But yes, they’re mad at you. A dog without a leash. They say, “You’re exactly what we thought you were.” To which, you reply, “I’m exactly what you made me.” Bill gawps over his sips of coffee and sucks his gums through his buck teeth. Then contends, “yeah, we thought you’d say something like that.” You look down painfully at the pattern of blood branching at your chest and collapse. Bill takes off your collar. The others remove your head and your horns. He admonishes while admiring your recent amputation, “shoulda just given ‘em up, I ‘spose" and picks sinew from his cynocepahlic mouth.