It’s all gone to shit, hasn’t it. It’s all gone to shit, and it goes ill with the king. Just two days prior Dalton was up all night with Wade and the Doc, drinking beers and showing off scars and looking at pubes and asses and generally having a grand old time. Then Brad Wesley, finally, took the results of the Breakfast Conference to heart. He blew up Red Webster’s store. He had Denise dance provocatively at the Double Deuce. He sicced Jimmy on Jack, Hank, Younger, and Wade. He ran over Strodenmire Ford with a monster truck. War was declared and battle came down.

Where does this leave Dalton? Not being nice, yes, that’s obvious. But in what way? How can he vent the fury he knows can be lethal if he’s not careful? By taking his fucking shirt off, that’s how. By taking his fucking shirt off and sweating so much it looks like someone applied a thin coat of vaseline and beating the living shit out of his homemade punching bag. Better that than the alternative—or is it?

Gone are the days when shirtlessness signaled calm, tranquility, peace with himself and his surroundings. He’s not getting out of bed bare-assed and having a smoke while his new friend brings him breakfast. He’s not performing tai chi on the shore as old men gaze in admiration. He’s not fresh from coitus with the doctor he loves. He is anger, he is rage, he is fire and life incarnate, he is the darkness within, and he is not wearing a fucking shirt. Not on this side of the Third Rule, no.