#r. (jesse pinkman.) tocook.

[toprayarc]

COMPLETE METAMORPHOSIS: A DRABBLE, SET IN THE VERY BEGINNINGS OF MARI'S THIRD ARC AND DEPICTING THE DIFFICULT ADJUSTMENTS TO A STABLE ENVIRONMENT. CANON CRAFTED IN AFFILIATION WITH @TOCOOK. CONTENT WARNINGS ARE AS FOLLOWS— PTSD, FLASHBACKS, ABUSE MENTIONS, AND VAGUE USFW CONTENT IN ONE SECTION.

... prologue: newly emerged butterflies cannot fly.

when you were little enough to still not see over the kitchen counter, you'd once wondered if life would always be like this.

confined. enclosed. your brother, cooking breakfast on a step-stool, and looking over his shoulder. your mother, still asleep between the crumples of an aged couch. silent. stale. trembling with the same energy you'd imagined a volcano would have— clawing at the opportunity to erupt.

in the very same day, tucked beneath dotted-red sheets, you'd blinked down at a butterfly popping itself out of a cardboard book and traced your finger over its spine.

some things, you think, are meant to evolve.

... chapter one: everything you've ever wanted.

the first week you and jesse move into your new house, you spend a night staring at the ceiling.

the moonlight pours in over both of your bodies, scattered along the arm that jesse curls around your waist. he's warm, with the same familiarity that keeps you steady, and as you tuck your face into his shoulder, closed lids pressing against his skin, you can't help but think that this is it.

this, in these quiet interims, with nothing but a wind chime in the near distance, is everything you could've dreamed of.

after the sun rises and jesse's left for work, you stand in the yard for 20 minutes.

you envision setting it all aflame.

... chapter two: to-do lists.

in cursive scrawl, you ink out the words 'to-do' at the top of a page. you force the sentence i don't know what to write out of your lips.

it tastes sour, like some under-ripe lemon seeping into an already open wound, and you bite down on your cheek, hard, as if to tourniquet the spillage of embarrassment away. if you were any more honest of a person, you might admit that this is new for you, that you'd never thought this far ahead, and that the last time you'd dreamed about any vague attempt at domesticity, it was lined in blood.

but you're not all that honest, and a little bit cowardly, so you leave it at that.

and because jesse is braver, smarter, and just that much more kind than you are, your list makes it to a clean twenty-five bullet-points.

no weapons included.

... chapter three: cause and effect.

the fragments of a plate scatter across the kitchen floor, and you think you can feel your heart stop. your body tenses, your movements freeze, and you wait for hands to come flying.

even after jesse's swept up the remnants, with no evidence left in sight, you still find yourself waiting.

the next day, when jesse brushes a strand of hair from your face so gently you think you might have imagined it, you think you may be waiting for the rest of your life.

... chapter four: callbacks.

jesse is flipping over a bear-shaped pancake, mouthing the words to a sublime song you've heard well over a thousand times, when you catch yourself smiling.

yellow filters in from the curtains, painting gradients over the shadows of his face. it splays itself clear against his cheekbones, interwoven around the iris' of his eyes, and his stare flickers to you with an ear-to-ear grin that's just as wide as yours. after a moment, you flip your pencil between your fingers, tear your gaze away, and comb over to a fresh page in your journal.

by the time your mouth is syrup-soaked and still smiling, you slide a sketch to the other side of the table, and ask him a question— years late, and as warm as ever.

still think i got those da-vinci skills?

... chapter five: expiration dates.

jesse's face is pressed against your collarbone, mouthing at your neck, and shaping the words i love you around his tongue.

the mattress molds to the back of your spine, envelops the curve of your hips, and springs you back up into the rapid rhythm that you two share.

but as an exhale stutters against your skin, compliments pouring out between his breath, you think you might cry.

part of you fears that you will.

later, while jesse buries himself an inch further under the covers, you kiss along the outline of his shoulder. you trace constellations along the terrain of his arm.

i love you too, is what you do say. but how long will any of this last, is what you don't.

