The Kingdom 22: Halloween

Here we go again. Welcome to the blog blast of the section that I call The Kingdom from the book Reality of the Unreal Mind, Vol. 3: The Keep. The Kingdom is an explanation of the work itself. You can’t understand any writer unless you know their work. So Friday we began at 6 p.m. and I will release one blog every two hours and fifteen minutes. That means we’ll finish the story of my work and its future, my work and its past, at 7:30 on Sunday evening. There are some crazy things in here. Some setbacks we never could have made it past without the people who care about me. There are some crazy things in here. Plans that I have and things that I’m doing that, simply put, are impossible. But everything’s impossible until it’s finished, until it’s been done or accomplished. There are some crazy things in here. Dreams so wild and so immense that to think they’re within reach you have to be a little unhinged. And while reading this small collection of blog posts, you’ll hear the rantings of the Lunatic of Fantasy. You’ll find in these posts the past, present, and future of the writing of Jesse Teller.

Okay so, I started my writing day at eight-thirty last night. My goal was to study this man. Try to find out what I could learn from Sasquatch, because it ended so badly. So I wrote until one in the morning. Took an hour break, then went back to work. I wrote all of his chapters that can be found in the next section of this book, the section called In the Name of the Father. I wanted to see the full extent of the damage done by Sasquatch. And I wrote until nine-thirty a.m.

Woke Bekah up and we went to the chiropractor. (I am telling you guys, there is something really wrong with my neck.) I was away from my board for about two hours. At eleven-thirty in the afternoon, I came back here and started writing this section. It is now almost three. And I have figured it out.

See in my life I have been hit so many times in my pride and my self-esteem that it has broken me. I have a flaw. A flaw that I am just now seeing. After sixteen hours of intensive study on why I let this man do what he did to me, the problem has become clear.

I don’t hear what supportive people have to say about me. The only people I listen to are abusive people. When someone says something horrible to me, it sticks. When someone says something gentle and supportive to me, I can’t hear it.

Sasquatch taught me I do that.

You want an example and I am so excited to give you one.

A few years ago, he was working on his Gold and decided he wanted a workshop. He wanted a few artists he trusted to come to his house to look at all his work. He wanted us to look at everything, all of it. Every line he’d ever drawn, every piece he’d ever done. We had to look at all of it, all the decades of sketchbooks and other pieces, and tell him what we liked. He asked us to tell him what worked and what he should use in his new attempt with his Gold.

All of it.

It took us seven hours to go through it and brainstorm about it. We saw everything and we told him what was awesome. We then sat and lined up everything he could do, everything he had the characters to do. We workshopped his work. We pulled apart all the fibers of Sasquatch and everything he had ever created. All of those fibers, we knitted together into bone, organ, and muscle. And we set them free to run through the house. In front of us, the artists he chose, created another and let it free. This idea. And maybe this plotline. This image. No, no, this image. Yeah, yes, definitely that image. But then he should focus on this character. And we pick it up and let it run around the corners of the house as I say, “Look at the thought and the genius behind this character.”

To which Sasquatch sparks off, “I created that character in three minutes.”

“Yes, but, think of the themes that could come off of her and all of her eyes.”

“She only has two eyes,” one of his chosen geniuses say.

“She does only have two eyes, but each of those eyes have two irises and pupils. What worlds does she see?”

“Ahh, I get it. I get it.”

And Kraken, “That’s brilliant.”

“No, what worlds does she see? She has…” and we tie all the fibers together, lift her pure muscled form to its feet. His chosen artists would kiss her on her bloody forehead, and let her loose. The girl with four irises would roar at her maker, and she would run off to find his Bibles, all of them, all of the translations of them. She would rage her way through his sketchbooks. She would wail at the fall of this man. And on we went.

Seven hours of our life praising him and telling him how brilliant he was.

And when we left, that house was filled with running, screaming abominations. Ideas we had all worked to create.

They needed skin. They needed a spark. They needed the love of their creator. They needed the dedication of the god of their inspiration.

I don’t know. As you can probably imagine, I have walked away from this man. I’m not sure if his abominations still run the house, or if they died of starvation and neglect. But if they did, the corpses of my offerings and the other artists there that night, are rotting in his home.

