"Yeah, we'we gonna have ta find da odders," Parry whispered, leaning in closer to Tony's ear. "But you gotta keep your shit togevver man. I ain' got shit ta bring ta dis place. An' I can't turn my head a full one-eighty, so watchin' youw back is a pwobwem."

Parry lived through 'Nam like Tony. Unlike Tony, Parry lived through 'Nam while watching the war happen on TV, smoking his brains out on primo weed, and trying to forget that it was even going on. Even a retired Celestial got hints of human death. Every time you got a few million humans together for the sole purpose of massacring one another, you lined up a buffet for a Daemon to pop out of the Nether and go to town on everyone. Wars were messy. Wars gone metaphysical were nasty. 

"I ain' gonna shit myself, Tony, so don' worry 'bout me dwoppin anyting," Parry said. Right before Tony showed him the M26 booby trap they came within inches of stepping on (Okay. Maybe it was a few feet, and Tony was on top of that shit, but when you went from an all-powerful Celestial to a drooling, pants shitting two-year-old in the space of twelve seconds, you understood mortality that much better). Right then and there, if Parry'd eaten anything before they left, he would've loaded up his pants. Thankfully, he was running on empty and wasn't about to tell Tony what would've happened.

"I got no burnin' sword. Buh I still got da mawkew," he said, tapping Tony's neck with the Sharpie. "I gots 'nough space back hewe fow one ow two wunes. Wet me know what you need. Night vision? Camofwage? Siwence? What'd you wish fow most in da jungwe, Tony?"