McCauley teaches lessons with a blowtorch. He speaks the language of violence because he’s unlearned vocal exchange. The impending presence of five bounty hunters will do that to you. Five bounty hunters, transient as wraiths. Drifting haunts with blanks for faces, blanks for names, dead end identifiers. Five subjects masked, trained, and armed by the powers that be. Five hands gripping objects used to sever McCauley’s extremities / oh christ oh gawd awmighty, how the fuck could they do this ta you, those muthafuckahs, those bastids, those sunsabitches, how, tell me how, ansah me, please tawk to me. […] O gawd please, O sweet motherahgawd please don’t let this happen, she’s awl I have, what have they done ta her, these fucks, have they no souls, have they no sense of humanity […] kill me gawd, just kill me fer fuck’s sake / He’s on a blacktop voyage. Orange-tongued torture scenes form an episodic narrative, dancing devilish in a mental safe house. The speedometer is a distant concern, like the ant problem under his porch. Under his porch, which is somewhere in the past but irrelevant to the reader. His home is no longer a place of significance. It’s an abandoned abattoir where obscene codes garnish the kitchen walls, written in ghastly red / fer fuck’s sake, take me ta the place I need ta go, ta the place where this kin end, ta the place where I kin find em, why gawd why, what did I do to deserve this, just answer me one fuckin time, I’m dyin, I’m dyin / A revenge scenario awaits in a warehouse. Behind corrugated steel walls. On a concrete platform, in a space that echoes wails and pleas and curses without impact. McCauley teaches lessons with a blowtorch.