"So," he shrugs, "when I was sixteen or so, one guy made an offer he didn't want me to refuse. I told him to fuck off, he pulled a knife. I wasn't so scary in those days." He touches the scar on his neck. "Bad news for him, a knife to my throat doesn't mean shit." Then he sighs, and drops his hand. "Bad news for me, he got what he wanted anyway. I'm okay about it now, but for a while I wasn't."