Benton trod the dusty remains, unable to shake deserted dread. Weasel won the bet last night. Losing everything, he switched to souls. Benton feels broken; his body expecting the pain to come. Hoping for physical agony to block his regret, Benton drags on unarmed, head throbbing from tequila angst.
Graffiti graveyard looms ahead of Benton, and he knows his time is up. He stops sullen but anxious for release as the Groungers approach. The whiz of a chainsaw twitches his brow, but there is nowhere to run. Benton snivels, his wife will pay tomorrow. He lost her before losing himself.