... epilogue: a fully emerged butterfly.

you're unpacking the last of the boxes huddled in the corner of your bedroom when you come across a worn down, cardboard cut-out book.

the butterfly springs from its place, faded from all the years it'd been kept around, and your fingers press against the breadth of its wings. you trace the worry-lines embedded into the pages.

three hours later, when jesse arrives back home from work, you've hidden yourself to the depths of the closet. as he sits beside you, the book still pressed into your palms, you can't help but cry.

later, you ask jesse if he thinks caterpillars understand the concept of change.

when he responds, you smile so hard your cheeks hurt. and in the end, you think, maybe it doesn't really matter.

[toprayarc]

BAD COPS, GOOD CRIMINALS, AND SOMETHING IN-BETWEEN: A BACKGROUND DRABBLE, DEPICTING THE EVENTS PREVIOUS TO MARI'S DESCENT TO BEING ON THE RUN. CANON CREATED IN AFFILIATION WITH @TOCOOK, @METHEMPIRE, AND @GUSTAVOS. CONTENT WARNINGS ARE AS FOLLOWS— ABUSE MENTIONS, C-PTSD SYMPTOMS, ADDICTION / DRUG USE, ABUSE OF POWER, MURDER / DEATH, VIOLENCE, MANIPULATION.

in 2001, philadelphia police department send their best and brightest (otherwise known as the individuals with more bendable moral codes) to the door of state judge kenji dai’s home. with a notepad in hand, and a crooked jaw set straight, mike ehrmantraut presses a little further into a domestic dispute call than what self preservation tells him to. work with me, kid, he murmurs beneath a tired tone and a sidestepped gaze from the nearby father. give me something to go off of, he pushes, but sixteen year old mari dai is watching her hands unfold and refold in her lap, shrugging her shoulders inward, and telling him there isn’t anything to give. there’s nothing to talk about, she mutters, and traces the side of her sock onto the hardwood flooring. thanks for checking in, is what her father says as they leave, wrapping his grasp around the edge of the front door, but mike’s stare never strays off the beaten path in the slightest, watching carefully as the white-clad teenager in question peeks her way out from the closed curtains — and then abruptly disappears.

several days later, in the closed-blinded office of philadelphia’s police department, mike ehrmantraut is biting out the words something is going on in that house. a sigh circulates in return, giving empty advice that neither officer of the law believes to amount to anything: you wanna make an accusation, mike —  you go right ahead. can’t stop you. but you and i both know how this goes. the silence sits between the two, and a bitter-breathed exhale works in tandem with an exit, leading his patrol car right down the street mike had driven down only a few days previous. the crackle of gravel aligns with his window rolling downward, pace slowing to creep in an approach to the driveway that now has carved itself empty: with the exception of one. a frown digs into the side of his cheek, watching as a distant form collects little shards of what he can only assume to be the remains of a bottle, tucking them into a crinkled plastic bag, and looking over her shoulder every few seconds. any slow pace has lulled to a stop, brakes creaking and meeting the gaze of a blank-faced sixteen year old. what do you want, she spits from across the yard, all heat and no quiet hesitation, and it’s almost enough to make him chuckle. instead, he raises his eyebrows just the slightest, and tells her he’s just doing his rounds. i’m checking in, is what he means, and they both know it. she stares at him for a moment longer, picks up a final shard of glass to fold inside of her palm briefly, and tells him there’s probably something more important going on elsewhere. he pauses, the faint rustle of windchimes ringing in the distance, and says simply: no, i don’t think there is.

only a year later does word circulate about matt ehrmantraut’s death, with mari’s close ear to the ground hearing murmurs and whispers on how stand-up cop mike ehrmantraut is drowning in grief. at dinnertime, her finger traces along the warped edge of her desk, sheltered into her room, and pries out a fake i.d from the box hidden in the very back of her closet. silent steps carry her out of her front door, catching the nearest bus and working her way into a bar that surrounds her in the hustle and bustle of a world she only finds a brief reprieve in. the taste of a watered down whiskey hits the back of her throat, spinning the glass in her palm as she watches the in’s and out’s of a dive bar that find it just not worth their time to argue with her by now. she’s got an answer for everything, they’re not paid enough to care, and her fake i.d is passable enough to get her in the door. what more do they need? ignorance in the face of the law isn’t breaking the law — it’s just ignorance. plausible deniability, and no one in this town gives enough of a shit to figure out anything otherwise.

