Post by Prolapsed Wrecked 'em on Jul 27, 2009 15:16:11 GMT -5
Mickey Dragon: Well, that’s when I put his face through the chair. I mean…
Woman’s voice: How did that make you feel?
Dragon: If you think I feel some sort of penitence for taking a man out of his own sense of self-righteousness and proving to him that everything he was told was the truth, then you’re sadly mistaken. What I feel is more an exoneration knowing that Dirge, Chassie and Raenius were not lying to Osiris. See…
Woman: You have no remorse for breaking his neck?
Dragon: Do you feel remorse for killing a cockroach? They’re annoying, disgusting, and want nothing but to dig through your life for their own reproduction. Osiris was nothing more than a cockroach.
Woman: Mr. Dragon…
Dragon: Dr Torres…
Dr. Torres: How’s your home life?
[Silence. Dragon’s finally been asked a question he truly can’t answer. Home? Where is home? Home has been everywhere from the mansion he blew up in Las Vegas years ago to the hospital room in Japan he spent months recuperating after the Ultimate Dragon’s Lair Match. Home has been Chassie Fear’s Victorian house in Florida and has been the streets of Atlantic City, only trying to survive off the scraps he got from working small independent shows growing up. Home has been his abusive father, home has been the road, home has been a car, a hotel room, a campsite, an airplane. Almost everywhere, and yet when he truly asks himself that question, home is nowhere.
The camera has panned into the office where Mickey Dragon lays on the psychologist’s couch. His bald head glistening toward the sky with the windows wide open and beautiful sunlight coming through, brightening the room. His eyes are covered by a blindfold, helping him to visualize the words he wishes to put forth. Images inside that twisted skull are things perhaps no one on this planet wishes to have in the craziest of nightmares. Dragon wears a black t-shirt with a intricate design of an eagle with bleeding wings falling to some sort of visual representation of hell. His black shorts hang below his knee and his combat boots dangle off the end of the couch, twitching back and forth as if he’s nervous or has restless leg syndrome.
He shakes his head a few times and wipes a bead of sweat from just the floor’s side of his right temple and takes a long, deep breath before responding to the question posed to him.]
Dragon: Home hasn’t been a steady place for me in quite a long time, Doc. Last time I remember having a steady home, I was engaged in a relationship that, needless to say, ended with me having knee surgery. Right now, I own a small apartment on the east side of LA, living in a high rise with a bunch of low-income people.
Dr. Torres: How does that make you feel? Living around low-income families, I mean…
[Dragon again takes a deep breath before continuing.]
Dragon: I see so many people that need to get off their dead asses and do something with their pathetic existances. My downstairs neighbor’s children have more shit on their shirts and faces than in their bellies. They barely have a pot to piss in, but her weave matches her nails and she’s got to go to the club every fucking weekend. Poor guy…
Dr. Torres: Poor who?
Dragon: Oh, trust me. I’m not feeling sorry for the guy who lives with her. He makes his own fuckin bed, working two jobs and supporting her and her kids. I just feel bad for the guy because he’s not seeing a dime of the welfare money she’s pulling in. The welfare money you and I, doc, are paying in so she can get her hair done every week. It’s kinda like watching someone torture themselves each and everyday and not being able to join in the fun.
Dr. Torres: How so?
Dragon: I’m not sure… I just enjoy the thought of torturing people.
[Dragon begins to chuckle. The doc begins writing across her yellow legal pad and fixes her glasses after a few words.]
Dragon: That…. Probably wasn’t a good thing to say, huh?
[The doctor releases an intoxicating little giggle at the slip of the tongue Dragon had and, upon catching himself, admitted his fault. The giggle made Dragon take notice and turn his body toward her, laying in a fetal position, pulling his legs up toward his midsection. He reaches for a pack of cigarettes he obviously can’t see and is only a few inches away when the doctor hands them to him.]
Dr. Torres Those will kill you, ya know?
Dragon: So will working two jobs and supporting a lazy bitch and her two kids that aren’t yours… but people like to point out MY death trap. Don’t try telling dude about his deadbeat girlfriend.
Dr. Torres: Let’s change gears here, Mickey. I can see this man’s plight gets to you.
Dragon: Actually, doc, it doesn’t. Like I said, he’s living the situation he’s made for himself. I could give a shit less if she worked eighty hours a week sucking the chrome off a trailer hitch on the corner --
Dr. Torres: That’s enough. Let’s talk about your return to your job. Been quite a while, hasn’t it?
