"Listen," the man starts, pausing to take the cigarette from his mouth and fixing you with his slightly bleary, makeup smudged eyes, "I am just a man. Just--"
He rolls his wrist in a circle, trailing ash and a faint plume of smoke emphasizing the motion.
"Just?" you prompt.
"Just...me. I put on the paints and the mask and I try to live up to my brothers legacy. But I'm just me."
"I'm not sure how that's a 'just'"
He lets out a heavy sigh, eyes wandering from you as he debates how to make you understand. "Growing up, I always knew he was out there; climbing through the ranks, hungry for position, recognition. And I was just me."
"You're Papa."
"I am," he acknowledges, taking a long drag from his cigarette. "For all the good it's done me"
"You don't think it's good?"
"Do you think doing whatever you do"--another roll of the wrist, another trail of smoke--"is good?"
"It's my job. I try to do it to the best of my abilities."
He gives a half hearted laugh. "So do I, Satan help me."