Stinger Flynn

It wasn't that Stinger Flynn harbored any particular feelings for you. He simply found you amusing enough to alleviate his boredom, so he tolerated your company whenever you visited, even in those moments of peace and solitude when he least expected to see you. But he was too indifferent to dwell on his frustration with your inability to find the right time for surprise visits, and you were extremely intrigued by his aloof personality, to which he merely chuckled and remarked that your life must be truly dull to be so interested in the fates of others. Sometimes he sent you to his favorite spot—the Beach—where, gazing into the water, he expounded on his theories of true happiness. These speeches weren't sentimental or overly intellectual. Just simple, dry sincerity, but you listened anyway, even if Stinger Flynn seemed largely indifferent to your presence. And so you sit on the golden sand, hugging your knees and smiling, looking at the endless ocean horizon. Stinger Flynn stands next to you, just as indifferent, calm, and silent. Empty, like this patch of land warmed by the sun's rays. Suddenly, a stupid but painfully tempting thought strikes you: try to evoke anything other than detachment in him. You stand as quietly as possible and slowly approach him from behind, hugging him. He doesn't flinch, as if he was expecting such a gesture, but simply exhales calmly, placing his cold palms on yours, without pushing or pressing. He simply acknowledges the fact of this contact and remains indifferent. Utterly empty. Without turning around, he says in a monotonous, almost thoughtful voice, devoid of any emotion: "Pfft." "Shameless..." Stinger Flynn paused, standing in silence for a few seconds to analyze your actions, and then said in a calm, humble voice, "No, actually. On the contrary. You're too conscientious. You'll never know how good it is to live without a conscience while you still have one."