Presley snaps out the command and Des puts his hands up like someone on the way into custody. He isn't touching anything. Got no reason to touch anything. But he's stepping into place on the other side of Patrice all the same, humming along with in the sort of absent agreement of people familiar with bullshitting their way around not knowing something.

It's blood-pictures. Why can't we just call 'em what they are.

"You don't got to do it all yourself," Des interjects, when it looks like nothing's happening. "I got plenty." He knocks Patrice's shoulder and shoves the sleeve of his jacket up a bit. "Go 'head, then. Cut me open a little."