On account. You just about sounded like a real person for a second there, good job. [He takes another slug of his beverage and grimaces. God that is nasty.

Raylan half-turns in his seat, eyeballing Dorian like he's a cockroach that spontaneously burst into song.]

So what's your job now - wandering the streets, delivering the eulogies of the dead and the cruel? Says more about your masochism than I frankly wanted to know.