Dragon: Well, it certainly has. Felt good to pull the wool over that prick’s eyes. I would’ve enjoyed pulling his eyes… never mind.
Dr. Torres: Mickey, listen to me. Feel free to reveal whatever homicidal feelings you have because, that’s what I’m being paid to pull out of you. I want to find the root of these demonic feelings. Someone quite interested in your well-being would prefer you to stay out of jail and institutions for a while and at work. The more we focus on your desires to maim and kill, the closer we’ll be toward you finding your way back to a normal life.
Dragon: What the fuck do you consider normal?
Dr. Torres: What do YOU consider normal?
Dragon: No… you said I would find my way back to a normal life. YOU used the term so you tell me exactly how you would determine what would be a normal life for me. I mean, shit, depending on who you ask, a normal life for me could be when I was killing children and lesbians.
[Dragon now pulls a cigarette from his pack and pulls off the blindfold to light the cigarette.]
Dragon: And this fucking thing annoys me. I’m not wearing it.
[Dragon throws the blindfold to the floor and lights his cigarette, allowing the poison to billow toward the ceiling in a small mushroom cloud.]
Dragon: So, again I ask, what is normal?
Dr. Torres: I don’t know… a relationship. A house. A healthy relationship with friends, colleagues, society.
[Dragon begins to shake his head as he inhales his first drag of the cigarette. He raises his hand to make her stop and begins to speak as he exhales the cloud of toxins.]
Dragon: People are stupid, doc and you know it. I mean, you get fucking paid to deal with the scum, twisted, sexually imbalanced and retarded people of society. Shit, if it weren’t for people like me, you would have to find another line of work. Maybe drug addicts would be more your thing. Either way, you and I both know that people like me… make normal… what it is. Without people like me, normal wouldn’t exist, because everyone would be exactly the same.
[She nods as he continues to speak.]
Dragon: People like me make shit interesting. We shake things up, make people take notice and make news, newsworthy. When was the last time the guy who lives downstairs from me did something out of the norm? Hmm? Maybe he calls in sick once every other month so he can spend the day with the hood-rat. But for all intents and purposes, normal for them is smoking pot every night when the kids go to sleep and taking my fucking parking spot so that I have to slash their tires rather than their necks. Fact is, doc, society needs people like me. Society enjoys freaks, that’s why the circus has been around for as long as it has. Shit, if I wasn’t so good at what I do, I’d find myself a nice quiet carnival to jump on board with and be the human cannonball or the human pincushion. Something that would pay me to continue to entertain the normal people of this worthless country.
Dr. Torres: Is that how you see yourself? A sideshow freak?
Dragon: No, I see myself as a visionary to how people should act. Fuck the little filter between your brain and your mouth. Fuck the filter between your brain and your fists or the brain and your actions. Everyone is entitled to their opinion and if their opinion pisses me off, I should have the right to punch them in the face for it. In that case, if I punch someone in the face, he has the right to fight me for what he believes in and if he feels THAT strongly about it, he should have the right to KILL me for what he believes in… but if he wants to KILL me for it, then he’s got to be willing to DIE for it as well… which is why The Covenant works so well.
[The doctor now shakes her head violently as if Dragon’s twisted head has lost her somewhere in the translation.]
Dr. Torres: Now you’ve lost me.
Dragon: Do I respect Chassie? Of course I do. Do I respect Raenius and Dirge? Of course I do. Do we all have a common bond and belief system that has kept us together and unified for seven years? Certainly. When it comes right down to it, we’d all die trying to protect the other’s interest… because we’d KILL to keep the others safe. Once you’re willing to die for something, you have the right to kill for it. That’s why war is so profitable.
[Again with the violent shake from the doctor.]
Dr. Torres: Again with… huh?
Dragon: See…
[Dragon sits up quickly and smashes his cigarette out beneath his boot on the hardwood floors inside her office. He now is a bit more animated, knowing he’s captured her insight and intellect into his madness.]
Dragon: …the governments all over the world have their own society under control. Well, by and large anyway. Here in the good old U S of A, Mr. Obama has the masses believing that change is coming and that he’s going to get America back to the greatness it was only fifteen to twenty years ago. The only true superpower in the world, the richest and most successful country in the history of the planet. But, see, if we only go back a few years, George Bush was thinking that fighting this war in Iraq was maintaining the freedoms that we have come to know and believe in and trust are inalienable human rights. So they got a shitload of dumbfucks to go over to the desert and play soldier, to die for the “freedoms” they believe they have.
