Prologue
I am a thief, and a murderer. I am a saint, and a sinner. I am a drunk, and an addict. A preacher, and a savior. I am that moment when you first wake up, when the lines between dream and reality are gone. I am you. This is your story.
Perhaps first, you should introduce yourself. You believe in truth much as I believe in lies. There is no wrong I can’t commit, no right beyond your reach. You profess to believe, I profess no such thing – and neither is right, nor are we wrong. You have no future, and I have no past. You dwell in dreams, and I cannot dream. Yet, we’re the same. This is your story.
. . . . . .
I stand alone in a cell, twelve feet below the ground. I’ve been here before. Not this exact cell, mind you, but others like it. Every place the same – near enough to the action to feel it, but not so near as to comprehend it. Forever on the verge of battle.
I’ve always laughed when people say, “Well, at least you aren’t in the battle.” If they only knew. The battle is nothing compared to this waiting game. However, I shouldn’t be surprised – people have always failed to comprehend what truly matters. They fail to understand that there are things far more important than life or death. Battle merely decides who lives, and who dies. The waiting determines so much more than that. It begs every question of Truth, of love, and of hope – its strips away our certainty and leaves us with only questions.
Though I understand this, I still prefer the battles. Questions of Truth and of God are best left to philosophers and theologians. I am neither one. I am merely a gladiator. I do not face groups of soldiers, paid to seek my demise, nor do I face ravenous beasts. I merely face one opponent. Here, there are ways to win without killing, and ways to lose without death, though death is often an outcome. Here, should we survive, we are paid handsomely for our efforts; should we die, we are unceremoniously thrown in a dumpster outback. The sanitation workers receive a king’s ransom for their silence, and as this is our work, our home, and our life, no one asks any questions once we’re gone.
I would tell you where I live, but that is immaterial. My work is generally kept silent. However, what I do takes place in most countries, and even most states, with governments none the wiser. If you should seek to find me, know this: I’m always the last place you’d expect, the last person you’d expect. I don’t fit the “criteria” for the job. Yet, none of us do. That’s why we’re gladiators, because we were brought up to believe that right wore a business suit, and wrong wore tattered jeans. Thus, if you truly seek to find us, look deep within yourself. Then go to the largest city you can reach, to the most well respected establishment you can think of. And I’m sure, if you look and listen hard enough, you will find us there. Every place has its secrets.
I flatter myself that you might be surprised at my attire. I wear no gloves, no armor, and I bear no weapon. In fact, if anything, I carry a briefcase. My shoes are polished, my suit impeccable, and my tie in a firm Windsor knot. It is the attire of the respectable, of the right. But you and I both know that this is no corporate picnic, though sometimes even I’m surprised at what it is.
However, here in this cell, none of that matters. I pace to ease the burden of thought that presses in on me. Impatience threatens to constrict my chest. I feel the rumblings of each successive duel reach me, but the only sound I can hear is the hollow of my own footsteps and the cadence of my breathing. I am quite certain that my heart stopped several minutes ago. I still feel it pulsing within my chest, but the sound no longer reaches my ears. And here, it is not safe to trust only what you feel.
Soon, a man will come to get me. He has been assigned to me for every match so far, and I don’t even know his name. He’ll take me to the action, and then depart. Does he watch from the sidelines? Leave to get the next combatant? I don’t know, I’ve never asked. It seems I’m always rather preoccupied by the time he arrives.
I’ll fight. No more, and no less. There is no pre-amble, no announcer, no stadium. Merely a parking lot, with greedy people betting, pitting one against another. Me, against it, or sometimes them. I am Judas. Oh yes, I am Judas. Thirty pieces of silver might not buy a field anymore, but it still has its uses. I don’t know those that I engage. They could be criminals, they could be victims. I don’t know. I only kill them. Innocent or not, it doesn’t really matter to me. I do what I’m told, and I win. I always win.
Do you recognize me yet? Perhaps not. My name is Judas, to the extent that I have a name. But as I’ve already told you, this isn’t my story – it’s yours. Whether you can admit it or not, you know me. I’m in your reflection. Your morbid smiles at the despair of those around you. You don’t have to hide them from me. I’ve noticed your bank account inflates every time your company makes a donation to charity. It’s ok – I did it too. After all, what’s humanity without at least one appreciable vice?
But I nearly forgot! If I keep up this rambling, I’ll miss your introduction. Your story begins with a crow, does it not?
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