The next day he got in touch with all of us, telling us about a new idea he had, in a chat group he had set up for planning the meeting. I realized he now had a direct conduit to all of us and could break into our lives at any moment and run new ideas through us. Now he can get all of us talking at any time about how great his work is and what we think of it.

I reached out to him and said, “Tell me why I am so invested in your work when you ignore mine. Why should I put so much into you if you are going to pretend my work is not important?”

See, I had given him all of the books I had published until I got as far as the end of The Manhunters. It just got too expensive to buy friends copies and I had to cut back. When I told him I was not going to be buying any more for him and he would have to buy his own, his response was, “I only wanted The Manhunters anyway.”

It became clear he would never buy a book of mine ever again. His collection was complete after the ones I had given him free.

When I asked him why I should care, he promised me he would read the new version of Song. You know, the only book of mine he had read, yet in his mind, the best book I had ever written. Song was the one that “had legs.” And I knew it would take more than eight months, just as it had the time before, for him to read it. He would read the published version with all the new content.

He told us one night, while seated in one of the three thrones of The Underworld, that he was reading The Hobbit to his daughters, and he had forgotten how beautiful the prose was. “When you read Song you are just reading a story, but when you read Tolkien, it is gorgeous.”

And I looked at Kraken. Kraken was not looking at me. He was looking wide-eyed at Sasquatch. He was looking at Sasquatch with a you-have-not-just-said-that look, an I-need-you-to-never-have-said-that look. He turned his gaze to me, and he looked at me with a we-have-to-get-away-from-him look. But I need—this whole book is about how much I have to have—the approval of the ones who hurt me most. I needed this to not be as bad as it was. I have to stop this. From this point, from the publishing of The Keep, in order to embrace the future Bekah, God, and everyone else sees for me, I need this kind of thing out of my life.

It took him a year to read Song. And then all he did was read the new 125 pages. See he doesn’t care. He truly can’t give a shit about anyone’s work but his own. Anyone’s life but his own.

He called me and asked me to come to his home. Gave me a beer and we sat on the brick patio he had built. It’s gorgeous. You guys should have seen it. It’s amazing. He built it himself. Brick by brick. He sat me down and said, “I want to tell you something I think you’ll be happy to hear.” He told me, after a year of my waiting, that he had read Song—but he had only read the new material. “You know, I get bored if I have to read something a second time. Anyway, I only read the new material. But then, I picked up Hemlock. I told you I would pick up Hemlock. See, I picked up Hemlock. I didn’t even tell you that I read Song before I picked up Hemlock.”

He was trying to impress me by saying he had started the second book in the series. He was trying to convince me he was devoted to my work.

“And I have to tell you, I was reading the beginning—”

See, he would only ever read the beginning.

“And it got to that part with Aaron the Marked. Peter said that line you’ve been talking about. You’ve been talking about it for so many years. He said that line, I lead you now into peril.”

And in unison the two of us said, “And we follow willingly.”

In that moment, he was acknowledging that when it came to his artistic career, years ago I had said, I lead you now into peril. And Sasquatch, there’s going to be dark hours and there’s going to be so much work, and there’s going to be headaches, and there’s going to be cramps. Your neck will hurt. Your hand will hurt. Your back will scream. I lead you now out of the classroom. I lead you now into the peril of a professional artist’s life.

And years ago, he had answered with, “And I follow willingly.” And we had gone into that peril. I had asked long hours of him. I had fought with him through every doubt. I had given him hours and hours during weekends after weekends within months after months resting in years after years. As I looked at him over my beer, as he praised himself for having felt the chill up his spine and the excitement of words I had been speaking to him for seven years, I saw the cold door before me. I saw Kraken with his hand on the doorknob. And where his hand held, the ice melted to water.

Sasquatch was saying how much he was involved with my work. And in a quiet way, whispered way back in the tall grass of my mind, I was saying, we follow willingly. ’Til now. ’Til you agreed to read Song, but only the additions. After I have sparked to life, with other doctors of art, abominations that still scream for your attention around your house. There’s a cold door ahead of you and me, and it’s not that far off. The door is covered with frost and ice. And me and Sasquatch are on the road. Is it an onyx road the width of our shoulders? Is there the scent of strawberry in the air? And there’s a creature walking out ahead of us. And then the cold door.

