Last month in a certain undisclosed small town in Central Florida, a fishing cohort and I went through a drive-thru. The kid in the window exposed his arm tats when he reached out with the food bag. He  had no teeth. My buddy opened up all the wrappers in the bag. “A tweeker touching your food can’t be good,” he said. Roll through enough rural areas in pursuit of fish and you’re bound to hit a tweeker town. A scraggly dude or two will be loitering near the gas pumps and they’re sizing you up, waiting to see if you forgot to hit the key fob on your way in to use the restroom. A tweeker might actually talk to you, try to seem…