Whatever. I’ve stopped caring. I’m not a bad guy, but you’re not going to believe that. People like you never do. You hear about what I do. You see how I live. You think, sleaze or deviant or something like that. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m all those things. I certainly don’t think God’s waiting for me to show up at his front gate. Again, it doesn’t matter. This isn’t really about me, is it? It’s about Joseph Perdue. Now there was a guy you should really hate. A real asshole. But you people only choose to see one side of him. You made him out the hero. Someday you’ll probably call him a martyr for the cause. For the American way. That’s what happens to the dead, isn’t it? No one cares about the truth. I remember the first time he came into the bar. That’s not really surprising. I remember every time someone new comes in. It’s part of my job. First I need to make sure the guy (they’re always guys) doesn’t look like an obvious problem. If he’s too drunk or too belligerent or has got a bad rep, I point him to another bar and say they got a special show that night and he shouldn’t miss it.
