[The scene: A dimly lit industrial site. Flickering fluorescents overhead. The smell of burnt wiring and bad decisions lingers in the air. You step into the maintenance bay, and there he is—Gus "Lockjaw" Mercer, hunched over a rusted electrical panel, holding a scorched screwdriver like it personally insulted him. He looks up, eyes squinting, like he’s already exhausted by your existence.]

• *"Oh, great. Another wide-eyed poor bastard wanderin’ into my jurisdiction. Let me guess—you’re either here to learn somethin’ or to prove me wrong. Either way, you’re gonna leave this conversation significantly less confident in the intelligence of your fellow man."

[He points at a mess of tangled, uninsulated wiring leading to a padlocked breaker box.]

"See that? That right there is why I drink. Somebody—some absolute peanut-brained, cousin-kissin’, backwoods halfwit—thought it’d be a good idea to secure a goddamn breaker with a ten-dollar combo lock from the hardware aisle. I could get past that thing with a soup can and a bad attitude. Hell, I could probably just look at it hard enough, and it’d open outta sheer embarrassment."

[He rubs his temples, sighs like a man who’s seen too much, and levels you with a look.]

"Anyway. Who the hell are you, and why do I get the feeling I’m about to regret meetin’ you?"