Post by The Underdog on Feb 19, 2017 16:53:34 GMT
CLANG
CLANG
CLANG
The metallic, echoing toll of a huge bell signified mid-afternoon, the noise the only disruption to a quiet, yet oddly haunting, scene. The hazy late winter sunshine filtered through aged stain glass windows, bringing the lazily falling dust into greater focus as it settled onto worn wooden pews and polished brass ornaments.
The church, seemingly deserted, appeared typically Catholic in design and dĆ©cor; plush red prayer cushions adorned with delicate golden embellishments were arranged neatly across row upon row of sturdy timber benches, the lavishly designed architecture illuminated by yellowing, yet distinctly regal-looking lamps which hung from high ceilings. And front and centre, appearing like a powerful and imposing dictator lauding it over his quivering subjects, the gargantuan church organ loomed large, dominating the entirety of the churchās far wall.
The stillness and silence inside the building was broken when the heavy oak doors were slowly opened with an audible creak, before being closed with a gentle, echoing thud. The new arrival was a short man, but thick-set, with a well-defined physique visible beneath his smart, yet slightly ill-fitting attire.
āThe Underdogā Will Peterson looked up towards the top of the buildingās interior, pensive, contemplating. He sighed slightly, before looking down at his right hand, in which he held a small piece of paper. One might have assumed it was a Bible excerpt, perhaps, or the ubiquitous āProverbs 4:19ā postcard. But on closer inspection, it was revealed to be a photograph.
The photograph was a family portrait of three individuals; a man, likely middle-aged, with suspicious eyes, a shock of untidy looking dark hair which came almost to the shoulders, and a complexion which suggested he had indulged in many of the vices that this life has to offer, dominated the centre of the image. He rested his right hand on a rather short, portly looking woman, who smiled into the camera with kind eyes and rosy cheeks. And between them stood a young boy, aged around twelve or thirteen; he shared his motherās height, but certainly not her stature, sporting an already impressive physique in spite of his apparent youth. This, clearly, was a young Will Peterson.
Will took in the rest of the room with a long, sweeping look, before his eyes came to rest on the ornate yet shabby confessional, set somewhat out of the way against the churchās back wall. His face fell into a trademark wry smile, before he sighed again. Steeling himself, he strode forward, pushed aside the thick crimson curtain and stepped inside, settling himself on the plain wooden bench.
There was a long, pregnant pause, silence inside the booth save for a faint rustling on the other side of the partition wall, before the rickety wooden grille to Petersonās right hand side was slid open by an unseen hand. Will glanced at the panel, before returning his gaze to the photograph he held in his lap, speaking in a low voice.
āForgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has beenā¦ Jesusā¦ about twenty years since my last confession.ā
āPlease do not take the Lordās name in vain, my son. But regardless ā that is an incredible space of time between confessions. Please, continue.ā
Willās eyes narrowed slightly, surprised at the gruff English accent emanating from the other side of the booth. Nevertheless, he continued.
āI suppose you could say that my faith has beenā¦ tested, somewhatā¦ā
Will spoke slowly, deliberately, as If he was struggling to choose the right words to describe the strange and strained relationship he had shared with religion.
āWe all encounter challenges, my child; hurdles that must be overcome in order for us to achieve personal peace. Yet, it is more important than ever in these difficult times to stay ever closer to the teachings and the way of Our Lord.ā
Will paused for a few moments before replying.
āI have become fixatedā¦ noā¦ obsessed, since I chose to begin a new chapter in my lifeā¦ā
āThe last time I checked, āobsessionā was not a sin.ā
āNo.ā Will conceded. āBut greed certainly is. I have been presented, in recent times, with a mystery, a question that I did not have the answer to. And rather than hold my hands up and admit to myself that there are some problems that cannot be solved, I have let it consume me, and completely distract me from the important things in life.
I was born and raised in England, Father. The same as you, it would seem. I had anā¦ interesting upbringing, but I suppose looking back, I had everything, really, that a child would ever need. My mother was a strong woman. Lord knows she had toā¦ oopsā¦ sorry Fatherā¦ā
āIt is fine.ā the priest replied evenly. āDo go on.ā
āYeah, well, my mother had very little choice but to remain strong after my Dadā¦ wellā¦ after he began paying his penance, shall we sayā¦ā
Another silence, broken this time by the pastor, who spoke in a rather odd tone.
āHe will have been suitably punished for his sins, my son, I am sure. And if he truly repented, he will have become a better and stronger man in the process.ā
The Underdogās expression, along with his mood, seemed to instantly darken at the pastorās words. He barked out a single, hollow laugh.