And I knew, for the first time I knew, that Sasquatch was not with me ’til death and beyond. He was not with his work ’til death and beyond. He was not with his sketchbook, his paintbrush, his ink, and the white sheet of paper ’til death and beyond. That moment right there, I knew it was broken. I knew I would have to yell at him in the driveway as he had done Kraken. The screaming I had seen coming was nearing. It was at the cold door, the frost and ice-covered door that Kraken’s hand was slowly melting. A hand of anger. A stern hand. A hand that had had enough. A hand of rage was slowly melting the frost on the handle and the hinges and the seal of a door that I knew me and Sasquatch were headed toward. See, he would take the road, and me and Kraken, the road less traveled.

The next day, coffee. Bright kitchen. Bekah is sitting across from me and I say, “Tell me why Sasquatch is no good for me. I’m ready to hear it now.”

She put her mug down hard, and she looked at me. And in my mind, I wanted to say please don’t yell at me. Don’t hit me with rage. I can’t bear that.

She said, “You are better than this. You are Jesse Teller. And you deserve better.”

A year before, I was suicidal. The world was coming apart for me and I was spending my nights just trying not to end it all. I talked about it during one of our Friday night meetings and Sasquatch said nothing.

Kraken got up and hugged me. He told me he was going to get me through it. He promised that if I needed him at any time and I called him, he would be here. That’s just how Kraken is.

The next words out of Sasquatch’s mouth, after letting unsettling silence roll around the room, was about the new Star Wars movie. He doesn’t give a shit. He is a trash person. And after this chapter, I am done. All I can do is go back and heal the wounds I have suffered tonight and try to rip out a bit of the programming that Less, Char, and Rose set in me as a child. Programming that Sasquatch exploited.

I can heal now. Now that I know the problem, I can get around it. And I guess that was the only real helpful thing he did in our relationship.

Let’s watch me finally get enough. Let’s watch me walk away forever.

But I’m in a room covered in tapestries with two big sleeping dogs. Bekah, the one and only, the solemnly and the lovely, the crazy and the giggling, we have to roll. We’re gonna bring Willow with us.

We have packed up a box of every piece of art Sasquatch has given us. We’ve packed it up perfectly and gently and wrapped it in plastic. And their family is asleep now because it is 1:16 in the morning. Bekah’s gonna drive. Willow’s gonna ride. And we are going to respectfully put all the art Sasquatch gave us or that we paid for on his porch safely, where no moisture can get to it and no harm can reach it. Someone in our family suggested we burn it. It was a teaching moment. I talked about why, and I talked about how, the Christian thing to do is to return his work to him.

I will say this, I am sending him back the piece I commissioned of Gentry Mandrake. And the moment he opens that box, it is no longer commissioned work. He can throw it away, burn it, crumple it up, or sell it. His ego will not allow him to destroy it. He can keep it as a scar, or he can sell it to someone else. But from the moment he opens the package, that piece that I didn’t want, of a thing I did not ask for, is no longer a commissioned piece. The moment his hand touches it, it becomes fan art.

We just got back. I placed that box where Run would not step on it if she headed out for morning exercise. It was respectfully leaned out of the way, yet in the porchlight, in white plastic. I tell you now, I tell all of you now, no harm will come to it.

As I headed back to the car, to the open door on the passenger side, Bekah asked if a plastic bag was on the ground. And I realized I had accidentally littered in Sasquatch’s neighborhood. I picked it up immediately and threw it back in my car.

When we left our house, we had gone the path I had always taken. And now we were taking the path I’d always used when going home, when the hungry eyes of our Ford Escape crossed over two beautiful chairs at the end of a driveway.

Well, every college kid can tell you that the best way to shop for furniture is to drive around different neighborhoods until you find something sitting on the corner. As I looked at these chairs, they were thrones. I thought I could fit both of them in the hatchback and I couldn’t. I couldn’t fully fit one. There’s no description that fits beyond throne. There were a lot of logistics. Bekah had to go home, I had to stay there, but then Willow had to start walking home. There were a lot of logistics. But right now, sitting in my garage, are matching thrones. Used, but in no way battered, waiting to be placed perfectly in my home. I see them as symbols of a dawning age, because when I set those brilliantly crafted pieces of art onto his porch, I remember walking, picking up litter and getting back in the car. My back arched and my chest flew forward and I drew in breath as I sighed.

