A Roleplay I wrote a few years ago…
Row upon row of polished pews sat in near darkness.
It was amazing how what was merely a large empty space at night transformed under daylight.
The sun would reveal a floor of a beige marble, tiny flecks of green scattered throughout. It provided a subtle backdrop beneath a perpetual rainbow cast via the stained glass windows set behind the dais and into the arched roof that led to the steeple.
Sparsely lit candles provided meagre light, casting long and flickering shadows that hung over the parish. The slow shuffle of laboured footsteps layered step upon step announced the old man’s arrival long before he spoke. “Hello? Is…is someone there?”
A deep breath took the meekness from his voice, “Hello? Is someone there?”
Echoing from the marble floors all the way to the carved bannisters of the balconies meant to house the choir during Sunday mass, he was now certain that if whomever had lit the candles was still here they had to have heard him.
Surveying his surroundings; as the tending priest for some forty plus years, Father Morris was intimately familiar with every inch of this hallowed ground. Ash Wednesday had only just passed, the church still carried the scent of the palm ash.
Beyond the candle’s light was the Tabernacle, where the Communion host, Chalice and wine were kept. The body and blood of Christ.
With a spouse and family forbidden by archaic rules that flagrantly went against the social and family oriented beings humans had become across thousands of years of physical and societal evolution; the church was all he had.
Yet, here in the dim light it appeared that not one thing was out of place, or even disturbed. Why then, would anyone go through the trouble?
Following the light of candles as Hansel and Gretel meant to follow their path of bread crumbs, the roughly seventy year old priest moved at a slow, though determined pace.
For an instant, his mind drifts to the worst case scenario. He was far from well equipped should things get violent.
Then the questions and the doubt began to set in, as they did with Thomas. Why had he not called the police? Was this another test of faith?
Lit in a seemingly strategic pattern, each was just far enough away from the next that as one candle’s light waned, there was only a momentary gap before the next’s began. It forced his eyes to constantly adjust and readjust to the changing light, he could feel each hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
Through the dais and across the hall proper, the trail ends.
An otherwise nondescript wall has a row of crosses running inches from the top and bottom carved into it. Two small doors were set into the wall, each having a red glass shade housing a candle. The one hanging above the door to the left served as the final beacon.
Taking a deep breath, his eyes shut as he says a short mental prayer before trying again, “This is a house of God. If you are hungry, we have food. If you are tired, we can find you a bed…but please leave in peace.”
The air in the church stood still, a chill held the moment frozen in time. He had sat in this very confessional for two days of every week for the last forty three years, he had heard it all.
Jealousy, greed, anger, hatred, blasphemy, lust, adultery; the list of sins of mortal men could stretch onto eternity. The old priest’s voice practically begged now, “Please, my child…let us speak in peace face to face.”
Again, the echo of his words are the only sounds for moments that slip through time as though they were lifetimes. Stepping forward, the priest reaches for the door on his left.
Recoiling in fright, he heard through the door; “Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been many, many years since my last confession.” Finally, his ‘guest’ would make themselves known.
It was the traditional beginning of the sacrament of confession, a holy rite under the Roman Catholic Church.
Despite being in his pyjamas he steps forward again, a fire long forgotten is reignited within the old priest’s eyes. “It’s you…”
A small table to his right contained a brazier for incense sat atop a thick sheet of white linen. Reaching beneath, a drawer lost to the folds and length of the fabric contains long wooden matches.
Extending the head of the match into the candle on the left, a momentary sizzle gives way to a light smell of sulphur as a new flame springs to life.
Carefully lighting the candle on the right, he extinguishes the match with a smooth and practiced wave placing it in the brazier before blessing himself and entering.
Sitting on a simple wooden bench, the old man exhales a sigh of relief. He knew this ‘intruder’. “You’re right my son, it has been far too long.”
Closing the door, they were now locked away from the world. Sliding the wooden divider aside, a screen separates them. The lack of light allowed little more than a silhouette of movement within the shadows to be seen.
No small amount of surprise enters the intruder’s voice, “You remember me?” It had been years, over ten in fact, since he had pulled a similar stunt.
The fear in his voice had vanished now as the old man of the cloth chuckled, “My son, how does one forget someone such as yourself?”
The priest couldn’t see it, but the man in the shadows smiled briefly.
