The whore complained how filthy he was, and how he resisted, and on and on, and usually we’d stop people who were just being annoying. But we preferred hearing her whine than having to confront Kian Hamilton… what was left of Kian Hamilton.
This is the film clip we were sent. He was very tall and held himself with power. He was muscular and yet moved like a ballet dancer.
This is a photo of his face; beautiful. Everything, from his hairline to his eyebrows to his eyes … to his chin, perfect, charming, handsome.
And this is what is before us. A skeletal version, with dim eyes and cloudy complexion, just another ignorable homeless man.
Jesse paid the whore, she left, and we got Hamilton into the chair and I did a short film of him, and sent it to the client.
We ordered food and before it arrived, the client had sent back; “Forget it.”
We waited until his parents came, and the little mother cried and cried, and the father looked as if he would punch his son into a pulp.
We left the Hotel with them, they took him to their car, we drove to the airport, caught the red eye back to California.
We were in air when Jesse gave me his handkerchief.