Have you ever heard that? It’s possible. Find yourself in the place I found myself tonight and you’ll know that it’s possible to take a deep cleansing breath and let out a long-held sigh. Willow’s sitting in the tapestry-covered room now, and they will tell you, they heard that sound today. Bekah’s taking dictation and she will say the same. And after I had taken that sigh and that deep, cleansing breath, the searching eyes of my car saw two thrones.

Kraken had stopped talking at these Friday night things altogether after he realized that when he began to tell us about his work, after Sasquatch finished rambling about his own, that Sasquatch would get on his phone or nod off. The man would actually fall asleep after his work had been discussed.

When the show was over, Sasquatch had gotten his praise. He had achieved his one man show, the goal he had talked about since the first day I met him. He was a success. And that is when the trouble started.

He began talking about future plans. He had gotten back in touch with Craig Yoe. He had talked to him about giving Craig what he really wanted and agreed to get started on a graphic novel about a Middle School teacher. He decided he liked the way his Big Pieces looked on the wall. Twenty was not enough. How impressive would it be if he printed a book of one hundred? He started talking about the Gold project again and he was reviving it. He was illustrating a kids book now and needed to get on that and focus. He came up with one idea after the next, and he caught me at a bad time. I was Dick Grayson now, fist full of electroshock, smile full of lightning, and this was gonna hurt. I was standing in the driveway now. Like so many years ago, when he had stood over Kraken, I was back in the driveway now. I was looking down at him, Kraken standing behind me with his hot hand of rage.

See, I was working. I was working hard on the next stage of my writing. I had come up with an impossible, mad plan that no one could do. But I am insane. I have over twenty minds working on it and I can do it. It might cost me my sanity but I can get it done.

After finishing a book, I had been up for twenty-two hours when Sasquatch got done with his rant and looked at us for praise on the concept of the revival of the words of Yoe, and the coming of the Gold he had abandoned, and one hundred now instead of twenty of the Big Pieces, and, and, and, and it continued all night.

And I snapped. I would speak these words as he had spoken them in the driveway of his house. I would speak these words and he would have to live in that house, that house filled with screaming abominations, all calling for God, all calling for their father, abominations all screaming of the fall of a man. I would speak those words maybe a little bit more harshly than Sasquatch had as he loomed over Kraken with wicked shadows on his face.

Now with no sleep and a bit of madness playing in my head, I snapped. “Dude, just get the fuck to work!”

“There’s something you could do for me, doctor,” Adam said, with the echo of Leto’s Joker in his mind.

And Bekah, speaking the words of Harley Quinn, “Anything, I mean, yeah.”

Jesse humble, broken from seven years of attack, of abuse, gaslighting, and neglect, with the heat of the hot hand, looks at her and says, “I need a machine gun.”

“A machine gun?” The Harley in the movie asks hesitant, scared. She knows she’s crossing a line, but yet, Bekah is not like Margot Robbie. And she is looking across the table at her man wrapped in a straightjacket of abuse. She reaches under the table with a fistful of automatic rifle, and she says, “Here, it’s time.” Because my Bekah is different than Grayson’s Harley.

Kraken looked at me shocked. Sasquatch, too. Everyone in the room knew I had broken. I looked Sasquatch in the eye again and said, “I don’t want to hear about it anymore! Just get the fuck to work!” Adam had lost it. This was before Shadow had come back and we had all of them moving through our head. This is not a teenager stinking the place up with gasoline. This is a man who has given every bit of himself and been asked to give more. “We heard it all! We have been listening to it for years! Just shut the fuck up and work! Do the fucking work!”

Adam was sleep deprived, and he would not, he could not, stop ringing this bell. Over and over again he hit it. Told Sasquatch to shut up talking about it already. Everyone was exhausted with the conversations and the plotting, the brainstorming and the support. “Get it done! Shut your fucking mouth and get to fucking work!”