[At this point, the doctor has put her pad and pen down and has put her pen inside the cleavage of her blouse and is intently paying attention to the madness spewing from this man’s mouth. Her eyes grow intently wider almost with each word that comes forth.]
Dragon: Fact is, no one has any fucking rights. Rights are something dead white men came up with to get the dumb fuckers to get behind the revolution over two-hundred years ago. “No taxation without representation” is a catchphrase, not a damn battle cry. Just as “The Pretty One” is trying to rally the troops to believe his abomination of a debut is going to be something worthy of The Covenant making any more than a pussy fart in his direction.
[The doctor sits back now, having lost him once again. This is becoming a habit. She is about to speak as Dragon cuts her off and puts a finger across her lips]
Dragon: Shhhh…. Be quiet… you’re gonna piss somebody off. I’ve got my first match back this week against two newcomers to GIW. Everknight and Vanity ShowWood. I’d call Vanity a thorn in my side if he actually were more than a herpes infection on the wrestling world. Once every year or so, his diseased, pompous, self-serving, asexual ass shows up and begins talking about how he’s going to make over everyone in the world and how everything is below him. Sad thing about it is, he’s the one that’s below everything because everywhere he goes, he ends up staring at spotlights and getting a solid and steady dose of Valtrex. After a couple weeks, he’s all cleared up and the world goes on as it did before. Nothing’s changed, he’s made no lasting impression on anything, but while he’s visible you’re not going to find too many people wanting to hop in bed with you.
Dr. Torres: Do you want to kill him?
Dragon: On my worst day, my most bored of moments, my most uncreative and bleak feelings, NO. I wouldn’t even waste my time kidnapping the fat bastard because fat people are harder to kidnap. Besides, all I’d ever hear about is his damn makeup and I really don’t feel like poisoning him. It’s too difficult and takes too long. I’d much rather allow him to fall back into obscurity as he always does than dealing with him any further. I’ll get through this one match with him and move on. The kid, though, he’s the wild card here.
[Doctor Torres quickly picks up her notes and removes the pen again. She’s back to being the doctor and not a gawking, drooling idiot she was just minutes earlier. She flips through her notes…]
Dr. Torres: William Everknight.
Dragon: Yeah, him.
Dr. Torres: Do you want to kill him?
[Dragon stops, saying nothing but giving her a dark stare. He speaks slowly to keep things clear.]
Dragon: When I want… to kill someone… I’ll let you know. FREAK.
[Dr. Torres looks to the ceiling and realizes that she’s becoming too interested in his homicidal fantasies. He continues.]
Dragon: See, anyone who has earned the moniker “Fighting Spirit” obviously has done something to prove he’s got the ability in this business. Thing is, he freely admits his neck is his weak spot… and that’s the spot I’ve always targeted. Kill the head… and the body shall die. Can’t do a whole lot of moves if your spine is in shambles. So, it’ll just be a replay of what I did to Osiris last week. I certainly hope ‘The Kid’ was watching the beating I put on that boy, because he’ll have to be watching for those exact moves. Curb Stomp, Ego Death, along with each and every innovative neck breaker I’ve got in my arsenal. I’m not going to kill the kid. He deserves a chance to see the world for what it is. I mean, he’s only 25 and he needs to get his man muscles. He needs to get the hair on his chest to grow in fully and be able to fully shave a beard off before he’s able to be considered a man in this business.
Dr. Torres: Time’s up Mickey.
Dragon: Same time next week?
Dr. Torres: Of course. You need to be here. The people giving me this money assure me you’ll be here every week for the duration of our sessions. If not, you’re going back to the home.
Dragon: Yeah fuck that idea. You’ll need to kill me to get me back there.
Dr. Torres: You have a severe fascination with death, Mickey. We’ll address that. For now, though, you need to go.
Dragon: Right…
[Dragon stands and gathers his few belongings. Sunglasses, cigarettes, wallet, cell phone, and keys before heading toward the door. He pulls the door open and walks through, leaving the doctor alone in her office. He walks past the receptionist, another young woman of about twenty, answering phones with her headset on. She smiles and gives a little wave to the passing man and camera crew. Dragon exit’s the office building onto the street and begins walking toward his car. ]
Dragon: It’s good to be back. Good to have fresh victims to create. I don’t WANT to kill anyone… but if it happens….