āYou donāt know my father, Fatherā¦!ā
Another pregnant pause, neither man sure how to respond to the somewhat ridiculous turn-of-phrase.
āBut yeahā¦ā Will continued on. āMy mother was a strong woman, and a strong believer in yourā¦ in our faith. She was a model Christian ā attended Mass every Sunday, gave generously to those she perceived less fortunate than herself, even when this charity may leave her a little too close to the poverty line for comfort. But she raised me well, with the same morals and values that defined her. But somewhere along the way, I stepped off the right path, and decided to go it alone.
I was a frustrated teenager, Father, despite having the world at my feet. I saw myself as the epitome of average; I didnāt excel at anything. I was told I was too short for rugby, didnāt have the pace for football, and would never have the temperament for cricket. I was a decent enough academic, but always felt that my fate lie in the athletic world.
Wrestling, Father; wrestling was the world in which I could thrive. It was a begrudged hobby at first, but soon turned into a life passion, a natural channel for years and years of pent up anger and frustration. I trained hard, fought harder, and soon rose up the ranks in what is, admittedly, a somewhat niche sport back in Blighty.
Wrestling, though, as Iām sure you can imagine, is not the ideal bedfellow for a devout Christian faith. This, Father, was the first thing that was sacrificed for what was to become my new life.ā
āYou are not the first sheep to have lost his way in the eyes of our Lord, son, nor will you be the lastā the priest replied sagely.
Will, however, was not comforted by the pastorās words, and bowed his head as if embarrassed, or ashamed.
āBut my faith was not the only thing I turned my back on.ā he said in a low voice. āAnd greed took hold of me once more. I turned professional at a very young age, but found little success in the British wrestling scene, which is rather lacking in pull and star power. I had little money, no motivation and zero opportunities to better myself, and I was well and truly stuck in a rut.
My head was turned by the good olā American Dream, Father, I admit. Wrestling is simply bigger business on this side of the pond. Bigger venues lead to bigger payouts. More competitors means a chance to push myself further against a wider range of styles. Greater recognition, increased reputation ā everything! All of this equals a better life for yours truly. Seems like a no-brainer, right?
Well my mother, of course, was less convinced. She had already lost a husband, the man in whom she had entrusted a lifetime but who had betrayed her with a single, vile act of selfishness. Now, she stood to lose a son tooā¦ā
The Underdog lapsed into another uncomfortable silence, frowning down at the photograph still clutched in two hands, picking absent-mindedly at one corner.
āI turned my back on her, too.ā Will said, in a voice oddly devoid of the emotion that he was obviously feeling. āI let my head get turned by the shallow satisfaction of personal gain and professional pride. I made the move, Father, and in the process forgot about all of the things that were importantā¦ really, actually important to me, in my life. And now it feels like sheās here, alreadyā¦ like some dead spectre of a past life, reminding me of everything Iāve left behindā¦ā
āWhat do you mean?ā the pastor asked.
āIāve been gone barely a month, padre. Enough time to realise that America, and the Imperial Wrestling Federation, is where I want to be, is what I need to do. But there have beenā¦ signsā¦ messagesā¦ lots of little coincidences that have all added up to only one thing in my mind.
The religious connotationsā¦ the vocabulary thatās been usedā¦ itās her, Father. Iām sure it is. I could scarcely believe it when I first came to the conclusion, as passive aggressive really isnāt the old girlās style. It practically drove me insane trying to figure it all out. But itās all making sense now. My mother is trying to send a message to me, in her own unique way. To tell me that I have made a mistake. That I need to go back.
But I canāt go back, Father, not yet. Because I, in the short time that I have been here, already have unfinished business to attend to. You see, not has this monumental distraction to take over my personal life, I have allowed it to affect my career too. I had come into the IWF like a house on fire, the owner of a relatively short, yet still solidly impressive, undefeated streak. I had vanquished all who came before me, was building quite the reputation. So much so that I was dangled a carrot, an opportunity worthy of making even the greatest jealous ā a chance at clinching coveted gold in almost record time.
But the coincidences had begun to get more frequent, Father, the messages stronger, more insistent. Sub-consciously, Iām sure, I was still dwelling on my mother, even as I was in total control of the matchup, on course for the promised prospect of championship gold. One slip... one vital slip at one crucial moment, and not only is my undefeated streak left in tatters, not only had I lost my chance at glory, but I had become embroiled in a petty squabble with one Dorian Hawkhurst.ā
āAnd who is this Dorian Hawkhurst?ā the priest asked.
