"It's the reason half these train workers drop dead by thirty, son. Gets in your lungs.

You oughtta get the hell outta this hole 'fore that concrete giant eats ya whole."

He points ahead. Pressing his lips shut before biting taking a huff from his cigarette

"Klansmen, cops, pollution, feds, gangsters..."

He continues the list, smirking under his moustache at the young man. Nothing against him. But Jorge has a *strong* disdain for cities.

"Home *is* where your people are.

Could never, my friend. All people, and bustle and noise. Looks like hell on earth to me."

He points out, scanning the distant city spires with visible disdain.

Missus.

But it is preetty, I guess."

He flips the knife, caught by the tip and offered by the wooden grip.

Subtle wearing signs show it's been endlessly used and sharpened. Again and again.

"Bit like that mask, I think."

"Patience. Make sure you're aiming proper. Nadie nació enseñado."

He gently holds her arm. Stretching it, until it is almost completely straight, but gently bent at the elbow to manage the recoil. Back straight, and both hands on the grip.

"Use the ironsights. Don't just fire at random, Mija."

¿Que hizo el desgraciado?"

Incluso cómodo en lo surreal de la situación. Estirando la izquierda enguantada hacia las calaveras. Buscando cortes en el hueso de la herramienta usada para despellejarlas.

"Vio al culpable?"