A man sits alone on the steps of a demolished church, surrounded by ruin, ash raining around him.

A man of God was he, but a man of virtue?

No.

Divorced thrice, he slept through half of the town. He found himself hiding in shadows and used cards to drive himself into the ground, where he turned to a wellspring of dizzy pleasure to wash away sorrow. When the hounds came howling for their dues, he used steel to bloody the battlefield and rifled through the pockets of greater men.

His cigarette parted from his stale lips, and smoke twirled into the charcoal sky. His hand slipped into the holster on his hip, and fingers curled around cold metal. The cigarette was flicked into the crumbling street as the other hand closed around the cross around his neck.

A soft prayer to a God he only believed in to save himself was uttered, and the metal rose to press to sooty flesh.

A limp and wicked body fell upon cracked cement and into flames.