living vicariously through the chatter in bars has been enough to know a little more about the cop who wouldn’t stop making his rounds in mari’s neighborhood, and once the non-concealable scar came with no return from her and only a glimpse of her gaze through the drawn-curtained window, any brief conversations held dwindled down to nothing. her choices are limited, his options were none, and trying to find an out through a law that abides by nothing but dollar signs and false hierarchies isn’t a dream that mari has ever invested into. but sometimes, she likes to hear about him. sometimes, she likes to think of the things she could say. it’s only on the chances of picking just the right dive bar at just the right time that makes those hushed whispers into something more of a reality — a gruff voice familiarizing itself at the end of the bar. her back molar outlines the inside of her cheek, still fresh with a nervous-found wound, before impulse overrides any logic.

people say drinking alone is dangerous, is what she tosses out into the air as she hops onto a nearby barstool. mike’s voice rumbles, not quite as humorous as it is dry, letting her know that he’s heard something similar about teen drinking. a smirk twitches at the corner of her lip, an empty glass nudged his way, with her stare fixating on a nearby bartender briefly. a fluid defense of it not looking like she’s got anything left to drink contrasts with a slow introduction to truth, hindered only by a pause before mari’s voice drops to a low murmur. she says thanks — any reasonings going unsaid, with quiet implications and silent understandings knitting themselves underneath. another pause stretches outward, with her finger tracing over the edge of the bar and a swallow of mike’s drink working itself between his lips. the clock ticks onward, a repetitive touch circling itself over a worn surface, before she tacks on one additional word after: sorry. it breathes itself hesitant, as if not quite sure what to apologize for, and the gentle clink of mike’s glass returns to the space in front of him.

something close to a bittered wane wedges itself into his voice, boomeranging the sentiment right back to her. me too. the statement is simple, as plain as hers is, and neither need more of a heart-to-heart to pinpoint just where it hurts. mari’s gaze watches as the remainder of his drink dissipates, leaving nothing but a hollow-shell and a bar napkin stuck beneath it. as the minutes waste themselves away, and the last drops of liquor swipe themselves clean, mike heaves out a sigh, and tugs a pen from his jacket pocket. i’m moving on, he states, all gruff and factual with only a scribble of numbers to spare. he stands, the napkin nudging against her palm, as a stare levels out to her. look after yourself, kid, he advices, and gestures to the dim surroundings of the bar. you won’t find anything good in places like this.

the calls come in small increments. how are you holding up, keep an eye on your mother, and is that boyfriend of yours behaving himself all stack into five minute phone calls that span out over the years. she tells him things in return  —  like she’s holding up just fine, her mother should learn how to take care of herself, and her boyfriend never behaves himself so mike should give up on that dream. sometimes she’ll get a brief chuckle through the phone, sometimes she can hear a distant huff of disapproval, and sometimes it’s a silence that says everything she needs to know. it’s nothing special, but it’s a secret that keeps itself contained to just the bare essentials. mike doesn’t need to know anything more than what she tells him, but his stand-up citizen routine doesn’t fool her. he left the very day after two cops dropped dead, and she doesn’t need to hear the shots ring out to know who the hell pulled the trigger. it’s why she keeps calling, she thinks. part of why she keeps calling, at least, because there’s some pieces of her past she doesn’t know how to let go of, and that younger year, sort-of-tipsy self being given ten digits towards a lifeline isn’t something she takes lightly.

so much so, that when her apartment space clears and her life bumps down to a population count of one, there’s no hesitation in packing her bags and sob-storying her way into a one way plane ticket to new mexico. mari needs a clean slate, mike found his in that city 5 years ago, and albuquerque welcomes her in with a straight faced mike ehrmantraut running his hand over his face as she dials his number for a couch to crash on. three days and some subtle amounts of digging later, he tells her two weeks, as she changes the channel for the 10th time in their conversation. and no visitors, he adds, with just a little less patience than before. her tongue clicks against her cheek, humming as she presses a button on the remote again, and tosses out a comment that runs any last patience downward. why, you got something to hide? her shit-eating smirk meets his unamused disapproval, and any formal barriers shred themselves shy. nothing you haven’t already tried to find, he responds, and unsaid understandings birth anew. mari’s laugh echoes through the room, telling him she’s glad his skills aren’t slipping in his old age. he shakes his head, and only pauses in his step as she follows up with a piece of advice: you might want to consider some other hiding spots, though. mari clicks through a channel, flashes her pearly whites in a grin, and finishes any last wipe-aways of lies with a taunt  —  your collection of suppressors is pretty tempting for a girl like me.