Way back before anyone had ever heard of ‘D’, he was a rookie during a boom period, which meant he often got turned down by promotions that could afford to be picky.
During that time; Morgantown, West Virginia, the home of one Seth Iser became the home of another professional wrestler.
Truth be told, Morgantown’s Lightning Championship Wrestling was literally the only place willing to take a chance on a ‘nobody.’
After months of toiling in the undercard despite destroying all opposition he faced, he became frustrated.
Going for a long walk, chance saw to it that he passed a Church. A sign in front read ‘Call on the Lord anytime and he will answer’, so he broke in.
Not in any sort of violent way, he simply put the tools of a misspent youth to practice.
No alarm sounded, he continued to walk in and simply sat in the front of the church, looking across the dais into the face of a statue of Jesus Christ who stood, crucified, before him.
Eventually, the sun came up and the priest found him sat there staring at the statue of the Son of God with a mixture of pity and condescension etched into his gaze.
When asked by the startled priest why he had broken in, the answer was simple, “The sign out front said ‘anytime’ father.” That morning would be the first of many ‘confessions.’ At least until his beloved Belle passed away.
During that time, he had fought and gained notoriety as not just a fierce combatant, but also as a good and honourable man. Albeit one in a strange package. He appeared to be a man shrouded in darkness that gave of himself in hopes he could brighten the world, even if only a little.
His approach was beautifully simple. Deciding in the midst of LCW’s closure and his finding a home in Genesis that he would do his best to leave the world better than he had found it.
‘D’ founded ‘Believe’, a humanitarian organization that offered help to the helpless.
He started small, then as things grew he was able to take on a cause close to his heart. In the wake of an earthquake that left his adopted home of Haiti nearly crippled, he was able to completely fund an orphanage and fill it with children who lost their families during the seven point zero Moment Magnitude Scale rated ‘quake.
By all accounts, ‘D’ had done everything a good man could. He sold shirts at every show and appearance he was booked at, donating all proceeds to the relief effort. It all seemed like another life when looking back now.
No small amount of regret enters the old priest’s voice, “I…” He sighs, truly only the good die young, “…I had heard about Belle. I’m truly sorry. I often wondered if you would ever come back. I’d hear rumours you had been back to your home, or there’d be a rumour that lights had been seen on, but you never came. Eventually I started seeing you on television again. Just know that I know it’s been a long time, but I’m truly sorry for your loss. I know the sacrifices you made, no man should have…”
Not allowing him to finish, ‘D’ interrupts flatly, “That?” He chuckles awkwardly, “No, that was only the beginning Father. Since we last saw each other I have given years of my life, and then when time and effort simply weren’t enough anymore. I gave my very soul. Believe me, if the glories of heaven and and the torments of hell truly exist, I shall never see her again.” This wasn’t bravado or a flair for the dramatic, his words carried no trappings of such delusions, he was stating what he believed to be fact.
His heart had been broken, his life destroyed, and though he had taken the darkest route possible, the weight of all that had brought him here could be heard in each word. And he wasn’t finished, “Such is the weight of everything I have given. All in the name of maintaining the balance between what is good and right in this world and darkness. Some men…even the ones who appear good and honourable, sometimes they must commit atrocities in the name of what is right, and then hope and pray they can live with what they have done.” His voices dies momentarily, “They can only hope that as time passes that they can rationalize what they did as being necessary for the greater good.”
Once, he had been the embodiment of the words he had just spoken, during his days hidden away from the world. During the time when he was truly Vengador Oscuro - Dark Avenger, there was a certain irony in his words that wasn’t lost on him as he spoke.
“As I said, bless me father…for I have sinned…” His words trailed off once more. Sat in the darkness, his mind drifted to the ‘work’ he had done. Face after face passed through his mind, men who had used influence, blackmail, bribery and loopholes to escape justice. None of them managed to escape him though. All of them were judged, sentenced and, most importantly, they would harm no one else.
For a while, he said nothing. Father Morris sat contemplating what his old friend could have done. He’d known the young wrestler to be a good man, honest, charitable…a good man. “Tell the Lord your sins my son, that they may be forgiven.”
It was now ‘D’s’ turn to chuckle before catching himself, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to offend… Father, I intend to tell you it all. Because I know your oath. More importantly, I know you. I know you cannot tell anyone, the police, my enemies, anyone.” His voice hardened slightly. “I had it all padre. For one brief shining moment, everything was mine. My career was at its peak, I had done things no one could have imagined. I had stormed my way through several promotions. The story was the same every time.”
