You shouldn't say it's my knife, my life, this shattered shine a sort of blame that I bear in a ruined hand on the road to nowhere. That wouldn't be fair to a crooked clown like me, having joined a shitshow not knowing just how dark the days, what would eventually befall, broken and exploited yet twistedly loyal still as the worst was yet to crash down all around. I'm Captain Ranson, gone insane, crossed eyes and crazy all around, a hot gun and a sonic boom, the silent sound. Rely even so, on skeletal skill, the phantom at the wheel, the shadow of a soul. Strange...the way it feels, when you swallow stress and touch steel. You get the axe when it falls. The real deal.
The mirror is the worst of it, the shock hits like a lightning bolt. Is it you, for real? Holy shit Vic. You look like death. Somehow you hit the road though, over and over again.