āāThe Demon of Sobrietyāā Will replied, creating air quotations. āA man who has pride, charisma and machismo in spades, but who on the inside, is another in a long line of lost sheep. He is troubled, Father, there is no doubt, and I fear an easy target for petty insults and mindless hatred. But I donāt hate the man. Noā¦ no. But by the same token, I certainly donāt trust him either. He can preach his sanctimonious words all he likes, he can talk about reform, redemption. But Iām not buying it. Because Iāve stood mere feet away from The Demon of Sobriety. And Iāve seen it, Father. Iāve seen the look in his eyes. The look I have to bear when I see my own reflection. The look of a man who would do anything, to anyone, in order to climb the next rung up that ladder. Whether it be for personal or professional gain, he has that traitā¦ my unenviable traitā¦ that he is willing to sacrifice a huge amount in order to reach his next goal.
And now, this week, I have to step between those ropes and not only worry about The Lost Boys ā a focused and cohesive tag team who will be hell bent on avenging their pay-per-view defeat a couple of weeks ago ā but also about what an untrustworthy partner might be plotting behind my back.
Iām under no illusions though ā The Lost Boys are a fearsome proposition on their own, and regardless of my partnerās actions or motives, Iām gonna have to be at my best to triumph on Monday night. Disappointing though their early IWF results have been, their performances have nonetheless been full of the pep and verve of a young tag team who have travelled across oceans and continents in order to realise their dream. They have been on the wrong end of some split-second decisions and high risk spots, but the law of averages says that theyāre bound to start hitting these big moves soon and reaping the rewards.
But that doesnāt mean Iām just going to lie down and become a slave to my fate. This week, I pledge to redouble my efforts, refocus my mind and rediscover the form and momentum that I had captured in my early IWF knockings. My unfinished business here lies not only with the Hawkhurst situation, but also in the fact that I have yet to break the glass ceiling, yet to have that Kodak moment where I go āTHIS is why I made the decision I madeā. My moment is coming, and clichĆ©d though it may be, The Lost Boys are just another couple of steps on my journey. And just like Dorian, I will not hesitate to step on them in order to get to where I need to be.ā
Another silence fell between the two men, as Peterson finally raised his head, his glum expression replaced now with a look of steely determination.
āI am glad youāve felt that you have been able to open up to me like this, son.ā the priest said quietly. āBut I have to ask ā why is it that you have chosen to speak to me today? I have listened and I have heard no frightful sin, no unredeemable act of malevolence or evil. Why have you felt the need to confess?ā
Will squinted slightly as he pondered the pastorās words.
āI suppose, in the circumstances, it just feltā¦ right.ā he said thoughtfully. āI needed to come to a sanctuary, a place to allow me to reflect and refocus on what is right. And I have done that.ā
Will stood, giving a single nod to nobody in particularly, wearing a look of intensity and satisfaction.
āI know now what I need to do. Thank you for your time, padre.ā
āYou are welcome, my child.ā the pastor replied warmly. āOhā¦ and twenty Hail Marys for taking the Lordās name in vainā
Will laughed in spite of himself at the rare humour from the other side of the confessional.
āThank you, padre.ā he repeated, before stepping out of the wooden booth.
The Underdog smiled properly for the first time since entering the church, looking utterly at peace with the world, as he took a final, searching look around the building, before heading for the exit. Even as the heavy oak door was swinging shut, the felt curtain on the other side of the confessional rustled, and a man stepped through. A man who was certainly not a priest. A man with a pallid complexion, and a shock of black hair perched untidily upon his head, not dissimilar to the man in the photograph carried away by a certain Will Peterson just moments agoā¦
Petersonās father, dressed not in the typical dress of a Catholic priest, but rather in shabby, neutral street clothes, drew himself up to his fullest height. He thrust both hands into the pockets of the grey hoody he wore, staring intensely in the direction of his recently departed son. As he did so, two men of almost identical appearance, dressed entirely in black, appeared simultaneously alongside him. Black sunglasses were perched upon impassive faces, black shirts and black suit jackets resting on bulky, broad shoulders.
Petersonās father looked at each man in turn, before back at the door.
āHe is starting to get it. But he is still to fully comprehend the beast that he has awoken with his actions.ā
The manās voice was dripping with sinister intent, his eyes burning with years of hitherto imprisoned fury.