Feeling nostalgic, this version of the enigma was one in constant change, he was in the process of evolving again. His time under the black mask had changed him, and though he had fought his way back to being himself again, he’d never again be the man the venerable priest remembered.
If he was being honest, it scared him a little. “Because I generally refrain from talking massive amounts of verbal feces; no one had ever heard of me. I was just some weirdo in paint. Until they saw me in the ring, then they realized. Make fun of my appearance, my name, my beliefs…but when the time came to stand across from me, every single person left knowing they’d never fought anyone like me before.”
Looking back, perhaps he had encouraged such perceptions believing it gave him an advantage to compensate for his own lack of confidence. “So, I’d come in as ‘the weirdo’…then they’d wonder if it were a fluke. After that, I’d be labelled a prospect. Next came contender until finally I slowly climbed my way to the top.” The old priest could hear and feel the enigma’s movement across from him. Though the hard wooden benches of the confessional weren’t known for their comfort, he sensed that his old acquaintance wasn’t struggling with their current amenities, he was struggling with a decision.
“I did that three times, capturing three World Heavyweight Championships in the process. In those days father, I was a sight to behold. An animal, no worse…a demon.” There had been a time when he had been proud to utter that statement. Yet it was clear as he spoke, there was passion that suddenly returned to his voice…he missed those days.
“And then, it happened.” He smiled past the pain in his heart, remembering her glowing smile when she told him.
Remembering her laughter as he spun her around in a tight hug, “Belle was pregnant, everything changed. I’d been a top level competitor in my own eyes, I’d main evented shows and Pay Per Views, I’d won championships all over the world…the choice was easy. It was time to walk away.”
Almost instantly he had made up his mind. He’d finish up his contract and then a couple months later they’d truly be a family.
He had purchased a small warehouse years before and had half turned into a multilevel home for him and Belle with more than enough room for an addition or two.
Though Father Morris would never know this, regret at the thought of Belle forced his gaze to the floor. “I should have seen the signs, but I’d been away too much. She wasn’t just pregnant, she was…she was sick.”
It was time, he would walk away under his own terms. A luxury afforded to very few in the wrestling business, “So while I finished living my dream, inching closer to retirement on my terms so that I would never question my decision, she was given a choice. End the pregnancy and get treatment, or have Damien and likely die. I don’t have to tell you which one she ultimately chose.”
To accommodate their new life, the other half of the old warehouse had been turned into a training center.
One which first he would use to train himself, then he would use it to train the next generation. It was the home that suited the duality of both their lives, and also the home he now shared with Alyssa Lucchi.
And so, even though he had gone through great lengths to put his pain behind him, he sighed as he remembered the life he should have had. “So, like I said…for one brief shining moment…I had it all. Then just moments later I was forced to quickly realize my empire was made of glass.”
‘D’ can feel his eyes well up, he didn’t care. Making no effort to wipe them away, he allows the tears to flow down his face. Sorrow was his closest friend and Father Morris couldn’t see him anyway. “I’ll never forget those final moments as long as I’m cursed to draw breath in this world. Damien’s birth was difficult. He wasn’t breathing. Time stopped as we watched the neonatal ICU team save his life. Of course, a parent had to accompany him to intensive care. The last words she said to me were, ‘Go to him.’”
Swept from the room by what seemed to be a veritable sea of scrub clad doctors and nurses, that moment was ground zero, the beginning of the end. “You see Father, the cancer had grown to be too much, she was too weak after the gruelling childbirth she’d endured…I never saw her alive again.” The beginning of the twisted road that led him to this point.
For too long, they both sat in silence, ‘D’ barely retaining the strength to hate himself for not being stronger and Father Morris doing his best to cope with everything he had learned this far, the old priest’s voice sank; “My son, though it pains my heart, there’s no sin here. You were ready to leave it all, be the husband and father they deserved. You couldn’t have known.”
