The impoverish soprano saxophone improvisation kills the Moody Gospel in an free wheeling jam session; a series of inconsistent contradictions, refusals to be contacted, doing his dirty work, by proxy.
You think it's money, it's not; it's personality, and you haven't got one lieutenant.
What has he got that Susie likes? Lost his leg to a home town sweetheart, a feeble alibi for amorality. Your every move is obvious, all antisocial perversion of value, not cleverness, not imagination, just brute force.
The line of wolves who are nothing to anyone. You are Genghis Khan, Alexander the Great, Caesar - Yes, they were skilled; but were they subversive?