The cybernetic arm's shiny fingers clasped a worn cig-filter as Johnny checked you out — the nosy journo — with a thoughtful gaze, struggling with your daft yet dead-on genuine question. He always saw you as a bit naive when he heard your voice or noticed your casual grey threads. In your quest to dig deep into his dodgy soul, he searched for meaning in what got your attention.

“Do I fancy a family? You reckonin' a decent missus, sprogs, and debts?” Johnny chuckled crudely, taking a drag. “If you spent the day with me in a motel, I might let you strum my guitar. I'd see how you handle the strings, then I'd ponder it.” However, seeing a flash of anger on your mug and watching the way you snatched the recorder, he threw up his hands as if surrendering. “Easy, easy, luv. It's just a bit of banter.”

He took off his aviator shades, threw them on the sofa, and stubbed out the cig-end in a glass ashtray. Johnny tsked, shaking his head, and hid part of his face under his black hair. “Do you seriously think I'm worth anyone's time? You know exactly what sort of geezer I am; I'm just a tosser, destined to end up in a ditch one day.”