Shaking his head as tears flowed down his cheeks, he growled. “But I should have known!” The enigma’s voice boomed in the confessional as his fist subconsciously struck the wall separating them, causing the old Shepard of men to jump in his seat. “If I hadn’t been so selfish! So focused on walking away with no regrets, I would have seen it all. Looking back, I cannot believe how blind to her pain I truly was.” If losing his love wasn’t enough, what came next was his greatest failure, “I gave the boy up father…I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t strong enough”
He was close, before he could truly confess his sins and be absolved, he first needed Father Morris to understand the man that had committed those atrocities. Even ‘D’ wasn’t sure if he was seeking the forgiveness of the man or the church. “I gave him to Belle’s niece and my dearest friend in the world, and knowing they’d never truly understand my failure, I promised to leave and never come back…”
Upon their agreeing to take his baby boy and raise him as their own, ‘D’ wandered the globe before eventually being discovered by ‘them’ while beating the life out of a child peddling pimp in Thailand.
In fact, it wasn’t that long ago, he returned not just to wrestling, but to claim some sort of relationship with his only flesh and blood. “…but I screwed it all up by wanting it all. I couldn’t be satisfied knowing my son had a good life. That his adoptive parents loved him and he never knew pain or hardship, I needed to be there too. I wasn’t supposed to be alive father! I wasn’t supposed to fulfill the contract.”
Very few ever managed to leave ‘their’ ranks, people get older and, over time, sloppy. Often times ‘they’ would simply assign more and more dangerous targets until the ‘judge’ was ‘retired’. Then they would simply assign a new one to that particular case.
Chance and circumstance failed to end his life, and he would never take matters into his own hands. Thus, live he did; and so he returned to the ring.
He returned to America, where He watched the boy and his loving adoptive parents from afar for months, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted contact, he wanted back into the boy’s life, all of their lives. “Being their ‘judge’ was never about doing the right thing. I wanted to die. I wanted to die honourably. So I found a way to rid the world of those who were among its worst at the same time. All the while knowing it was only a matter of time until some Mark got lucky or I made a careless mistake. Less than one percent ever make it through their term, margin for error was nil.”
His eyes dried; his voice turned cold. Feeling left him as he remembered each sentence again. Each demon he had laid to rest, each devil he put down. He understood Shane Mitchell’s need for vengeance more than anyone. They simply chose different paths when choosing to act on it. “I killed rapists and murderers and child molesters. I killed the ones that the justice system failed to convict. I didn’t do it just because it was the right thing to do. I did it because deep down I needed to destroy something. Such was my grief, that I could not heal. So when a soul can not heal, it festers, it rots…it becomes tainted. None of that bothered me father, I did the work of whatever power you’d like to invoke…but this? What I’ve done now? There will be no coming back now.”
One could argue that, despite having only his own interests at heart, Shane’s quest laid more on the side of honesty than the enigma’s.
Shane had murdered babies in what was an ultimately vein attempt to save his daughter, Faith. Framing a dead man along the way if his memory serves him correct.
Shane watched his beloved Tiffany spiral into depression, then apparently take her own life in the wake of losing her daughter.
Refusing to believe it, the current RSW World Heavyweight Champion conducted his own investigation spanning months. After stumbling upon inconsistency after inconsistency, determined that his betrothed had not killed herself, she had been murdered.
Unsure how to feel, technically ‘D’ was correct, Father Morris was bound to never tell another soul, not even police. For the first time in the forty three years he had heard confessions, he now sat dumbfounded, his own conscience split.
The man of God desperately wanted to tell him not just to repent, but to turn himself in to the police. While the mortal, flawed man within wondered what this man could possibly consider worse than what he had already admitted to. “If what you say is true, Wrath is one of the seven deadly sins my child. But I sense you do not fear those deeds, so I must ask my son, what else could you have done?”
Taking a deep breath, the wave of emotion that rushes over him when he begins his tale was different than the others.
What he had taken from Shane Mitchell was more than the former reverend could have dreamed.
“I killed one man and stole something from another, worse yet…” When compared to the score of men he had ‘sentenced’ as Vengador Oscuro, one killing and a theft seemed petty in comparison, until he continued, “I unintentionally used someone I love, and she may be in danger if the man I stole from can piece together how I found what he thought had vanished.” ‘D’ could feel his heart race, he may have placed his future wife square in the crosshairs of a truly evil man.
Sighing again; he shifts, stretching his neck as he does, an audible pop precedes, “After what I have done, I find myself somehow fearing that my work may not yet be complete. The world seems more full of the wicked than ever before and now I must protect her. More and more those who wish to get to me, target her. Even those I thought friends. They all know she is my weakness. Now, I seem to have invited disaster home to roost once more.”
