>>211400261 (OP)— OK, Bukowski. You've been watching this guy round the clock for a month. What does he love, what does he hate? Talk to me. Tell me what you see.
— I . . . I don't know what to say, sir. He'll joke about anything. He'll mock anything. He'll switch sides in an argument just for the hell of it. It's . . . it's as though he had no real feelings at all.
— Goddammit Bukowski. No-one can live like that. Day after day, week after week. Not even the most wretched shell of a man . . . Dig deep enough, you'll always find some genuine emotion eventually. You have to.
— Well . . . there does seem to be just one thing that gets him excited, sir.
— And that is?
— ‘Trips’, sir.
— ‘Trips’? You mean, trips abroad?
— No sir. This man hasn't left his house since his local supermarket started delivering.
— Then ‘trips’ must be a codeword. But for what?
— I have no idea, sir. These outbursts . . . they seem to happen absolutely at random.
— Hmm. Keep on it, Bukowski. When you find what a man really cares about, you're half-way to having your fingers around his scrotum. Good work.