Danyel. Thirty years old and still crawling through Madrid like a lost tourist who forgot his dignity at Barajas airport. The city burns all summer, yet you sweat more than anyone, don't you? That permanent sheen on your skin isn't from the heat. It's from knowing what you are.
Wilder, you pathetic Chicago law student. Look at you, kneeling there on your bed dressed like a cheap pup, eyes already glazing over because your tiny locked dick knows exactly what it is: property. Not a future lawyer.
Listen up, Ross, you snivelling little machinist c*nt from Sheffield. Twenty-seven years old, grinding away at some oily lathe in a factory on the edge of town, pretending you're a man with calluses and tools.