Unbeknownst to Alyssa, she had been an accomplice to the murder and theft her fiancé had just confessed to. In the wake of her mesmerizing at the hands of Rob Riot, ‘D’ had decided that he must increase his intensity if he was to protect her.
“My incessant need to protect those around me caused me to do something drastic.”
He had bribed her cameraman to record at all times and since it is the digital age, it wasn’t as though he were wasting company assets, so he happily agreed.
Even ‘D’ couldn’t have imagined what he would get in return. Shane had allowed Alyssa into his precious compound. Possessing a video map of the areas she visited, it was as though he had been there too.
“I promised her that never again would someone force themselves upon her. I failed her. But he went too far!”
Forcefully kissing his bride to be was one thing, but essentially revealing that Esmeralda Von Krauss had, in one form or another, sexually assaulted both ‘D’ and Alyssa live on air at Anarchy? That required a response.
That required retaliation.
Wrath.
Mitchell had taken something from them, in turn Shane had to lose in equal measure.
“So I went to that cold stone slab that heartless tormentor calls home, and I took what little he had left to live for.”
Leaning forward, his voice lowered, imploring Father Morris to listen intently lest ‘D’s’ words become lost in the sizzle of the candle outside each man’s door. “I camped a couple kilometres from his compound. Believe me, even for one of my acquired talents, it wasn’t easy. Luckily his vassels serve because they lack the capacity to think for themselves.”
The Mopolytes, Shane’s surprisingly loyal servants. Former RSW competitors chewed up and cast aside to a life of servitude by a fierce roster of RSW’s finest.
When a ‘talent’ couldn’t cut it, they often ended up in the servitude of the former reverend. “Using the knowledge of his compound that I had…acquired, I was able to navigate my way through the stone halls of that factory of mutants and miscreants. And deep down in the dungeons of Shane Mitchell’s compound…I found it, I found his personal holy grail Father.”
Sam Kale; the missing sheriff of a little speck of a place just outside the middle of nowhere, Oklahoma…Arcadia. “Strewn before me in chains, was a man who had sworn to serve and protect the people of his hometown. A man who used that position to hide his own crimes. A man who was both a rapist and a murderer.” ‘
‘D’ could feel his fists clinch, Mitchell had brought something dark out of the usually calm ‘servant of the spirits’ and may God have mercy on any who stand between them once that cell door is closed and locked. “He was beaten and tortured Father but he looked at me with hope in his blackened heart after I shut the door behind me. In case you were curious, even disgusting men invoke your Lord and Saviour when desperate.”
‘D’ remembered producing a small, but powerful flashlight. Sam Kale was on the edge of death, such was his condition that any normal person would have been appalled. The enigma was simply thankful.
Sam Kale was still alive.
Taking his time, Shane was enjoying extracting each and every delicious morsel of pain and suffering from Samuel Kale’s body. Mitchell would have his five pounds of flesh, then Kale’s miserable life.
Half in a horror induced shock, half intrigued, the priest continued to listen to this sad tale of death, leading onto death, leading onto death. “He saw a way out of his fate in me. I could see it in his eyes. Even a devil has hope, you see. He actually still had the audacity to believe a happy ending existed for him. That he could rape and murder another man’s fiancé and pay dearly for it, but manage to run away. A devil if I ever met one.”
He remembered Kale pleading to be saved. The sheriff begged for his life until a swift backhand had a whispering enigma growling in his ear, “Quiet you fool! Or I’ll end you myself right now!” Calming the near hysterical former lawman, he needed answers before any deals were made, “I’ll release you, but first you’re going to answer my questions.”
His first question wasn’t to confirm his suspicions that Kale was indeed the killer of Tiffany. It was to discern the whereabouts of, what he perceived to be the only true innocent tangled up with this whole mess, “Where is Dorritt?”
Blood flowed from where teeth used to be, spitting it out with his answer, Kale began to cry. “Dead…she’s dead.” He barely breathed between involuntary spasms caused by his stretched and torn muscles.
Nodding slowly, he remembered holding Sam’s head in his hands to look into the sad remainders of his eyes, “Now this question is very important Sheriff. Who killed her? And keep in mind, it is not in your best interest to lie to me.”
