Awright, Shane. You're a goddamn little punk, not worth the dirt under the fingernails of a real man. You can't hold your liquor and I'm told by our Canadian brothers and sisters that women run from you, not because of your looks but because of your breath and body odour. I've seen your kind before, BOY: you're a self-centered drunk punk with no self-discipline, a petty thief, and a general leech on society. Back in the Corps you wouldn't last ten minutes because everybody would shoot you to save themselves.

You're a worm, a maggot feeding on the work of your betters. But because I have been asked to do so by Officer Dana, you may take the test again. I've told her she's wrong, but she something in you that might, might be salvageable.

KB, you're in.