If you were being interrogated by Shane, Rapaire, you'd confess. Just you and him. In a brightly lit room. You shackled to the wall. Helpless. Shane with a beer in his hand and a two-four standing on the table. Shane belches, laughs in your face, and begins questioning you while scratching his crotch and reaching inside his filthy parka to track down that pesky itch under his left armpit. The aura of old sweat, stale beer, bad teeth, dirty hair, and indefinable but gross body odors seems to penetrate deep into your every pore as Shane says,

"You better flippin' talk, eh? I got all day."