Disclaimer: This story includes profanity, confusing family dynamics/ abuse, homosexuality, homophobia, heterosexuality, mental illness, alcoholism, drug use, national prejudice, trash talking, corruption, abortion will be mentioned. (There's something for everyone here) May also show author's inability to write coherently, plot holes, general ignorance about Catholicism and all things holy. None of these characters belong to me.

Don't be offended by the material, although the material itself is highly "iffy", the self indulgent writing and atrocious grammar is offensive enough. Also don't expect it to make too much sense, its really more to see how many Iscariots I can to fall in bed together (I kid ofcourse, but not really). But if you've read this far, I salute you and assume you're a either a very understanding or questionable person. As for me, I will answer for all this in Hell later. Please leave a review or send me a message if you feel so inclined. I will respond with passionate gratitude.

This story is a romance about lovelessness, a comedy about unhappiness. You thought, how for so many years was it better to be here than out in the mean and nightmarish world. How wrong you were. You preferred the mystical withdrawal into the poetic nightmare of the soul, the writhing tumbling of fallen screaming damned and the brilliantly calm certainty of the saved, the exquisitely high pitched singeing desire for redemption, tears and conciliation behind blood red velvet curtains, saints and lepers, thorns and flames curling around pierced pulsing sacred hearts, and the plaster virgins,mystery rather than certainty. How could others stand the notion that cruelty, disaster and sudden insensible death reigns with no end, with no response, with no hope of salvation? How could one not become wicked or go mad? And where in this compacted mass of pain does love fit, hope or mercy, (wherever this be, you thought God must fit also).

You know know the man of God's lot is one of despair. Every day is a martyrdom where one pits his naked trembling faith against a arena of sneering indifferent faces and swims against a relentlessly increasing masticating tide of purposelessness and evil and apathy. The soul can be a place of suffering and horror just as much as the world is, but with the soul there is no hope of transport, no shelter from its own harm. Death ends bodily pain with the finality as a closed casket, the torment of soul lingers always, unresolved, afflicting the next generation to the next . (The sins of the Father shall be visited on the children) Yet it still considered to be far worse to be the destitute beggar than the wealthy barren-hearted banker brooding over his illusory goods and pleasures. Only the saintly being can pity with so pure of compassion the man who aches and starves for God as much as he pities the man who starves for food. Faith is the bitter knowledge of man's eternal failings and his futile attempts to transcend sin. Faith is an intangible and private agony and the search for divine grace can only be sought through revelations of pure suffering and willed humiliation, if it is somehow attainable at all, and once attained, if it is endurable.

It is with these lesion-like thoughts in your mind that you try and dutifully write down everything as you remember, everything that you have been privy to. You will try to record the events as an shaken, grateful and unscathed witness, detail the lives gone horribly awry, like trying to mend toys thrown about around in a forgotten unloved disordered doll house, like arranging scarecrows in a burnt field. You can only hope that in writing truthfully, in retelling it to yourself, the answers may reveal themselves.

It started with a confession- not yours, but his, a man you did not know.

How old was he you wondered. He had a strange youthful agelessness that men have before their middle age, looking like he could be anywhere from his late twenties to forty. Behind the grill, his skin glowed pale as lime, his eyes in pale velvety shade of mauve stared ahead languorously, insolently under a fringe of coquettishly long lashes. His gaze reminded you of those of a spiteful harem woman, or the thick enigmatic eyes painted on ancient Egyptian relief, beautiful but cursed looking. The man's hair was a ghostly white or a very light blond, the color of melted pearl and the oiled silk of a wedding gown. The tail end of his ponytail draped down his back like the tresses and ruffles of a petticoat, proudly and uselessly as a peacock's tail, or a bride's train. It was severely slicked back so not to detract from his face.

Admittedly it is a pale supercilious face but admittedly, it was also an attractive face with a byzantine elegance and a tint of the bizarre about it . All the components of beauty were there- his slender nose, his high cheek bones and arrogantly pouting lips. His exotic look had resulted in someone who could be outrageously beautiful, but his snide , evasive and profuse aura prevented that. Instead, he affected a slinky dignified moodiness, and seemed to you a sullen petulant kind of man . The man was immaculately groomed from starched whiteness of his collar to his wickedly glossy black shoes, from the fit of lilac colored vest and matching trousers, revealed his discrete foppery and an genteel interest in wealth.

But enough description. The man, Enrico Maxwell told you the beginning...

