Turn around. Stop. Mercy.

This still carries some weight with him.

Mmm. Yummy gunny.

A psychologist would probably call this a side effect of being the object of violent loathing from birth.

Maybe it's all in her head. Maybe there really is new energy in the wires... either way, it's doing something, and it's wicked.

One of the few people he can call anything close to a friend.

These implications have never occurred to him before. Now he won't be able to un-think it.

Eyes: blood-shot.

Squinting, you overlay the image of the phantom you saw at the Palace of Culture on top of this lanky young fuck.

Squinting, you overlay the image of Nestor from his t-shirt on top of this lanky young fuck.

Squinting, you overlay the image of Nestor you've seen in a hundred faded murals on top of this lanky young fuck.

Nearly two decades gone, and he's still making his home in a cinema: a love that's never died.

RARIFIED OPPORTUNISM.

Probably thinks you're a strip-o-gram.

You once heard an old hand say that the tortured walk their own province.

The padlock on the door breaks easily. Dust motes in the air, a sneeze, a flashlight shining around the darkened room -- threadbare velvet, faded posters, a broken glass box office window.

Bad is good, good is bad, and everything is shit. Got it.

Grey hairs at twenty-five, a memory of the barber who came in to trim daddy's moustache twice a week... two hours does seem a long time for such a small job...

THE FATHER HAS FLED. THE SON MUST SERVE PENANCE IN HIS PLACE, A GENETIC WHIPPING BOY.

Impressed and terrified by the lengths you'll go to to get what you want.

The muscles in his ropey calves tense visibly.

He is 100% stealing the imagery of his beloved's freakouts to use in a music video some day.

So far, his curiosity hasn't got the better of him. Not if would mean hurting her.

She may be missing fingers. Toes. Other mutilations hiding under the sarcophagus of scarves and sweaters she's wrapped herself up in.

The melody you've been unconsciously constructing suddenly unfurls itself in your mind. Two notes to stick the landing...

He really doesn't want to be doing business with Gonza, or you, for that matter.

The cramped houseboat crossed in a single anxious stride.

This moment, it's important to him. A re-kindling, maybe -- finding warmth among ashes grown cold.

'Did she just abandon us?'

'Did she sell us out?'

'Did it mean nothing?'

You remember the steps leading up to Portofiro's central station awash in blurring fractals. Your legs weren't yours; they just moved.

Day 523, row unknown: sighting of a senior operant dusting the spines of cloth-bound logbooks. Hands: trembling, liver-spotted. You kept moving.

A slight wobble in the back -- stacked pallets.

The words pass through Goat Eyes' lie detector.

He could sell it to them as a win.

A little thank you and shoutout to his higher power.

His brain says 'run'. His body, not so much.

He doesn't quite buy it.

Above his right pants pocket, tucked into the waistband. He's armed.

You see it: the bullet's perfect trajectory, and blood arcing in sunlight. One shot rippling across time. History wobbles like a drunk on a quay.

You feel the warmth of shared blood and smokes, in the aftermath. Heartbeats humming in tandem; every small, defiant smile its own flag.

The technical kind. The payphone is compromised.

He won't let you down.

That's a call-and-answer routine, also known as a sphynx. He asks a question to which there is only one right answer.

All across the world, subjects of the Illuminated Empire are looking at trees like this, and thinking of home.

To redeem the failures of your past.

Ask the paleolithic part of your mind: Would the ancient huntress stalk the megalosloth with this band?

COLD OR HOT THE WORLD CAN'T STOP FOR US.

Wrong, that shit should be forefront.

Checks