Wooldog: if‘n ya, one dark day, happened to, well, kill a man. Not in cold blood, mind. But let’s say a man came ‘round one day and stole yer favorite hunting’ hound. And it made you mad. It made you real mad. Mad the likes that hadn’t been seen since ol’ Lot left the twin cities of Saddam and Gomorrah aflame in holy retribution. Mad like that. And you found the man that nicked your beloved hound. And he was lookin‘ up at the sky, or cooking his supper, or polishing his beanpole. And in that dark minute, the devil came over you. Held you by the throat. Raised your mighty arms, and ‘lo—you done cold-cocked that motherfucker across the back of his god-blessed melon. Then what, Wooldog? Would you come back to your homeland? Explore your roots a bit? Settle DOWN with a lady who had never hear tell of your terrible deeds of yore? sayin‘ the Bolts won it all. Would you do it then? (grim prospector voice pls)