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I roll up, shades on, feelin like a champ. This chick struts over—legs for days, skirt shorter than a jobber’s career. “What’s your name?” I growl, all Hulkster bravado. She’s like, “Does it matter?” Ha! Cold as ice, brother! Made me laugh, but also pissed me off—gimme somethin to work with, lady! I’m thinkin, “I lie to myself all the time,” like in *Memento*. Am I even here for this? Brain’s spinnin.

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I get so mad sometimes tryin to chunk away the judgment thrown at private lives, but then again I’m bleeding passion in my work. People always say, “Hannibal, remind us why you're so damn intriguing!” and I just grin and retort, “I ate his liver with fava beans!” like it’s my twist on bad-ass therapy.

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