On and on he went. Adam could not stop. He said it over and over again. He was trapped in a loop, seven years’ worth of desire to say shut the fuck up and get to work. I think he lost a small bit of his mind that night. It snapped. Was it a rubber band? Was it a tendon? What part of the soft nerves of the brain snap? I don’t know. Did the wrinkles of Adam’s brain change, squirm across each other like worms that day? I don’t know. But all he could say was get to fucking work, until we all walked to the door, when Adam grabbed Sasquatch by the shoulders, looked him in the eye, and right in front of Bekah said it again. “You have us all excited! Artists—real artists from all around the world—are watching and ready to pay for this Gold you have promised us! Now shut the fuck up and get to fucking work!”

Told him I loved him and shoved him out the door. I turned the foyer light off and stepped into the living room. I looked at the loveseat where Bekah sat. I took a deep breath, I let it out, and said, “Am I wrong?”

Let’s stop for a moment at the look on her face. It was not joy. It was not comfort. It was not fear. It was not nerves. The look on her face was the sigh I had just taken.

Now that I have dropped off the box full of Sasquatch’s work, I recognize the look on her face, the motion that her body did as she sighed, as simultaneously she took a cleansing breath and sought a throne.

“Am I wrong?”

She looked at me and there’s a blur. She might have said, no you’re not wrong. She might have said, are you okay? It’s a blur of what she could have said and what she did say. But I’m Jesse Teller, and I know my wife Rebekah Teller. I’m Jesse Teller, and I know my soulmate Rebekah Teller. And it’s been years since that night, but I’m Jesse Teller. I can tell you, Rebekah Teller looked at me that night after I sighed and she sighed, and she said, “You okay?”

And I said, “No. NO! No—”

I looked in her eyes. I saw support in the front, but in the back of her eyes, deep, in that place where Assassin lives in mine, I saw a thing stand up. It knew what was coming.

And I silently said to her, “I lead you now into peril.”

And that dark spot behind her eyes said, “I follow willingly.”

When I came to my senses, I decided I was right. And I looked at the situation. I realized the problem right away.

Sasquatch was a junkie.

His drug was talking about the art he was going to do. Getting people excited about it, but not doing it. The talk was all he needed to feel fulfilled. All he needed was a new project every few weeks to satisfy his urges and he was on top again. I was not going to enable him any longer.

I made a new rule. When he brought new stuff to show, we would talk about its greatness. We would talk about what was coming up. But if he didn’t have new material the next week, then he was not allowed to run off about the work he was going to do. No more brainstorming. No more discussing every nuance. No more. I needed to see progress or I was unwilling to listen or add anything again.

I wrote it all out in an email. I told him to have all his friends read it, and I copied Kraken. Then I told Sasquatch that when they had said all they would say, to come find me and we would talk about it.

And he did.

He sat me down and started like this, “You don’t fight fair.” He shook his head. “You write your arguments down and you’re a writer, so there is no picking it apart. If you write your argument, then you can’t be beat. You don’t take it to the person’s face. You talk to them when they have no chance to talk back.”

“I have been telling you to get to work for years, so many years, and you would not listen to me. I wanted other people to be able to talk to you about it. I put it in a form that you could share and not take anything I said out of context.”

“Well you know with me, you get more bees with honey.”

“No. You tell me all the time that we can call each other on our bullshit. I know to brace myself every time you say it, because you have said it many times. It just means you are going to say some fucked up thing that hurts me. Well, this is me calling you on your bullshit.”

“Well, I have talked to everyone in my life and we figured out what you did,” he said.

Now I am mad. I know exactly where this is going. You might too, but I need to say it, and you are reading anyway, so let me get it out in black and white.

“Part of it was my own hero worship,” he said. “I saw you doing something big and I wanted to as well. But you pushed me into big projects when I am a sketchbook artist. You said, ‘We got to get you out of the sketchbook,’ when that is where I belong. I don’t do big projects and I am not going to be pushed into them anymore. When I decided I wanted to make stickers you said, ‘Is that what you want to be known for?’ Well, it is. That is the kind of work I do. I do small, cool projects that take a few hours and they are done. I am not you and I am tired of you trying to put me in a position where I will fail because you only see value in big projects. That is fine for you, but all art does not have to be that way.”

