[there's a dismissive grunt behind ronan's head. kavinsky's a little confused--] The fuck does Harry Pott-- Jesus, Lynch. [disgruntled. amused. you know, it gets in the way of villainous monologuing when your captive is obviously well-read in children's books. but never mind. stories of english wizards and references to famous pigs are swept aside as they go out into the open. a dozen faces turn up to stare. the rowdy crowd of kavinsky's boys. so many coral necklaces and fitted sweatshirts, designer jeans.]

Gentlemen. I present to you, self-righteous shithead in gimp mask. Say hi to self-righteous shithead in gimp mask. Hey, self-righteous shithead in gimp mask, say hi to the boys.

[they're an expensive-looking bunch, a funny contrast to the rest of the space around them. big, rusting machinery in the background, standing sinister, evocative.

and right by the catwalk, just beyond the railing beside ronan, there's a heavy set of chains dangling from a ceiling rail with a huge heavy hook at the end. once upon a time, this place was a slaughterhouse. these days, the window sills are decorated with red solo cups and rich kids park modified two-doors in the wide open floorspace.

a chorus of hellos comes up to greet ronan. it's very stupid.]