[--black--]
Woman’s voice: How did that make you feel?
Dragon: If you think I feel some sort of penitence for taking a man out of his own sense of self-righteousness and proving to him that everything he was told was the truth, then you’re sadly mistaken. What I feel is more an exoneration knowing that Dirge, Chassie and Raenius were not lying to Osiris. See…
Woman: You have no remorse for breaking his neck?
Dragon: Do you feel remorse for killing a cockroach? They’re annoying, disgusting, and want nothing but to dig through your life for their own reproduction. Osiris was nothing more than a cockroach.
Woman: Mr. Dragon…
Dragon: Dr Torres…
Dr. Torres: How’s your home life?
[Silence. Dragon’s finally been asked a question he truly can’t answer. Home? Where is home? Home has been everywhere from the mansion he blew up in Las Vegas years ago to the hospital room in Japan he spent months recuperating after the Ultimate Dragon’s Lair Match. Home has been Chassie Fear’s Victorian house in Florida and has been the streets of Atlantic City, only trying to survive off the scraps he got from working small independent shows growing up. Home has been his abusive father, home has been the road, home has been a car, a hotel room, a campsite, an airplane. Almost everywhere, and yet when he truly asks himself that question, home is nowhere.
The camera has panned into the office where Mickey Dragon lays on the psychologist’s couch. His bald head glistening toward the sky with the windows wide open and beautiful sunlight coming through, brightening the room. His eyes are covered by a blindfold, helping him to visualize the words he wishes to put forth. Images inside that twisted skull are things perhaps no one on this planet wishes to have in the craziest of nightmares. Dragon wears a black t-shirt with a intricate design of an eagle with bleeding wings falling to some sort of visual representation of hell. His black shorts hang below his knee and his combat boots dangle off the end of the couch, twitching back and forth as if he’s nervous or has restless leg syndrome.
He shakes his head a few times and wipes a bead of sweat from just the floor’s side of his right temple and takes a long, deep breath before responding to the question posed to him.]
Dragon: Home hasn’t been a steady place for me in quite a long time, Doc. Last time I remember having a steady home, I was engaged in a relationship that, needless to say, ended with me having knee surgery. Right now, I own a small apartment on the east side of LA, living in a high rise with a bunch of low-income people.
Dr. Torres: How does that make you feel? Living around low-income families, I mean…
[Dragon again takes a deep breath before continuing.]
Dragon: I see so many people that need to get off their dead asses and do something with their pathetic existances. My downstairs neighbor’s children have more shit on their shirts and faces than in their bellies. They barely have a pot to piss in, but her weave matches her nails and she’s got to go to the club every fucking weekend. Poor guy…
Dr. Torres: Poor who?
Dragon: Oh, trust me. I’m not feeling sorry for the guy who lives with her. He makes his own fuckin bed, working two jobs and supporting her and her kids. I just feel bad for the guy because he’s not seeing a dime of the welfare money she’s pulling in. The welfare money you and I, doc, are paying in so she can get her hair done every week. It’s kinda like watching someone torture themselves each and everyday and not being able to join in the fun.
Dr. Torres: How so?
Dragon: I’m not sure… I just enjoy the thought of torturing people.
[Dragon begins to chuckle. The doc begins writing across her yellow legal pad and fixes her glasses after a few words.]
Dragon: That…. Probably wasn’t a good thing to say, huh?
[The doctor releases an intoxicating little giggle at the slip of the tongue Dragon had and, upon catching himself, admitted his fault. The giggle made Dragon take notice and turn his body toward her, laying in a fetal position, pulling his legs up toward his midsection. He reaches for a pack of cigarettes he obviously can’t see and is only a few inches away when the doctor hands them to him.]
Dr. Torres Those will kill you, ya know?
Dragon: So will working two jobs and supporting a lazy bitch and her two kids that aren’t yours… but people like to point out MY death trap. Don’t try telling dude about his deadbeat girlfriend.
Dr. Torres: Let’s change gears here, Mickey. I can see this man’s plight gets to you.
Dragon: Actually, doc, it doesn’t. Like I said, he’s living the situation he’s made for himself. I could give a shit less if she worked eighty hours a week sucking the chrome off a trailer hitch on the corner --
Dr. Torres: That’s enough. Let’s talk about your return to your job. Been quite a while, hasn’t it?
