Wheeling Gull Isle i am clawing at porcelain

Witchdoctor watches as the boy lowers himself to the ground and his ears lay flat in submission. Witchdoctor lets out an exasperated sigh, his weight shifting. Evidently, the poor boy was horribly confused — it was written all over his face — and Witchdoctor lacks the patience to explain it and wonders if he does, somehow, find the patience he needs if the boy would even remember. He suspects there is something wrong because the boy had forgotten his very strict orders about not whining about whats-his-name not being able to find them on the trip here. There’s a part of the doctor that wonders if he can possibly give the boy some kind of medicine to help with that. Not because he’s good and wants to do it out of the kindness of his heart but because he doesn’t want to keep explaining everything for the rest of his life. In all honestly, the only reason why Witchdoctor didn’t try to lose the boy by now is because Hemlock appears to have affection for the forgetful youth.

“Yes, well, that’s unfortunate.” Witchdoctor grumbles as it’s pointed out to him that he looks like the deceased gangster. Alas, there wasn’t anything to be done about that. He was stuck in his body, trapped in these bones. It was his body now. “Not just a different name. A different …everything. I am not Arturo. I will never be Arturo. Not just in name but in personality. In interests.” He explains with a slight grind of his teeth. There is nothing like being compared to your inferior edition. There was nothing good, nothing great about the gangster. He was dull and his death is a breath of fresh air, as far as Witchdoctor is concerned.