Pffft. The oak furniture was in terrible condition, I’d never seen such a sorry sight in all my life; I just couldn’t get over it. And then I did. That was a long time ago, things were different back then. I was but a young man in an old world, I had yet to find my place. These days I’m what they call a “gun for hire”. I made my living killing people, to put it bluntly. My art was death and I was a master painter, I was the monster under the bed, I was the dark in the basement, I was the cliché in the faux noir story. My final gunfight was the stuff of legends; people are still talking about it. But that’s another story. The story of how I fell into a vat of chemical waste outside the Jefferson factory (where they made Jeffersons, of course) and grew a third pair of hands is a story to inspire great men to do great things. But alas, that too, is a tale for another time.That too, is a tale for another time.Is a tale for another time.A tale for another time.Another time. Time time time time time.