Dragon: Well, it certainly has. Felt good to pull the wool over that prick’s eyes. I would’ve enjoyed pulling his eyes… never mind.
Dr. Torres: Mickey, listen to me. Feel free to reveal whatever homicidal feelings you have because, that’s what I’m being paid to pull out of you. I want to find the root of these demonic feelings. Someone quite interested in your well-being would prefer you to stay out of jail and institutions for a while and at work. The more we focus on your desires to maim and kill, the closer we’ll be toward you finding your way back to a normal life.
Dragon: What the fuck do you consider normal?
Dr. Torres: What do YOU consider normal?
Dragon: No… you said I would find my way back to a normal life. YOU used the term so you tell me exactly how you would determine what would be a normal life for me. I mean, shit, depending on who you ask, a normal life for me could be when I was killing children and lesbians.
[Dragon now pulls a cigarette from his pack and pulls off the blindfold to light the cigarette.]
Dragon: And this fucking thing annoys me. I’m not wearing it.
[Dragon throws the blindfold to the floor and lights his cigarette, allowing the poison to billow toward the ceiling in a small mushroom cloud.]
Dragon: So, again I ask, what is normal?
Dr. Torres: I don’t know… a relationship. A house. A healthy relationship with friends, colleagues, society.
[Dragon begins to shake his head as he inhales his first drag of the cigarette. He raises his hand to make her stop and begins to speak as he exhales the cloud of toxins.]
Dragon: People are stupid, doc and you know it. I mean, you get fucking paid to deal with the scum, twisted, sexually imbalanced and retarded people of society. Shit, if it weren’t for people like me, you would have to find another line of work. Maybe drug addicts would be more your thing. Either way, you and I both know that people like me… make normal… what it is. Without people like me, normal wouldn’t exist, because everyone would be exactly the same.
[She nods as he continues to speak.]
Dragon: People like me make shit interesting. We shake things up, make people take notice and make news, newsworthy. When was the last time the guy who lives downstairs from me did something out of the norm? Hmm? Maybe he calls in sick once every other month so he can spend the day with the hood-rat. But for all intents and purposes, normal for them is smoking pot every night when the kids go to sleep and taking my fucking parking spot so that I have to slash their tires rather than their necks. Fact is, doc, society needs people like me. Society enjoys freaks, that’s why the circus has been around for as long as it has. Shit, if I wasn’t so good at what I do, I’d find myself a nice quiet carnival to jump on board with and be the human cannonball or the human pincushion. Something that would pay me to continue to entertain the normal people of this worthless country.
Dr. Torres: Is that how you see yourself? A sideshow freak?
Dragon: No, I see myself as a visionary to how people should act. Fuck the little filter between your brain and your mouth. Fuck the filter between your brain and your fists or the brain and your actions. Everyone is entitled to their opinion and if their opinion pisses me off, I should have the right to punch them in the face for it. In that case, if I punch someone in the face, he has the right to fight me for what he believes in and if he feels THAT strongly about it, he should have the right to KILL me for what he believes in… but if he wants to KILL me for it, then he’s got to be willing to DIE for it as well… which is why The Covenant works so well.
[The doctor now shakes her head violently as if Dragon’s twisted head has lost her somewhere in the translation.]
Dr. Torres: Now you’ve lost me.
Dragon: Do I respect Chassie? Of course I do. Do I respect Raenius and Dirge? Of course I do. Do we all have a common bond and belief system that has kept us together and unified for seven years? Certainly. When it comes right down to it, we’d all die trying to protect the other’s interest… because we’d KILL to keep the others safe. Once you’re willing to die for something, you have the right to kill for it. That’s why war is so profitable.
[Again with the violent shake from the doctor.]
Dr. Torres: Again with… huh?
Dragon: See…
[Dragon sits up quickly and smashes his cigarette out beneath his boot on the hardwood floors inside her office. He now is a bit more animated, knowing he’s captured her insight and intellect into his madness.]
Dragon: …the governments all over the world have their own society under control. Well, by and large anyway. Here in the good old U S of A, Mr. Obama has the masses believing that change is coming and that he’s going to get America back to the greatness it was only fifteen to twenty years ago. The only true superpower in the world, the richest and most successful country in the history of the planet. But, see, if we only go back a few years, George Bush was thinking that fighting this war in Iraq was maintaining the freedoms that we have come to know and believe in and trust are inalienable human rights. So they got a shitload of dumbfucks to go over to the desert and play soldier, to die for the “freedoms” they believe they have.
