John would very much like to be excluded from this narrative, one that he has never asked to be a part of. Still, he says, "Yeah, if she was your hot glittery girlfriend who's into being killed in front of an audience, or maybe your worst enemy who bullied you all through school — of course it matters, fuck. But nah, you just don't value human life. That's it, right? Like picking a cow to barbecue. No judgement, I get it, I still eat steak even though I have it on good authority that cows watch sunsets together or some shit. Though I do try to eat my steak instead of just throwing it in the trash."

This metaphor is getting away from him a little bit. There's a huff of breath in between his words, as he strides across the lawns, putting some effort in. His socks are dew-wet, and he's sweating lightly, real sweat this time rather than blood. He doesn't look at Armand at all.