[ Something tightens under the man in black’s skin at that particular word choice -- psychopath -- subtle in a rankle and a flash of white when his half a smile hooks into a grin.

Like a police dog, eager to bite. ]

You ever cut one open to make sure?

[ He’s genuinely curious, in an angling-to-help kinda way. There’s a flask on his belt; he pushes the knife away slow to trade it out so that he can unscrew the cap between them, watching Chilton all the while. Smells like tequila, while they’re busy breaking laws anyway. ]

Hell, you probably haven’t even cut on yourself.

Just take it for granted that you’re something superior. Anointed by the gods of this world to write prescriptions and rob banks.