Juan Patrick Xavier O'Malley


After the mad ramblings about God, hellfire, and repentance, the first thing noticed is the smell, a combination of sulfur and spoiled meat, that causes most to hurry away from him. If anyone gets past the smell, they see a man with a short, sqat body, limbs improbably thin and long poking out from beneath rags, patches, and tatters that barely count as clothing. His skin is hamburger left to spoil on a hot day, gray and pink blotches covered with thick, coarse hair that seems to feel the air around him. Matted, unwashed long hair covers his head and face, obscuring what appears to be a mask adorned with crosses, Bible verses, and tears the color of fresh blood. Close examination would reveal the mask to be affixed to his face with broad, flat headed nails, skin torn away from the edge of this facial covering. There is an opening for the eyes and the mouth.


Intelligence 2 Wits 3 Resolve 2 Strength 2 Dexterity 3 Stamina 3 Presence 2 Manipulation 2 Composure 4


Mental – Academics 1 Crafts 2 Investigation 1 Physical – Athletics 1 Brawl 2 (dirty tactics) Larceny 2 Stealth 2 Social – Empathy 1 Intimidation 3 Persuasion 2 (oratory) Streetwise 3 (rumors) Subterfuge 2


City status 1 (shelters) Trapdoor 1 Sepulcher 1 Unyielding Mask 3 Fleet of Foot 1 Iron Stamina 1




Nightmare 2 Vigor 1 Obfuscate 0

Experience Earned 8


“Jesus bless you my friend, but only if you repent your wickedness and seek his love. Otherwise, you will burn forever in the hell that you have earned. Here, let show you what you’re in for.”

I am Job – all of this is the work of the devil attempting to get me to despair and curse the Lord and his works. People see me as a monstrosity among them (and not even for the reason they should) as they go about their business of spending the money they earn from the sweat and labor of those beneath them. I tell them to repent, to forgo their wickedness, their evil lives, their drugs, their sex. I am a hypocrite and undeserving of God’s favor because I am a child of such wickedness. My slut mother and drunk father engaged in some lewd act to spawn me forth and I have been cursed since to try to rise above it. My only childhood memories are of my Irish father swearing at and beating my Puerto Rican mother for her numerous infidelities, then sinking himself back once more in the solace of a bottle of whatever was cheap and available that week. I was quiet and hid away in the dark places of our worthless hole of a home, the crawlspaces that my father couldn’t or was too lazy to try to pry me from.

Please forgive me for what I did to them, for I know it is wrong and I should respect my father and mother, but they were terrible horrible sinners, and I was simply doing your work, Lord, when I made them the first meal after my ‘change’.

I did all the things a person is supposed to do growing up – went to school, went to Mass, prayed for the redemption of my parents, offered up personal sacrifices to save them from me and myself. I spent the time after school at church, praying, praying for relief from all of this. And it came when I was in my late teens. HE began to speak to me, told me I needed to go out and preach to the lost, lonely, and sinful people; to warn them of the damnation they brought upon themselves through their pursuit of wealth and sex in this city of evil.

My father cut me up one night with a broken whiskey bottle, nearly tore my face off, called me the bastard son of a spic whore, told me I could not be his son because I was such a worthless and desperate sniveling piece of shit. The Lord saved me though and did not let me bleed out, merely left me reminders forever of the wages of sin.

I ran from the transgressions of my family, ran from the part of the town where I was on both sides of the warring fence and belonged to neither. I didn’t go far, but really just far enough that it would not be easy for them to find me. I slept where I could, when I could, grew my hair long like the degenerates that frequent certain parts of town, and I did my work. I preached and preached, spread the Lord’s word, talked with any who would listen about the coming fiery times and the eternal torments they would suffer. Someone clearly heard me and decided to show me what eternal torment really might be like.

Someone had blinded him, sewed his eyes shut. His smell made even me want to retch, and I had long been sleeping in unused sewers and couldn’t remember when I’d last bathed. He told me he was going to show me the torment of the damned personally, that I would better understand what God intended for all those sinners. I tried as best as I could to fight, but when you live on the streets and eat from trashcans, you don’t exactly have the strength of angels. The bite surprised me, my blood vanishing, and he seemed to be drinking it the way my father would a bottle of Wild Turkey. There was cool darkness and then I woke.

The sewers go on for days, home to all the city’s refuse, including the beasts who have turned me from the light of God. They tell me I was abandoned here – there’s a nice fucking change of pace – They wanted me to become a spy, a fucked up James Bond, amongst some other group of Damned called the Lancea Sanctum, which is apparently Latin for inbred Dago religious fuckwad. The Lord had nothing to do with what those psychopaths were doing; I expect their actions would have made him weep. I could no more have been a member of that bunch of worthless shitstains, than I could of this tribe of blind moles. I went away, trying again to find the light of God, but I expect that I never will.

I am damned, damned by the creatures who dwell here beneath the streets; blind tunneling rats reveling in their own filth and moral degradation. Their blood has changed me in ways that make my scarred face seem like nothing. I find that I have long hairs everywhere, my skin mottled and chitinous, and people move away from me as quickly as possible. I have been told I smell like eggs that have gone far far off; or at least that’s what my parents said when I showed up one night, hungry, and looking to send a couple of old sinners on to their eternal damnation.

I refused their work and while the changes have made it hard for me to spread the word, to show these sinners the path of renewal, they have made it far easier to show them the path they tread. Beneath the tangled mats of hair, should someone be so bold as to look, there is the false face I use to hide my scars and imperfections. I adorned it with the marks of faith – the Alpha, Omega, the cross. I bound it with blood and tiny carpenter’s tacks to myself and while the pain was excruciating, it was only momentary, and a fraction of what the Lord suffered on his last day. I preach and preach, but the passerbys give me wide berth unless I gift them with visions from my blood.

I agonized over what had been done, but then I remembered Job and his trials, and mine are so small in comparison to that, and that of Christ. I offer up all my tribulations as sacrifice that I may one day be worthy again to see the Lord’s light. He continues to talk with me, to show me the evil ones, tells me how to pull them into my trap and how to visit their sin upon them. I am his wrath for now, hoping once again to return to his grace.

It has been a matter of months now since I have returned to where I grew up. I know that there are sinners aplenty to be found here, and I can claim them as my own. I am sure that I will not be alone, nor do I wish to be yet another greedy undead monster claiming a chunk of turf. I simply hope to bring my message to this neighborhood where I grew up, which seems to be even more in need of saving than when I left.

We are nothing if we do not have a place to make our own, we vile monstrous blights. When I became aware that my old neighborhood had no rulers, I stepped in to claim a part of it. There is sin here, deep and ingrained, like sweat and dirt in the pews of any fine church. I will find it and try to find salvation for myself from what I have been turned into. Surely if I send enough of the sinners on, people will begin to notice and perhaps try to better themselves.

Juan Patrick Xavier O'Malley

New Wave Requiem shawngaston scottfunke