Hiro holds his hands out, so the drizzling rain might cleanse the filth from them. He power-walks behind Cash: a slum Jesus in nutjob clothes, offering his revolting boon to the heavens. "Who the fuck is Erin Vale?" he demands of the dime-bag cowboy, as whatever is coating his hands begins to liquify in the rain. This does not make the spectacle more attractive; his fingertips now drift with a material the consistency and colour of something you find under your elderly aunt's sink.