No, god, no. He has to end this right now. No more. His talons are--blunt, too blunt, but right outside his door are two heavily armed men, and maybe they can do him a favor.

Phil spent over forty years pissing everybody off. Time to see if he's still got it.

They want fear. He won't give it to them.

"For what," he grumbles from the back of his cell, "the Whitestone Little League? I gotta say, this doesn't feel like tryouts."