end up married with three children and wishing she’d killed her college roommate when she’d had the chance.
    “Do you guys ever wish you could do something different?” I ask.
    “Like what?” asks Sloth.
    “I don’t know,” I say. “Like Pride or Justice or Honesty.”
    “No way,” says Sloth. “Those jobs are, like, really boring. Though Pride is totally hot.”
    “Pride’s a dude, dude,” says Gluttony.
    “No way,” says Sloth.
    Gluttony sucks down the last of his root beer, then belches. “And he’s gay.”
    “No way,” says Sloth. “Really?”
    “How can you not know this?” asks Gluttony. “You’ve known him since the Bronze Age.”
    “Yeah, but I thought he was a chick with short hair who liked to wear men’s clothes,” says Sloth. “And he looked really good in a toga.”
    “How about you?” I ask Gluttony. “Ever thought about being Ambition or Courage or Valor?”
    “With this body?” he says, shoveling down the last of his potato salad. “Are you kidding?”
    As the two NYU students walk past us to sit down, the blonde makes a pig noise that’s obviously directed at Gluttony. She and the redhead are still giggling when they reach their table.
    Gluttony grabs my Coke, sucks the rest of it down, then belches and blows in the direction of the NYU students. Seconds later, they’ve both stopped giggling and are shoveling as much food as they can fit into their mouths.
    “Beautiful, man,” says Sloth. “Just beautiful.”
    Although their fates haven’t changed, both women are going to struggle with mild cases of bulimia for the