His voice is grating and gravelly, a hint of squeak smelted into the forged metal of it. It gives his voice a distinctive timbre as he says into my ear, “I hope you bleed out, you little fucker.”

And as the man in the leather mask pulls six inches of Bowie knife from my gut, I realize that I recognize that voice. I have heard it many, many times over the course of my life.

I recognize that voice — because it is my own.