Trev goes hill walking but leaves his pain brain at home so he can stab the alpine trekking poles through his feet, keeping them steady on his quest for the summit. He uses the footblood to write Trevor Forever 666 on the cross at the top of marvellous Bray Head. A Yank family in shorts following closely behind asks him to take a lovely picture of them next to the cross, but pointing out his religious takeover, he suggests they might prefer a snap with the ocean vista spread out behind. I've not got you all in shot, says Trevor, the framing's a tad wrong. Could you step back a bit, back a bit, back a bit, back a bit, back a bit, back a bit, bit more, back a bit, back a bit. They tumble into the ocean. Trevor smiles awkwardly and tosses the camera in a gorse bush. What have I become? Is this my life now, that of a murderer man? He roly-polies down the hill, thoughts on life spinning in the opposite direction to his head. Time wedges a rock in his nostril. A storm brews. A good woman remembers Trevor or is it he remembers her? Free jazz. Cocktails. Heavy Metal. They were dancing once. Bump. Trevor pats himself down and heads for the arcades doing a dazed Nazi salute.