It had been a quite a night, where the dark is voluptuous and full rather than just bleak and black, a fantasy incarnate. It was unclear what was more outstanding- the aura of beauty or the aura of wealth- for most the two are synonymous. The guests faces took on a warm roseate glow and glimmered with the gold of their sweat, their mouths gross with oil, fingers sticky with split champagne. Iscariot's function room had been mildly revamped for the occasion, the end result was ugly and expensive, the grotesque glory of a treasure chamber in a fairy tale. Every object was laden, framed by sumptuous materials and textures- leather, silk, stamped gold, velvet, dark wood. The sheer quantity of materials made the scene look strangely theatrical, a stage set for big players.

There had been a private dinner and reception for the newly appointed bishop Enrico Maxwell and his "friends" cronies, rainmakers, collators, advisers, and all other politic types- both within and out of Iscariot, within and out of the church, mainly for his own purposes. His Holiness could make no appearance as he was traveling, but he had given some vague consent and that was enough.

Maxwell had smiled cheekily, prompting some knowing chuckles from his constituents before the event's start. "As the newly instated shepherd of Iscariot, it is my utmost pleasure to feed my flock" " and perhaps shear a little wool as well. Do not mistake my meaning, God's providence never desserts us, but at times He requires a bit of assistance and we as holy men, must deliver rich men from the sins and temptations of too great a wealth. As for tonight, I act as my brothers keeper- if only to prevent my brother from keeping it all for themselves."

And even earlier than that: "It is better a sybarite than a hypocrite, and better both than to be unenterprising."Maxwell had told Renaldo after the older man expressed concerns over the extravagance and cost of the event. "Besides money is like power my friend- you either accumulate it to the cost of all other things or-"The young man paused.

"Or what sir?" Renaldo had asked.

"You expend it" Enrico said airily. "which we intend to do."

" In the long term sir-" Renaldo said sternly.

Enrico raised a peevish hand to silence him. "My dear fellow, in the long term we are all dead. It is the short term that reckons to me. Rats always abandon a sinking ship. A large component of a holy man's appeal has always lain in his showmanship and aesthetics- as one turns outer reality, so one turns inner reality. In these circumstances, I would spend our very last cent if only to prove our wealth. And as the good book prescribes: thou shall cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days, yes?"

Renaldo cleared his throat, looking aside.

The young bishop lit a cigarette, massaging his temple with two fingers. " Besides, good will is an investment that cannot depreciate. I only spend that on which reflects well on our organization and myself- in order to perpetuate our legacy- that is if I find someone else to pay, as I most likely will. Some one must pay. And if it is me, I shall do much, much later."

At last the end. Enrico's farewells were just as lavish and fantastic as the rest of the evening. There was the pantomime of the assertive power grasps of hands, waists, and shoulders, the extravagant back and forth of each other's cheeks,the osculation of Maxwell' s enormous bishop ring, laughter and exclamations that were barking in volume. It was obvious that everyone was either drunk or very drunk. He did not hesitate to take advantage of socio-erotic scene. The Church was an institution of Love, fraternity of faith, and while the militant aspect of Iscariot encouraged grit and ferocity, the homestead (in appearance anyways), exalted more cultured and refined qualities.

The young bishop tirelessly hustled all his wealthy guests during the reception. Enrico charged an exorbitant amount for the dinner tables and seating, orchestras had been brought in, and also good news. There was a recent outbreak of violence in Derry in North Ireland. The promise of battle and conflict always promised of sensational favors and returns and when there was blood in the streets, it was time to invest.

Alexander Anderson was there, he was expected to come. As Regenerator; he was merchandise on display, a symbol of their technological might. Maxwell and Anderson had not spoken to each other - there was hardly the logistical opportunity. Maxwell had rather ghoulishly placed Anderson in a distant and public seat.

Of course Anderson was an object of fascination. At his towering height and build, he was a Goliath compared to all other guests. Anderson had always been intimidating, there is something unassailable, black and absolute about him. Anderson's cropped hair snarled about his thick brow, his coarse stubble and creased vestments were duly noticed. In a way, these lapses were part of Anderson's gravity as a formidable tested warrior, an unpolished rock of the church, as someone caught in the grips of some wildly profound mediation, not concerned with the glib appearances, too preoccupied in God... or in something, to care what others thought of him . Other times, his the roughness coupled with his size had the precisely the opposite effect and he looked craggy and lewd, his presence oppressive, a morbidly domineering bogey man.