mike could tell himself that he gets her in the door with gustavo fring for the sake of his couch being free again, but he doesn’t. the world is a rat-race of whoever bears their teeth the sharpest, and mari may have proved she’s a sharp-shooter and a clean-criminal, but he still remembers the days before her left eye had a permanent reminder on why she became that way. she’s older, wiser, but not as old and wise as he is, and he knows there’s something beneath all those laugh-tracked smirks and casual callousness. he’s got too many memories of her looking over her shoulder to focus entirely on the days that she doesn’t. or, seemingly doesn’t, because their weekly diner chats and early morning pop-ups seem to be the only thing that she keeps around in her life. she does her job well, she’s more than equipped for her line of work, but he’s been around the block enough times to know that padlocking the world shut comes at a cost. mike may roll his eyes as she dumps 10 packets of sugar and too many cups of creamer into her 6am coffee, but if he chooses to stand outside while she burns down a cigarette and makes just a little more conversation than usual, he’s in no denial that it might be the only conversation of the day she has. so, maybe he was never a good cop. maybe he’s not even a good criminal. but, at the very least, mike thinks he owes it to her to try to be a good friend.

by the time 2009 rolls around, and mari’s life is a work-play cycle on repeat, mike tosses the consideration of suggesting to find a friend her age between his teeth. it never makes its way out, in a careful reminder of just who mari dai is — and what she refuses to be — but he does find a little relief when she mentions plans that are more comfortable, rather than concerning. i’m going birdwatching with a friend, she admits after a diner breakfast that only finds itself half eaten. her fork nudges at syrup-soaked pancakes, cheek resting in her palm as her gaze raises. an eyebrow perks, humor concealing any small admittances that mike doesn’t miss. got any advice, old man? she teases, and he swallows a mouthful of black coffee before telling her a little sliver of truth he isn’t so sure she’s going to listen to. don’t overcomplicate it, he murmurs, adjusting his palm against the newspaper, and choosing to ignore when mari asks what’s so complicated about birdwatching. avoidance, he knows, is more of an answer than she wants it to be.

however, that friend in question seems to be a little more close to home than expected. jesse pinkman: textbook addict, meth cook sidekick, the unfortunate companion of a man that mike thinks has never learned the meaning of quit while he’s ahead, and apparently, mari dai’s newfound friend. it’s a thin line between business and pleasure that skews into nothing, when her routine presence turns to absence and her phone skips to voicemail. he’s aware mari has her fair share of hobbies —- some of which are people — but skipping out on work is a waving red flag if he’s ever seen one. it’s not hard to figure out where she’s ended up, and any suspicions turn factual when her re-entry into the workplace is lock-jawed and jittery. addiction, regardless of mari’s so-called functionality, is still addiction, and her exceptional skills don’t make her any exception to the rule. her indulgent habits have never made her a liability before, but mike is well aware: this won’t fly. they’ve both got a boss to answer to, and the product they’re pushing has no place to become something that mari keeps on taking. but getting her to do something she doesn’t want to do, comes down to not just one factor, but two. if she’s got a supplier, mike’s dose of advice won’t cease any downward spiral dealings, and jesse pinkman has enough on his plate as is.

you know his policy, mike sighs against the spark of her lighter and a pupil-blown blink. smoke billows between them, a hand flicking a flame to life repetitively as mari tries to fend off the inevitable. it’s never been an issue before, she bites out along with a short sniff and a stand-still gaze that only adds onto the already-existing issue. he keeps his tone straight, leveling a stare that says more than what his words do. you’re right, he affirms, before letting discretion speak the rest of his implications. this hasn’t been an issue before. mike knows, just like she does, that this high-rise of a behavior isn’t comparable to any past discussions on late-night drinking or numb-toothed recreations, and trying to fool a man like him, isn’t as easy as any stray idiots she decides to drag through her front door. mari draws from her cigarette, flicks her lighter to life again, and then drops her gaze. it makes things easier, she murmurs in the midst of another cloud of smoke. mike quiets, trying to find the line dividing business and personal matters, and picks something in-between. no, he says, as gentle as it is, firm. it really doesn’t. 

