Sanoja: Funeral. It Wasn't Me, It Was the Dog.

Held hostage by your fear. A fear that you could fail by not taking the bait from poisoned fingers. You'd better think again. You better run. Run as fast as you can. Because we're no longer afraid. We've killed the fear, and we don't need you anymore. What color does your blood run? What sort of death would you choose? You tainted all we worked for, made the money turn red, bled on us 'til we were sick. But now the hypochondriac attacks you. We're slicing the wrist of the hand that slapped us. You thought I did it, but it wasn't me. It was us