The hell with this.

I want it.

You can’t have it.

I need it.

You can’t want it.

Easy there, Mr, we’ve been here before…don’t you remember? You know how this ends. That bomb strapped to your chest requires explosives, and you know you’re too lazy to get any. That terrible splitting frustration you feel isn’t real, you know, despite your claims of validity, and you can be soundly assured that no one cares regardless. Oh, quit crying like a little girl, I don’t have the patience to put up with it at the moment. There are too many men to kill and bitches to claim to waste any more time with this incessant whining. So take a back seat, fella, you’ve had your time to lament the death of the world. It’s time for yours truely to take this body for a bit and show you how it’s done. Do my tie, will you, as long as you’re back there? Thank you. And what have you done to our hair? You’ve let it get completely out of hand…no, we’re going to the barber. I know you like the way it feels when the salon ladies wash it, but a straight shave should do you some good. You stay here and clean my gun while I take this sack of muscle and bones down to get cleaned up like a proper gentleman. No, not the .45, I’ll be holstering the big iron this season. Grease the belt and prepare the bait traps while you’re at it, we’re going hunting at first daybreak…