Earlier, in Texas...

Tybalt smoothed his jacket and straightened his sleeves as he stood in front of the closed door. Within the room he could hear the shouts of the archbishop. There was a sudden loud crash followed by a faint gurgling sound. Tybalt thought it best to wait a moment before making his entrance.

Regardless of being the bearer of good news, he knew what the archbishop was like when he was in one of his moods. Unreasonable was a vast understatement. A little patients would go a long way under the circumstances. Especially since he was wearing a new suit and Tybalt didn’t relish the idea of being thrown out of a fifth story window. Certainly not again.

After a prolonged silence, Tybalt ran a hand through his curly hair and opened the door. The archbishop stood in the centre of a scene of chaos. Much of the furniture in the study was smashed to kindling. A large desk stood up against the far wall at an impossible angle. Chairs were upended and pictures, once hanging from walls, were strewn across the floor.

Hoisted into the air by throat was a now dead ghoul which the archbishop still clung to. From the look on his face, Tybalt was under the distinct impression that the archbishop was literally trying to squeeze answers out of the dead retainer. The archbishop turned towards the door.

“Tybalt!”

With an effortless pivot the archbishop hurled the corpse at his templar. Tybalt deftly sidestepped the projectile body as it sprawled through the air out the office. But no sooner had he dodged, the archbishop was upon him. With one hand, the archbishop cradled Tybalt’s head under his chin and with the other, pointed a taloned finger directly between his eyes. Tybalt knew that it would take little effort for his grace to bury the finger into the back of his skull. He stood very still.

“How, Tybalt? How?”

The archbishop was a hair’s breath away from frenzy. Tybalt remained calm, speaking quickly and clearly.

“The how is not important, your grace. The true question is where. And I know where they are going. Which in turn leads to the second most important question, who. And I know who we can use to remedy this.”

The archbishop’s eyes narrowed.

“No,Tybalt. No outsiders. You, my templar, will handle this. If news of this reached the counsel of cardinals, the blow to my credibility would be beyond repair.”

Tybalt could feel the vice like grip loosen as the archbishop lowered the claw from his face.

“With all due respect my grace, they have moved faster than anticipated. And contrary to previous intel, when they left Houston they headed not for the east coast but rather westward.”

“West!” bellowed the archbishop. “They could already be in anarch infested LA.”

“No, my grace,” interjected Tybalt. “They have stopped moving. It would seem they have found an interested party in Nevada.”

“Nevada? You mean...”

“Yes, my grace. Las Vegas.”

The archbishop smiled.

“The Bremen Four are currently touring Vegas, are they not?”

“I have already made the call, my grace. The Band are ready to serve with the utmost loyalty and,” Tybalt paused as he deliberately mouthed the word, “discretion.”

The archbishop turned from Tybalt. He walked towards the end of his study and removed the desk from the wall.

“Good, we have some luck on our side.”

“What shall I give the Band as their mandate?” asked Tybalt.

The archbishop considered this. There was no doubt that rumours of the theft had already spread beyond his containment. He would have to be clever in his approach.

“Find those responsible. Destroy them. Take back what is rightfully mine.”

“And return it, my grace?” asked Tybalt.

The archbishop gave a fanged grin.

“No. I shall make it seem that it was always my intention for it to leave Houston. They are to delivery it to a worthy comrade. A gift from the generosity of Houston to our brothers fighting the good fight on the west coast.”

Tybalt gave a short nod.

“I shall make it so, your grace.”

Golden Rule

“All this I’ve taught you, everything about vamps and shit, what’s rule number one?”

He shifts from one foot to the other, hawks up a wad of chewing tobacco and spits. I consider his question, the irony of what he has hammered into me both physically and mentally. So much effort to instill a personal code of selfishness. So much time given to liken my thinking to his. I’ve always felt that the need for a teacher to impart knowledge to a student was to leave a legacy. But what point is a legacy if this is what you hold to the very fiber of your being.

“No one else matters. No one is worth dying for. Survive, at any cost.”

He gives a short nod at my answer. He extends his hand and I brace for impact. But he gently taps my face in paternal approval. I look at the ground at the wad he spat on the gas station forecourt. Even in the poor neon light I can make out the faint pink tinge to the spittle mixed into the tobacco. He rights his cap and gives a smile.

“Good kid. You might just make it.”

He turns and heads to the front of his truck. I should hate him. The hillbilly fuck who took my life, inflicted unrelenting pain on me night after night, the monster who stripped every moral away from me. I don’t. I feel a numb gratitude. A grudging appreciation that he went to such lengths to pass on his code. Because as fucked up and twisted as it may be, it’s his code and it’s the very thing that defines him. And now it defines me.

Irony. He didn’t kill me. He just recreated me in his own image. And as profoundly selfish as that may be, there is a silent generosity buried in his actions. I feel... worthy. He pulls himself into his cab, slams the door and leans out the open window.

“We’re done, kid. I’m head’n north so we’ll probably never meet up again.”

He leans closer out the window and I can tell he wants to share some last wisdom. Final words to guide me through the nights.

“Don’t fuck up.”

He fires up his rig. For a moment I contemplate the validity of living a life without having something to die for. I wash away the notion with a new found revelation of my own. If you can’t preserve your own life, anyone is entitled to take it. And you know, I can think of a lot of folk that don't deserve to survive

I want to say something to him. Before he leaves. Something profound and lasting. To tell how right he is or how utterly wrong his views are. That I will have my revenge or that I’ll miss the beatings. To tell him I love him or that I hate him. But after it all, the best I could manage is,

“See you around, Cletus.”

The Hangman Hanged

The nose tightened around the man's neck. Fine Italian silk still crusted in blood. An empty holster hiding under his jacket. One of his eyes was missing. Eaten by the Ravens.

"Please master! Please! I can still serve you. Just give me another chance. Just one more chance. I won't screw up again. I promise."

The hangman checked the knots. A quick tug here and there. Satisfied that the knots will hold he moved on to double check the trapdoor mechanism . He took pride in his job. Not in what he did, but how he did it. A real hangman is efficient. A real hangman is detached. He cannot take pleasure in taking life. It is not appropriate. A hangman is not a killer. He carries this great burden for the sake of order. He takes life so other can live.

"Please master, please.... dear God, please..." the man whimpered.

A hangman does not talk to the condemned.

"I know I fucked up. It was too early. I should not have told them about you."

A hangman does not judge.

He took the black, eyeless hood and pulled it over the man's head. A moment of silence as the hand rests on the lever. Give the condemned one last chance to reflect on his sins.

Thud.

The hangman looked up at the hanging body. No struggling. A broken neck. Perfect.

A hangman is efficient. He does not judge but trusts in the law. A real hangman would hang his own brother if he had to.