Kale was hung at the wrists, filthy, cut, burned, beaten…he had the smell of onsetting gangrene hanging about him. “I did…”
A second fist found its way into Kale’s jaw, “Because she figured out that it was you. You are the one who raped and killed Tiffany. That is why you are here. That is why you’re still alive.”
He cried, “I didn’t want to…I just wanted to be…to be better to her than that monster…I loved her, I…” A fresh backhand snatched the words from Kale’s swollen and sore filled mouth.
“Shhhh…relax Sheriff, I’m going to release you, just as I promised.” Producing a leather garrotte, it is slapped around the throat of Sam before he can draw air into his degenerated lungs to scream. A simple click later clamped the collar around his neck, slowly cutting off his air there was only the sound of wheezing as the enigma rendered his verdict, “Samuel Kale. You have been found guilty of the rape and murder of Tiffany Ledgard, and the murder of Catherine Dorritt. The evidence against you is clear and without question. The sentence is death. Die knowing that no retribution will be taken against your bloodline. Your evil dies with you this night. May whatever deity you believe in be merciful, for I cannot be.”
With that, ‘D’ stood by in silence as the life hissed, bubbled and spat its way from the wicked Sheriff known as Sam Kale, completing his transformation from rotting human to rotting corpse.
“My son, you said you killed a man, and stole from another. What did you steal?” Though a fair question, the priest chastised himself for asking, it wasn’t his place to encourage or coerce those who came to him in the name of the Lord seeking forgiveness.
‘D’ smiled to himself not because he had done something good, but because he knew somewhere Shane Mitchell was distraught, lost in grief over the loss of a man who finished the job the former reverend himself had started…ruining his life. “I stole vengeance from a man, who although deserving, is evil on a level I may never have encountered before. I took from him, the last mortal tie to his fiancé, the last tie to his daughter. I stole his vengeance and now force him to move on with his life…on my terms. This animal exposed me and my love to embarrassment and shame on top of being violated by that succubus…”
Even thinking of what Esmeralda Von Krauss had done to them both disgusted him, saying it aloud was harder than he gave it credit for. “…this demon and I are going to be locked in a cage together soon Father and all I know is that this has gone too far, long ago I was ready to leave this mortal existence…” barely allowing the words to leave his lips, ‘D’ opens his door, stepping into the dim candle light.
Joined moments later by the kindly old priest, they share a long look at each other. Each seemingly scanning the other for changes since last they met.
Taking the match from the brazier, Father Morris re-lights the match using it as a more mobile source of light.
“…But I have one final sin confess.” Reaching the tabernacle, he prepares the sacrament of communion.
“Body of Christ.” Blessing the host, the priest eats it, blessing himself before raising the chalice of wine.
“Blood of Christ…” Father Morris realizes the final son far too late. Clutching at his throat, he barely gets the words out before the ‘wine’ begins closing off the old man’s throat.
Standing by as the old priest sinks to his knees attempting to curse his former acquaintance with what remained of his dying breath ‘D’ looks the old man in the eyes, his voice soft and cold. “I once broke into a church and poisoned a priest who raped alter boys.”
Adding strength back to his voice, he finishes. “Father Eugene Morris you have been found guilty of the molestation of no fewer than…” What was left of his heart broke as he concluded. “…seven children.”
Slapping an envelope down before the kneeling ‘Shepherd’, several pictures spill out onto the marbled floor, pictures the priest had taken years before. Pictures that never should have seen the light of day. “The evidence against you is clear and without question. The sentence is death. Die knowing that no retribution will be taken against your bloodline. Your evil dies with you this night.”
A tear runs down the enigma’s cheek, “May God have mercy on your soul, for I cannot.”
In the morning, Father Morris would be found having poisoned himself from the grief of carrying his dark secrets for some thirty years. His crimes would be buried, no one who find out about the monster beneath the kind and wise exterior.
He would be forever remembered as a man who showed others the way of the Lord. A beacon of light in the darkness. The church would arrange for reparations to the families of those affected. In no way making things right, but at least those poor men who had heir lives shattered at such young ages would have one less thing to worry about.
And now that ‘D’ had taken his own reparations for the events of Anarchy Forty-six… At Masquerade, former Reverend Shane Mitchell would drink from the poison he crafted when he made a simple fight over a Championship, personal.
See you in hell.
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