"I understand you, yes. I mean, if I’m right, I think I understand you. You’re like me and I’m like you. We aren’t happy. The atmosphere around us is stifling. We pretend there’s nothing wrong, but there is. What’s wrong? We’re being fucking stifled. You let off steam your own way. I beat the shit out of people or let them beat the shit out of me. But the fights I get into aren’t just any fights, they’re fucking apocalyptic mayhem. I’m going to tell you a secret. Sometimes I go out at night, to bars you can’t even imagine. And then the inevitable happens. Two or three vultures ask me to step outside. And then the shit kicking begins. I know it and I don’t care. Sometimes they’re the ones who get the worst of it, especially when I have my gun. Other times it’s me. I don’t give a fuck. I need the fucking release. Sometimes my friends, the few friends I have, tell me I should be careful, I’m a time bomb, I’m a masochist. One of them, someone I was really close to, told me that only somebody like me could get away with what I do. The truth is, I don’t have friends. I don’t want any. At least, I’d rather not have friends who’re Topaxitlin. Topaxitlin are rotten inside, did you know? Every last one of them. No one escapes. From the head of the council to that clown Prince Ayden. If I were Prince Ayden, you know what I’d do? I’d launch an attack with my whole army on any city under Topaxi, so long as it had a strong military garrison. And there I’d sacrifice my poor troops then throw myself off into the sea. By the way, what books do you read? I used to read everything, I read all the time. Now all I read is poetry. Poetry is the one thing that isn’t contaminated, the one thing that isn’t part of the game. I don’t know if you follow me. Only poetry, and let me be clear, only some of it, is good for you, only poetry isn’t shit. Anyway, another bottle of mezcal, please."