in an impromptu evening of what mike has decided to deem as something of a payment on an infinite debt, mari has found herself on his couch yet again. over the years, he’s learned that she’ll only sit tucked into the very corner of the left side of the couch, and she won’t ingest a single movie he decides to put on. he watches his tv, mari blasts music from a bygone era through her headphones, and occasionally, they’ll say something. tonight, however, is not following any of those rules. she sits in the middle of his couch, the sides of her forearms resting on her knees, and her hands clasped together as if preparing for a prayer. i’m guessing you know who my friend is, she exhales through a slightly bittered laugh. mike gives a hmph of a noise in confirmation, pours himself a cup of coffee, and prepares for whatever confrontation mari has in mind. yet, instead, she blinks down at the ground, traces her sock over the hardwood flooring like she’d done so many years ago, and asks him what his opinion on jesse pinkman is. any surprise is filtered away from his features, replaced with a contemplative silence that tells her he’s choosing his words carefully. little fish, in a big pond, he starts, and then swallows a sigh, finishing his admittance: and he’s starting to drown.

a week later, mari’s voice is carrying itself over the phone in a haphazard panic that tells mike he’s got about ten minutes or less before she’s past the point of no return. absolutely not, she’s repeating, the faint jingle of keys in the background eliciting an upturn of his head to stare at the ceiling. you’re not going to fucking mexico without me, she continues, her words rushing together. she presses onward, telling him he can tell gustavo fring himself that she doesn’t trust this. if he needs an enforcer, she says, i’ve more than proved myself. the slam of her car door aligns with her half-sales pitch, half-plea. that is not what this is about, mike responds, his slow pace of words contrasting hers. it is not in your best interest, or mine, to go off book on this one. a pause in any rustle or background noise gifts a sign of getting through, and mike takes his cue to carry onward. it’ll be two days, and then we’re back to business, he reassures, and mari swallows. her forehead presses against her steering wheel, keys palmed into her hand as her eyes close. promise me, mike, she murmurs through the receiver, sounding just a little bit more like that sixteen year old girl, and mike closes his eyes too. i promise, he says, and forces himself to keep it at that.

two days and a notice of mike’s recuperation period later, mari’s holding well over twenty insults and reasons on exactly why she didn’t trust that mexico trip to begin with behind her tongue. gustavo fring may deal with her less-than-serious comments she dishes out, but arguing with him over something that’s already happened is a waste of her goddamn energy. instead, she bides her time, and thinks that the next time mike decides to go on a stay-cation across the border, she’s not giving in for anything. the days pass slowly, with jesse dwindling out into the distance with his on-again off-again girlfriend, and mari designates her new task as familiarizing herself with the empty corners of her apartment. that new task of hers, however, doesn’t make it to even two weeks, before gustavo fring is dropping dead, and mike’s voice is slinging back across the receiver. his words rumble through the speaker of her phone, telling her it’s only a matter of time, and reminding her that a one-way ticket to elsewhere is a small price to pay. what about you, she tosses out into the speaker-phoned conversation as she packs, and mike’s sigh is disgruntled enough for her to imagine the twitch of his lip to follow. i’ve got to wrap things up, he says, and then pauses long enough for her to visualize him holding back another sigh. and then? mari prompts, because neither are under the impression that the suggestion of a matter of time doesn’t apply to him, either. on the other end of the phone, mike glances out to 308 negra arroyo lane, and tells her he’ll be getting the hell out of dodge, too.

marissa dai died plenty of years ago, and planning a pseudo-death is a security measure in maintaining the existence of mari, herself. excessive is what mike had called it back when she’d first mentioned the idea, but thorough, is what mari’s decided to call it, now. recreating herself is something she does figuratively as is, and slapping on a new name to match is nothing she’s got any room to be sentimental over. being mari dai has its perks, but there’s more of a risk, now, and while leaving the few connections she has behind isn’t her first choice, it happens to be the only one available. that is, until jesse’s contact name is flashing on her screen, with a ramble about a poison cigarette that has somehow removed itself from his pockets, and only one person who fits the bill on why they’d take it to begin with. walter white is a name that hasn’t ever quite made it into the conversation, but mari’s been circulating the great heisenberg for longer than he’s been aware of. it doesn’t take an idiot to put two and two together, she thinks, but it takes a particular brand of man to condition someone into this level of submission. or devotion. or both, because mari’s no stranger to the big-egoed eagerly-greedy kind of man that walter seems to be, and reading out the situation is as instinctive as any of her next moves are. but first, she needs more information, and mike ehrmantraut is full of it.

