"Come now," Dorny offered with a psuedo-sympathy in his voice. "We're all feckin' angry all the time." Taking a drag off his cigarette before clenching it between his index and center fingers on his right hand, he leaned in as if he was offering wisdom that had never been offered before.
"With what they've done to us on the streets, it's a feckin' miracle that we're all not on our ass these days." He waves a strong, yet withering arm out towards the curtain that leads to the pit. "You think they give a flying feck if another one dies? They're all too stoned off their tits between their money and fuckin' their cousins to care."
The cigarette naturally found its place between his lips, taking a drag and letting the smoke roll out as he spoke, like a dragon waiting to explode.
"It's all bullshit. They can start whatever care foundations and charities they want. But in this day and age? It's all feckin' bullshit, ain't it?"
Perhaps that was John Dorny's ultimate truth: It's all bullshit.