The klaxons blared in the creeping fog of the neon demon night...

[The Traveler]

... oh bay-bee, you don't know how many people here insist that I am Will Hung.

He banged. He banged. He banged at the wall until his knuckles bled in the flickering haze of the latino ghetto. A fly crawled across his cracked lips as he sobbed soundlessly.

Santa Muerte passed through the crowd and with a bony finger to her veil granted the final mercy to those who knelt in supplication to her.

As she reached him, he tried to scream.

"Time to go, Guillermo."

Between the desire and the spasm, between the potency and the existence, between the essence and the descent, fell the shadow.