"So, what would you like to know? You're a journalist; it's your job to ask me questions. What do I do with the girls? That's a good question. Well, before I do what we're doing, I sit down, relax, have a drink. I like that part a lot. Having a chat when both of you know that one of you is going to die. Afterwards I just get rid of them, far out at sea. Unlike my father. He left them scattered all over the place, like trophies. That's not very smart, if you ask me. He was a loud and garish man; frankly, he got what he deserved. You can't be a sloppy technician like that. You can't drink to excess, like he did. This takes discipline. It's a science of a thousand details: the planning, the execution, the cleanup. I guess I don't have to tell you, but you're going to create quite a mess. Let me ask you something. Why don't people trust their instincts? They sense something is wrong, someone is walking too close behind them... You knew something was wrong, but you came back into the house. Did I force you, did I drag you? No. All I had to do was offer you a drink. It's hard to believe the fear of offending can be stronger than the fear of pain but, you know what? It is, and they always come willingly. And they sit there, and they know it's all over, just like you do, but somehow they still think they have a chance. Maybe if I say the right thing, maybe if I'm polite, if I cry, if I beg. And when I see the hope draining from their face, like it's draining from yours right now, I feel myself getting hard. But you know, we're not that different, you and I. We both have urges. Satisfying mine requires more towels."