[Travis relates to absolutely none of what Wade has just said. Not in the least.
He's under no illusions: he knows just how badly he'd been getting fleeced by his "handler" in the early years of his career. Hearing the actual lived experience of another killer, though-- none of the bullshit spectacle of the above-ground, someone who'd always been in on the deepest levels of their line of business-- sets the distance between them in a relief so stark he can almost feel the whiplash. He's got the trailer, a manor he'd "inherited" from Death Metal, the same old motel room, and his bike. None of the life of globetrotting and luxury that Wade seems to hint at. For a second he craves it jealously, thrown all the way back to his hungry 27-year-old self: all that Travis had wanted was that life of ease and luxury. In the blink of an eye a decade of his life returns, and the thought of paying fuckin' taxes on safehouses just makes him feel exhausted.
The thoughts dig into him, little feline claws sinking under his skin. Maybe this is the actual midlife crisis: feeling like you've burned out before you really even had the chance to get started.]
Huh? [Food, thank God. Food is the great equalizer. The wings knock him out of his reverie long enough to grab a flat.] Yeah, lemme get one of those.
[He tears into it; it is, of course, delicious. Everything he's eaten here has been.]
Well, I did say I was taking a break before I got here. I've had a few good matchups in the last few months, but none of it was for cash... just getting some stuff squared up before I can get back to doing what I do best.
[The killing. The heart of the life they lead, at least, will always make sense.]
NOW YOU'VE DONE IT
He's under no illusions: he knows just how badly he'd been getting fleeced by his "handler" in the early years of his career. Hearing the actual lived experience of another killer, though-- none of the bullshit spectacle of the above-ground, someone who'd always been in on the deepest levels of their line of business-- sets the distance between them in a relief so stark he can almost feel the whiplash. He's got the trailer, a manor he'd "inherited" from Death Metal, the same old motel room, and his bike. None of the life of globetrotting and luxury that Wade seems to hint at. For a second he craves it jealously, thrown all the way back to his hungry 27-year-old self: all that Travis had wanted was that life of ease and luxury. In the blink of an eye a decade of his life returns, and the thought of paying fuckin' taxes on safehouses just makes him feel exhausted.
The thoughts dig into him, little feline claws sinking under his skin. Maybe this is the actual midlife crisis: feeling like you've burned out before you really even had the chance to get started.]
Huh? [Food, thank God. Food is the great equalizer. The wings knock him out of his reverie long enough to grab a flat.] Yeah, lemme get one of those.
[He tears into it; it is, of course, delicious. Everything he's eaten here has been.]
Well, I did say I was taking a break before I got here. I've had a few good matchups in the last few months, but none of it was for cash... just getting some stuff squared up before I can get back to doing what I do best.
[The killing. The heart of the life they lead, at least, will always make sense.]