His friends call him Killer and he likes to howl at the moon. Always carries two heavy knives on his belt, keeps them sharp, calls them his fangs.

Sure, Killer talks a big game about a time in a back alley in a big city, whichever one is on the news this week since his friends don’t tend to stick around too long, and, sure, he did kill that man in self-defense, but Killer doesn’t talk about what came after.

Killer didn’t leave that fancy room he rented in that un-named big city for four whole months, scrubbing his hands over and over again, “out damn spot,” you get the picture.

Mom’s calling him he lets the phone ring and ring, cars honk below on the street, and he got let go from that fancy finance job Jester set him up with because Killer didn’t feel like showing up anymore. 

Folks knock on his door, eviction notices, court dates, cheap delivery on the credit card, beard growing longer and longer, one day Mom shows up and drags him out of that apartment and back to his hometown where he started talking to a nice lady in business attire with a degree on the wall.

Things go well, he asks her out, that would be unprofessional, he doesn’t talk to the nice lady anymore.

Now he goes to the Bowling Alley and makes friends with the other men who carry knives and guns on their belts and talk about self-defense with a hunger in their throats. In the parking lot Killer howls like a wolf and the men who are afraid of whichever big city is on the news this week all laugh.

Shame is the tool of those who would denigrate the Great Work.