“I'd see him do things that didn't fit with his face or hands, things like painting a picture at OT with real paints on a blank paper with no lines or numbers anywhere on it to tell him where to paint, or like writing letters to somebody in a beautiful flowing hand. How could a man who looked like him paint pictures or write letters to people, or be upset and worried like I saw him once when he got a letter back?”

“I looked across to his picture on the wall, the one that showed him with a pained look on this face, with a bleeding heart painted on his chest. I knew exactly how he felt.”

“An artist painting a picture should have at his side a man with a club to hit him over the head when the picture is finished.”

“I like the him that's underneath the clothes and the painted face.”

“What do you think Gemma? Do you like being painted this way?" All I can think is that being painted by him feels a lot like being fucked by him, but he already knows that.”

“Kolchak nodded, 'Right, because that would make sense." He took off his hat and crumpled it against his hip. 'When I lived in Seattle, I met a man who had been killing people for a hundred years easily. I nearly got arrested painting on his portrait in the bank he owned, just to match his face to the hundred-year-old shot I had of him with a beard. It's possible.' 'Why didn't you just take a picture of the painting and scribble on the picture?' 'It was a gesture,' Kolchak wrung his hands, 'and anyway that's not the point.' ("Wet Dog of Galveston")”