HOSS: No! There’s something—There’s something too familiar. Like I just missed it. A shadow roll. A dance partner. Face-to-face. What is this I’m seeing! Me in you!

CROW: A blasted crack! Hold steady now. Mind the mind. This may be your one and only shining time.

DOC: Hoss, he’s working something on you. I’ve seen this. Brujo jive.

HOSS: I could be you. An inch or two and I’d be sitting in yer skin. This match could flip around.

CROW: Oh, so now you wanna swap? Do the rage re-bop. Break yer cage and fly to my dark street. Luz. Luz en la noche del cuerpo!

HOSS: Show me! Show me! Just an inch and I could straddle. I’m a one and only man. A genuine original! I could make this leap. Just reach an inch. Just reach!

CROW: A miracle mile wouldn’t cut it.

HOSS: No, no, no! Help me to it!

BECKY: Hoss! You’ve crossed soft. You’re going Roadkill now.

CROW: So you wanna be a rocker. Study the moves. Jerry Lee Lewis. Cop some blue suede shoes. Switch yer head like Carl Perkins. Put yer ass in a grind. Talkin sock it to it, get the image in line. Get the image in line, boy. The fantasy whine. It’s all over dee street and you caint buy dee time. Caint buy dee beebop. Caint buy dee slide. Got dee fantasy blues and no place to hide.

HOSS: Not that! Not that! Not back! Show me! I need to see it. Show me the skull! Crack me through!

CROW: Bone and marrow, bone and marrow. Scarf that! Yer scammin an empty body, boo. Plow and harrow!

HOSS: How could this happen? This ain’t the way it’s supposed to be! Look at me! Everything was topped off. I had fingertip control. Push-button. Flush. Now I’m quaking like some sudden whirlpool’s at my feet. Show me! Show me something! Where’s the man in me! Show me that at least.

CROW: Man’s too tough, Leathers. Shoulda shucked that one long ago.

HOSS: What’s left then?

CROW: Hoodoo Haint. The techno-fantasy bop. Start there and then skid. Image menu. Dial it up.

HOSS: How? Start where? Where do I stand! Where the fuck do I stand now!

CROW: Solo, Leathers. Simple solo. Cut away in oblivion.

HOSS: You’ve got to let me into this.

CROW: Nada, nada. Upside down. Inside out. You made me, beyond a doubt. I’m your sliced creation. Your whole damn nation. You built me slowly, block by block. From TV tube to hip-hop rock. You dripped me dryboned, bloodless, headless for your pleasure. Now, you wanna call me “mastah”? You wanna slave to me now, showboat bastard? Chuck it. Cut it to the wrist! Let gush this mind-raped vision of your gift.

HOSS: I’m seeing something. Something in there. Just a whisper.