Right there, in that leather armchair. That's right. Here, have a Chardonnay and some chocolate steak. You're in my cabin in the middle of the mountains, alone, unarmed, and smelling like shit. There's a fire crackling in the hearth. You draw up your quilt--my mother made that quilt, you fuck--and lean your cheek toward the blaze. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you came here to listen to my stories. Well, I don't know better, because that's exactly why you're here and that's exactly what I'm going to do.
My name's Tornado Jackson. Yes, Tornado, as in a whirling column of dust and wood that God saves just for farmers. And Jackson, as in the late Michael. My name is Tornado Fucking Jackson, and if you're really looking to stay, I've got a hell of a lot to tell you.