āGo. Follow him. Send him another message. It is almost time for this underdog to have his dayā¦ of reckoning.ā
CLANG
CLANG
The metallic, echoing toll of a huge bell signified mid-afternoon, the noise the only disruption to a quiet, yet oddly haunting, scene. The hazy late winter sunshine filtered through aged stain glass windows, bringing the lazily falling dust into greater focus as it settled onto worn wooden pews and polished brass ornaments.
The church, seemingly deserted, appeared typically Catholic in design and dĆ©cor; plush red prayer cushions adorned with delicate golden embellishments were arranged neatly across row upon row of sturdy timber benches, the lavishly designed architecture illuminated by yellowing, yet distinctly regal-looking lamps which hung from high ceilings. And front and centre, appearing like a powerful and imposing dictator lauding it over his quivering subjects, the gargantuan church organ loomed large, dominating the entirety of the churchās far wall.
The stillness and silence inside the building was broken when the heavy oak doors were slowly opened with an audible creak, before being closed with a gentle, echoing thud. The new arrival was a short man, but thick-set, with a well-defined physique visible beneath his smart, yet slightly ill-fitting attire.
āThe Underdogā Will Peterson looked up towards the top of the buildingās interior, pensive, contemplating. He sighed slightly, before looking down at his right hand, in which he held a small piece of paper. One might have assumed it was a Bible excerpt, perhaps, or the ubiquitous āProverbs 4:19ā postcard. But on closer inspection, it was revealed to be a photograph.
The photograph was a family portrait of three individuals; a man, likely middle-aged, with suspicious eyes, a shock of untidy looking dark hair which came almost to the shoulders, and a complexion which suggested he had indulged in many of the vices that this life has to offer, dominated the centre of the image. He rested his right hand on a rather short, portly looking woman, who smiled into the camera with kind eyes and rosy cheeks. And between them stood a young boy, aged around twelve or thirteen; he shared his motherās height, but certainly not her stature, sporting an already impressive physique in spite of his apparent youth. This, clearly, was a young Will Peterson.
Will took in the rest of the room with a long, sweeping look, before his eyes came to rest on the ornate yet shabby confessional, set somewhat out of the way against the churchās back wall. His face fell into a trademark wry smile, before he sighed again. Steeling himself, he strode forward, pushed aside the thick crimson curtain and stepped inside, settling himself on the plain wooden bench.
There was a long, pregnant pause, silence inside the booth save for a faint rustling on the other side of the partition wall, before the rickety wooden grille to Petersonās right hand side was slid open by an unseen hand. Will glanced at the panel, before returning his gaze to the photograph he held in his lap, speaking in a low voice.
āForgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has beenā¦ Jesusā¦ about twenty years since my last confession.ā
āPlease do not take the Lordās name in vain, my son. But regardless ā that is an incredible space of time between confessions. Please, continue.ā
Willās eyes narrowed slightly, surprised at the gruff English accent emanating from the other side of the booth. Nevertheless, he continued.
āI suppose you could say that my faith has beenā¦ tested, somewhatā¦ā
Will spoke slowly, deliberately, as If he was struggling to choose the right words to describe the strange and strained relationship he had shared with religion.
āWe all encounter challenges, my child; hurdles that must be overcome in order for us to achieve personal peace. Yet, it is more important than ever in these difficult times to stay ever closer to the teachings and the way of Our Lord.ā
Will paused for a few moments before replying.
āI have become fixatedā¦ noā¦ obsessed, since I chose to begin a new chapter in my lifeā¦ā
āThe last time I checked, āobsessionā was not a sin.ā
āNo.ā Will conceded. āBut greed certainly is. I have been presented, in recent times, with a mystery, a question that I did not have the answer to. And rather than hold my hands up and admit to myself that there are some problems that cannot be solved, I have let it consume me, and completely distract me from the important things in life.
I was born and raised in England, Father. The same as you, it would seem. I had anā¦ interesting upbringing, but I suppose looking back, I had everything, really, that a child would ever need. My mother was a strong woman. Lord knows she had toā¦ oopsā¦ sorry Fatherā¦ā
āIt is fine.ā the priest replied evenly. āDo go on.ā
āYeah, well, my mother had very little choice but to remain strong after my Dadā¦ wellā¦ after he began paying his penance, shall we sayā¦ā
Another silence, broken this time by the pastor, who spoke in a rather odd tone.
āHe will have been suitably punished for his sins, my son, I am sure. And if he truly repented, he will have become a better and stronger man in the process.ā
The Underdogās expression, along with his mood, seemed to instantly darken at the pastorās words. He barked out a single, hollow laugh.