As Anderson was situated, he was a conspicuously uncomfortable crooked figure in the midst of cupidity and revelry. He could barely fit his rumpled bulk into the chair, and with his shoulders hunched over, his knees hitting the table, his dark downcast face was pulled in a sneering apish grimace Anderson appeared to be cramped and humbled by his own mass, a man forced to put great constraint on himself, a fetus ready for birth, a morose great dane that tries to sits in a patch of too-small sunlight. If Anderson caught anyone looking at him, he would lean forward, and shoot a ghastly glare back, usually causing the offending party to look away quickly.

Simply put the aura of displeasure around the paladin tonight was so substantial, it was as if you could mold a sculpture out of it. The priest's aura also reeked tremendously of alcohol, his shrine-like arrangement of empty glasses and bottles encircling his seat attested to this fact.

Later in the evening, a waiter had gone to Enrico's side and whispered to him that a guest had single handedly drank four bottles of wine and had steadily drained two bottles of whiskey.

"I think it would be best , if we denied this guest further access to the bar sir." Renaldo said primly.

"Oh no no Renaldo." Enrico crooned. "It is no problem. This gentlemen is our guest and we mustn't be so rude to deprive him. Burst open the cellar doors and give him whatever he desires. In fact, give him even more than what he asks for. But do keep the ice to a minimum. We wouldn't want our high spirited friend to choke."

Renaldo later meandered to Anderson's seat, his sense of weary alarm pinching him like pair of ill-fitting shoes. Slowly, ever so gently lay his hand on the paladin's thick shoulder.

"Is there anything you need Alexander." Renaldo inquired softly.

"Aye." Anderson muttered without a glance in Renaldo's way, swallowing the remaining contents of his tumbler. "A sharp knife."

Renaldo raised his hand off Anderson's shoulder carefully, as he were setting something back in place, he backed away.

Unlike the other exiting guests, Anderson sat with a drink fisted in hand watching the procession of party-goers with the detached bored disgust of a spectator watching a flurry of mindless moths swarm around a lamp.

Anderson would once and again, clean his glasses foreboding with a handkerchief There was an absurd and unnerving insistence in this fastidiousness, as everyone knew fully well that Anderson's glasses were props, useless. The Regeneration process ensured that the paladin's natural vision was better than perfect, however as the priest had worn glasses before, for whatever reason, Anderson decided he would continue to wear them whether they were necessary or not. Perhaps Anderson could not picture himself without glass after so long, or he wished to protect others from his eyes' green severity , or give the impression he had professorial learned interests . Anyways, no one bothered to ask.

It was soon clear that Anderson' was not simply watching but looking at something specifically. His green eyes flickered outwards, concentrating at a certain trajectory like ,a stone gargoyle looming over a cracked ledge, his gaze fixed in gloomy prisoner-of-war determination. The priest's mouth turned up indicating, some deadened nerve coming to life, some awful humor.

Renaldo finally traced Anderson's line of vision until it stopped at Enrico in the distance who was busily and vividly engaged as a hummingbird in the task at hand. The young bishop guided them towards the door, bowing and smiling, gesturing looking like Hermes, unctuous and sinuous, jocose and charmingly furtive. Enrico too in his handsome youth, and his off-kilter floaty grace seemed to glow like an opal in the small groups of men so standard and unremarkable they might have well been headless.

Best, Renaldo thought testily, to get Anderson out of here and soon, before Enrico noticed his strange behavior and was upset by it. Anderson leaned forward as Enrico turned back. Something brilliant, vicious and genuinely anxious flickered in Enrico's eyes as he caught Anderson's simmering wolfish disapproving leer.

So they finally saw each other. It was too late. Already, Enrico was looking around the room – checking. The important people had left and now the crowd consisted of the cipher.

With that, Enrico gave Anderson a challenging glance, and with a jerk of his pointed chin, strolled away with great flamboyance on his boyish elastic legs- away from his straggling guests, behind a curtain, out a side door.

The side door led to a quiet smoker's balcony. Enrico walked with practiced nonchalance, leaving the door slightly ajar with a tap of his hand. The balcony was long and narrow, not very wide and overlooked a neat and expansive topiary. The moon was a scythe in the bone chillingly cold.

Maxwell folded his arms around himself- he was not dressed to brave the elements. For this event he had worn a perfectly tailored black suit. Underneath, he wore an black with with a silver clerical collar, and an impressive sapphire and white-gold pectoral cross. He wore dark gloves to match. His expensive shoes with their slightly raised heels made his walk resemble a show horse trotting on cobble stones.

Enrico could hear someone behind him, the quick, foreboding steps of an assassin. The young man continued to walk for another ten paces. Then he stopped and the foot steps stopped as well. Finally an voice:

"Beautaful moon taenight, dunna ye think."