give me a rundown on what you know about jesse pinkman, is what she leads with. below ten minutes, and any thoughts on his partner are appreciated, is what she adds on afterwards. there’s hardly a pause, before mike’s response of should i ask why, is as flat as mari expects it to be. the faint rustle of the phone pairs with a scoff, her head shaking as her car flies through a stop sign and her palm adjusts on the wheel. i’m not killing him, if that’s your concern, she retorts, and swerves out and around a car that’s decidedly going too slow for her taste. mike reels out the hits, avoids any too-personal touches, and, in under ten minutes, delivers a nearly-full rundown on the man in question — with a few jabs at walter mixed in the middle. after 20 seconds of what mike can only assume to be a processing time, mari clicks her tongue, gives a hmph of contemplation, and then says thanks, before abruptly hanging up. he closes his phone, slides it into his pocket, and knows that that conversation most certainly will not be the end of it.

it’s no surprise when mike picks up the phone to mari asking for a favor. what is, however, is the specific favor in question. even more, is the sheer determination in it. he’s been around mari for long enough to know when to sway her mind, and when it’s near impossible to even try. picking your battles with her is the most efficient and effective route, and this isn’t a battle he believes she’s ready or willing to give up. what’s your move here, he asks through a veiled layer of uncertainty, and mari hesitates. he needs an out, she says, her voice shrinking for only half of a second. mari inhales, sliding her hand around the rings that dangle around her neck, and finishes her answer as simply as she can: i’m prepared to give him one.

a way out isn’t as clean or efficient as mari had planned on, but she’s chalking that up to a business-woman who’s gone off leash. handcuffs, a DEA agent, or even a warrant out for her arrest were all on the list of risks in lingering around to try to get an ending tied up in a bow, but this? this wasn’t quite expected. an answer to who has it out for her is cursive looped in lydia rodarte-quayle’s name, and while mari’s sure mike has tried his best to deter her hit-man hiring activities, she would’ve preferred if it was through a bullet, rather than a stern warning. spending an already risky afternoon disposing of a body is more than just an annoyance, and at this point: it’s a liability.

after she catches her breath, mike’s ten digits dial into her phone, and mari’s tone weathers thin as it crackles through the other end. get ahold of your chihuahua associate, she drawls. i’m risking enough as is, and while i’d love to tally some numbers up in any other circumstance, i’m not feeling too competitive right now. mike’s jaw clicks, mari takes his silence as an understanding, and continues. i can’t stick around, she states, and sinks a bite into the inside of her cheek. a beat of silence stagnates, and then her point forges forward. but i’m taking him with me. neither end of the call needs a name, to know exactly who she’s talking about, and mike slowly hauls himself upward, adjusting the phone in his hand. alright. his confirmation is brief, moving to pluck his keys off of the counter. he pauses. now? the question sits, both parties still attempting to pick options out of a mess that provides nearly none. mari inhales, exhales, and digs her shoe into the gravel beneath her. eventually, she speaks, her gaze darting to the skies.  i guess there’s no time like the present.

the crawl of mike’s car coming to a stop parks right along the street, a short whine of his brakes echoing outward. the creak of his door opening doesn’t depart mari’s stare from the house that sits across from them, her lips wrapped around what he’d assume to not be her first cigarette upon arrival. he could ask if she’s ready, but this isn’t the type of situation that either of them were ever fully ready to encounter to begin with, so he simply listens to the crackle of tobacco and her slow exhales. thanks, she says, as if it’s almost a secret. and, to her, maybe it is. smoke flies out and up into the air, catching itself through the wind, and mike spares a glance her way. ash flutters downward, as she leans herself against her car. i’m sorry, she murmurs, and mike doesn’t need to ask what for. after a beat, he clasps his hands, leaning against her car beside her, and says don’t be, because leaving an old man who’s been on this road for a long time isn’t anything to be sorry for. she’s got a whole lot of life ahead of her, and the least mike can hope for, is that she won’t spend it forcing herself to be alone. he knows, just like she does, that as much as mari may paint herself selfish, and choose only a select few to do differently for, no one is as loyal as her. 

though, jesse pinkman, he thinks, may come pretty damn close.