[At this point, the doctor has put her pad and pen down and has put her pen inside the cleavage of her blouse and is intently paying attention to the madness spewing from this man’s mouth. Her eyes grow intently wider almost with each word that comes forth.]
Dragon: Fact is, no one has any fucking rights. Rights are something dead white men came up with to get the dumb fuckers to get behind the revolution over two-hundred years ago. “No taxation without representation” is a catchphrase, not a damn battle cry. Just as “The Pretty One” is trying to rally the troops to believe his abomination of a debut is going to be something worthy of The Covenant making any more than a pussy fart in his direction.
[The doctor sits back now, having lost him once again. This is becoming a habit. She is about to speak as Dragon cuts her off and puts a finger across her lips]
Dragon: Shhhh…. Be quiet… you’re gonna piss somebody off. I’ve got my first match back this week against two newcomers to GIW. Everknight and Vanity ShowWood. I’d call Vanity a thorn in my side if he actually were more than a herpes infection on the wrestling world. Once every year or so, his diseased, pompous, self-serving, asexual ass shows up and begins talking about how he’s going to make over everyone in the world and how everything is below him. Sad thing about it is, he’s the one that’s below everything because everywhere he goes, he ends up staring at spotlights and getting a solid and steady dose of Valtrex. After a couple weeks, he’s all cleared up and the world goes on as it did before. Nothing’s changed, he’s made no lasting impression on anything, but while he’s visible you’re not going to find too many people wanting to hop in bed with you.
Dr. Torres: Do you want to kill him?
Dragon: On my worst day, my most bored of moments, my most uncreative and bleak feelings, NO. I wouldn’t even waste my time kidnapping the fat bastard because fat people are harder to kidnap. Besides, all I’d ever hear about is his damn makeup and I really don’t feel like poisoning him. It’s too difficult and takes too long. I’d much rather allow him to fall back into obscurity as he always does than dealing with him any further. I’ll get through this one match with him and move on. The kid, though, he’s the wild card here.
[Doctor Torres quickly picks up her notes and removes the pen again. She’s back to being the doctor and not a gawking, drooling idiot she was just minutes earlier. She flips through her notes…]
Dr. Torres: William Everknight.
Dragon: Yeah, him.
Dr. Torres: Do you want to kill him?
[Dragon stops, saying nothing but giving her a dark stare. He speaks slowly to keep things clear.]
Dragon: When I want… to kill someone… I’ll let you know. FREAK.
[Dr. Torres looks to the ceiling and realizes that she’s becoming too interested in his homicidal fantasies. He continues.]
Dragon: See, anyone who has earned the moniker “Fighting Spirit” obviously has done something to prove he’s got the ability in this business. Thing is, he freely admits his neck is his weak spot… and that’s the spot I’ve always targeted. Kill the head… and the body shall die. Can’t do a whole lot of moves if your spine is in shambles. So, it’ll just be a replay of what I did to Osiris last week. I certainly hope ‘The Kid’ was watching the beating I put on that boy, because he’ll have to be watching for those exact moves. Curb Stomp, Ego Death, along with each and every innovative neck breaker I’ve got in my arsenal. I’m not going to kill the kid. He deserves a chance to see the world for what it is. I mean, he’s only 25 and he needs to get his man muscles. He needs to get the hair on his chest to grow in fully and be able to fully shave a beard off before he’s able to be considered a man in this business.
Dr. Torres: Time’s up Mickey.
Dragon: Same time next week?
Dr. Torres: Of course. You need to be here. The people giving me this money assure me you’ll be here every week for the duration of our sessions. If not, you’re going back to the home.
Dragon: Yeah fuck that idea. You’ll need to kill me to get me back there.
Dr. Torres: You have a severe fascination with death, Mickey. We’ll address that. For now, though, you need to go.
Dragon: Right…
[Dragon stands and gathers his few belongings. Sunglasses, cigarettes, wallet, cell phone, and keys before heading toward the door. He pulls the door open and walks through, leaving the doctor alone in her office. He walks past the receptionist, another young woman of about twenty, answering phones with her headset on. She smiles and gives a little wave to the passing man and camera crew. Dragon exit’s the office building onto the street and begins walking toward his car. ]
Dragon: It’s good to be back. Good to have fresh victims to create. I don’t WANT to kill anyone… but if it happens….
[--black--]