āYou donāt know my father, Fatherā¦!ā
Another pregnant pause, neither man sure how to respond to the somewhat ridiculous turn-of-phrase.
āBut yeahā¦ā Will continued on. āMy mother was a strong woman, and a strong believer in yourā¦ in our faith. She was a model Christian ā attended Mass every Sunday, gave generously to those she perceived less fortunate than herself, even when this charity may leave her a little too close to the poverty line for comfort. But she raised me well, with the same morals and values that defined her. But somewhere along the way, I stepped off the right path, and decided to go it alone.
I was a frustrated teenager, Father, despite having the world at my feet. I saw myself as the epitome of average; I didnāt excel at anything. I was told I was too short for rugby, didnāt have the pace for football, and would never have the temperament for cricket. I was a decent enough academic, but always felt that my fate lie in the athletic world.
Wrestling, Father; wrestling was the world in which I could thrive. It was a begrudged hobby at first, but soon turned into a life passion, a natural channel for years and years of pent up anger and frustration. I trained hard, fought harder, and soon rose up the ranks in what is, admittedly, a somewhat niche sport back in Blighty.
Wrestling, though, as Iām sure you can imagine, is not the ideal bedfellow for a devout Christian faith. This, Father, was the first thing that was sacrificed for what was to become my new life.ā
āYou are not the first sheep to have lost his way in the eyes of our Lord, son, nor will you be the lastā the priest replied sagely.
Will, however, was not comforted by the pastorās words, and bowed his head as if embarrassed, or ashamed.
āBut my faith was not the only thing I turned my back on.ā he said in a low voice. āAnd greed took hold of me once more. I turned professional at a very young age, but found little success in the British wrestling scene, which is rather lacking in pull and star power. I had little money, no motivation and zero opportunities to better myself, and I was well and truly stuck in a rut.
My head was turned by the good olā American Dream, Father, I admit. Wrestling is simply bigger business on this side of the pond. Bigger venues lead to bigger payouts. More competitors means a chance to push myself further against a wider range of styles. Greater recognition, increased reputation ā everything! All of this equals a better life for yours truly. Seems like a no-brainer, right?
Well my mother, of course, was less convinced. She had already lost a husband, the man in whom she had entrusted a lifetime but who had betrayed her with a single, vile act of selfishness. Now, she stood to lose a son tooā¦ā
The Underdog lapsed into another uncomfortable silence, frowning down at the photograph still clutched in two hands, picking absent-mindedly at one corner.
āI turned my back on her, too.ā Will said, in a voice oddly devoid of the emotion that he was obviously feeling. āI let my head get turned by the shallow satisfaction of personal gain and professional pride. I made the move, Father, and in the process forgot about all of the things that were importantā¦ really, actually important to me, in my life. And now it feels like sheās here, alreadyā¦ like some dead spectre of a past life, reminding me of everything Iāve left behindā¦ā
āWhat do you mean?ā the pastor asked.
āIāve been gone barely a month, padre. Enough time to realise that America, and the Imperial Wrestling Federation, is where I want to be, is what I need to do. But there have beenā¦ signsā¦ messagesā¦ lots of little coincidences that have all added up to only one thing in my mind.
The religious connotationsā¦ the vocabulary thatās been usedā¦ itās her, Father. Iām sure it is. I could scarcely believe it when I first came to the conclusion, as passive aggressive really isnāt the old girlās style. It practically drove me insane trying to figure it all out. But itās all making sense now. My mother is trying to send a message to me, in her own unique way. To tell me that I have made a mistake. That I need to go back.
But I canāt go back, Father, not yet. Because I, in the short time that I have been here, already have unfinished business to attend to. You see, not has this monumental distraction to take over my personal life, I have allowed it to affect my career too. I had come into the IWF like a house on fire, the owner of a relatively short, yet still solidly impressive, undefeated streak. I had vanquished all who came before me, was building quite the reputation. So much so that I was dangled a carrot, an opportunity worthy of making even the greatest jealous ā a chance at clinching coveted gold in almost record time.
But the coincidences had begun to get more frequent, Father, the messages stronger, more insistent. Sub-consciously, Iām sure, I was still dwelling on my mother, even as I was in total control of the matchup, on course for the promised prospect of championship gold. One slip... one vital slip at one crucial moment, and not only is my undefeated streak left in tatters, not only had I lost my chance at glory, but I had become embroiled in a petty squabble with one Dorian Hawkhurst.ā
āAnd who is this Dorian Hawkhurst?ā the priest asked.
