Oliver Peyton. Oliver fucking Peyton. He's the kinda guy that'd be your best buddy, be really lovely to you, buy you drinks, take you to the theatre, then just when you think "yeah man, we should get a flat together!" he takes you on a road trip in his beat up Chevy Impala, pulls up in an empty industrial estate somewhere, tells you that you were never his friend, that he was laughing at you the whole time, laughing at your problems and your pathetic love life and your tiny little penis. And then he'd shoot you. In the face. Blood and brains and bits of skull all over the dusty old interior. Then he'd get out, throw his (camo?!) jacket over his shoulder, smile, and walk away into the night. And then he'd find someone new, and do the same thing all over again. Oliver Peyton? Fucking mad man.