āāThe Demon of Sobrietyāā Will replied, creating air quotations. āA man who has pride, charisma and machismo in spades, but who on the inside, is another in a long line of lost sheep. He is troubled, Father, there is no doubt, and I fear an easy target for petty insults and mindless hatred. But I donāt hate the man. Noā¦ no. But by the same token, I certainly donāt trust him either. He can preach his sanctimonious words all he likes, he can talk about reform, redemption. But Iām not buying it. Because Iāve stood mere feet away from The Demon of Sobriety. And Iāve seen it, Father. Iāve seen the look in his eyes. The look I have to bear when I see my own reflection. The look of a man who would do anything, to anyone, in order to climb the next rung up that ladder. Whether it be for personal or professional gain, he has that traitā¦ my unenviable traitā¦ that he is willing to sacrifice a huge amount in order to reach his next goal.
And now, this week, I have to step between those ropes and not only worry about The Lost Boys ā a focused and cohesive tag team who will be hell bent on avenging their pay-per-view defeat a couple of weeks ago ā but also about what an untrustworthy partner might be plotting behind my back.
Iām under no illusions though ā The Lost Boys are a fearsome proposition on their own, and regardless of my partnerās actions or motives, Iām gonna have to be at my best to triumph on Monday night. Disappointing though their early IWF results have been, their performances have nonetheless been full of the pep and verve of a young tag team who have travelled across oceans and continents in order to realise their dream. They have been on the wrong end of some split-second decisions and high risk spots, but the law of averages says that theyāre bound to start hitting these big moves soon and reaping the rewards.
But that doesnāt mean Iām just going to lie down and become a slave to my fate. This week, I pledge to redouble my efforts, refocus my mind and rediscover the form and momentum that I had captured in my early IWF knockings. My unfinished business here lies not only with the Hawkhurst situation, but also in the fact that I have yet to break the glass ceiling, yet to have that Kodak moment where I go āTHIS is why I made the decision I madeā. My moment is coming, and clichĆ©d though it may be, The Lost Boys are just another couple of steps on my journey. And just like Dorian, I will not hesitate to step on them in order to get to where I need to be.ā
Another silence fell between the two men, as Peterson finally raised his head, his glum expression replaced now with a look of steely determination.
āI am glad youāve felt that you have been able to open up to me like this, son.ā the priest said quietly. āBut I have to ask ā why is it that you have chosen to speak to me today? I have listened and I have heard no frightful sin, no unredeemable act of malevolence or evil. Why have you felt the need to confess?ā
Will squinted slightly as he pondered the pastorās words.
āI suppose, in the circumstances, it just feltā¦ right.ā he said thoughtfully. āI needed to come to a sanctuary, a place to allow me to reflect and refocus on what is right. And I have done that.ā
Will stood, giving a single nod to nobody in particularly, wearing a look of intensity and satisfaction.
āI know now what I need to do. Thank you for your time, padre.ā
āYou are welcome, my child.ā the pastor replied warmly. āOhā¦ and twenty Hail Marys for taking the Lordās name in vainā
Will laughed in spite of himself at the rare humour from the other side of the confessional.
āThank you, padre.ā he repeated, before stepping out of the wooden booth.
The Underdog smiled properly for the first time since entering the church, looking utterly at peace with the world, as he took a final, searching look around the building, before heading for the exit. Even as the heavy oak door was swinging shut, the felt curtain on the other side of the confessional rustled, and a man stepped through. A man who was certainly not a priest. A man with a pallid complexion, and a shock of black hair perched untidily upon his head, not dissimilar to the man in the photograph carried away by a certain Will Peterson just moments agoā¦
Petersonās father, dressed not in the typical dress of a Catholic priest, but rather in shabby, neutral street clothes, drew himself up to his fullest height. He thrust both hands into the pockets of the grey hoody he wore, staring intensely in the direction of his recently departed son. As he did so, two men of almost identical appearance, dressed entirely in black, appeared simultaneously alongside him. Black sunglasses were perched upon impassive faces, black shirts and black suit jackets resting on bulky, broad shoulders.
Petersonās father looked at each man in turn, before back at the door.
āHe is starting to get it. But he is still to fully comprehend the beast that he has awoken with his actions.ā
The manās voice was dripping with sinister intent, his eyes burning with years of hitherto imprisoned fury.
āGo. Follow him. Send him another message. It is almost time for this underdog to have his dayā¦ of reckoning.ā
Well howdy there pardner.