I held it together very well.

“The first Friday night we had, right here, my house, my office, you brought your work in and you said you wanted to be an artist for a living,” I said. “You said you wanted to get out of the classroom and into a studio every day. We concocted a plan to get you there. No one is going to pay a thousand dollars for your sketchbook. If you want to make enough money to support your family, you need to draw and ink things that can go on people’s walls.

“I vowed to get you there. I promised that day that I would help you and guide you and encourage you to that effect.” Deep breath, hold back the rage. You can’t scream this time. You have to be collected. No fistful of lightning. No Dick Grayson. Even though this is gonna hurt, you can’t smile. “That has been my goal through our entire friendship because my word means something. If things change, you have to tell me. The stickers thing? No one ever sold enough stickers on a consistent enough basis to support a family of four. It has never happened and it never will. I told you to move away from stickers because I was trying to keep my word.”

He stared at me. He blinked. He closed his eyes and he nodded. “I remember that now.”

“I have been trying to get you there for the last six and a half years.”

He said a few things, then he thanked me, told me he had changed his mind and he wanted to retire as a teacher. That it was important to him. He thanked me for being a good friend. Hugged me and left my house.

I thought of it. I knew where this was going. But he didn’t. Do you see it? Do you see the next part?

Halloween is always a big affair with me, Sasquatch, and Kraken. We dress up and hand out candy, and it is a great time. But Kraken and his molten hand were late this night, and Sasquatch cannot stop talking about art.

So he said to me, “My creativity is through the roof. I have almost filled an entire sketchbook in the last two months. It’s like as soon as I stopped letting people tell me what to do, it all took off.”

Hear it? See, what happened here is he never went back to clear my name. In his mythology, I’m the man who was always telling him what to do. But just like every other time, he had said these words to so many different people, so many professional artists, so many family and friends, he had forgotten my influence. His mind had been wiped by one conversation after another of my damnation. And now, sitting in this driveway, where he had ripped Kraken apart for doing the things he was guilty of, he was now chastising me for doing the things he was guilty of.

After a blazing trail, we had come full circle. We were right back where we had always been. And I would not allow myself to be blamed for seven years of his failure. I, that night, needed to walk away. He was now, as we handed out candy bars (I go for the full candy bars, not the mini), he was now telling me that someone had been telling him for years to do things he had not wanted to do, and that someone, as dark and evil as they were, had killed his creativity.

His wife had heard it over and over again. Those back home at the core of where Sasquatch had climbed from the ground and moaned, shook dirt from his fur-covered body and moved forward, people from there could have been told of my focus on getting him out of the classroom. But he had not spoken the words. He had not defended me. They had all, every member of his circle, come to a conclusion. And when I talked to him, told him my motives and he had thanked me, he had refused to go to his circle and clear my name.

I would forever be the one who had stifled Sasquatch. Through all the encouragement, and all of the love I had given him, I would forever be the abomination, yellow-eyed, stitched skin and roaring at the creator of a dream he had not even wanted. He was talking now of a journal that he would deny me of. To his inner circle he had spoken of my fall.

He will blame me for the rest of his life for knocking him off track for seven years. That is a crime of Biblical proportions.

If I remind him about my intentions and why I did it all over again, he will still let his friends talk shit about me that week and come back blaming me.

He does not have the strength of character to tell them all he was wrong, that I was trying to help him. He wants them to blame me.

But this is the thing. I don’t fight fair. I am a writer. I am an artist and I am telling my story. I have told it here. This is what Sasquatch did to me. This is how he fucked me over after me trying to help him for six and a half years.

It is all here, and through writing it, I have learned that these kind of people do not belong in my life. When someone says a fucked up thing to me like the ‘spitting on the handle of the shovel’ thing, call them on it immediately. If they do it again, get away from them.

Sasquatch has healed me of taking toxic people into my life. It was a lesson I thought I had learned.

Well, I have it now.

I’m Dick Grayson. I’m Jared Leto. I blocked that smack and I followed with a cross. I don’t fight fair. Why should I have to? I write it down because I’m a writer. It’s 3:45 a.m. Me and Bekah so wanted to finish The Kingdom tonight, but there’s an entire chapter after this. I’ve added a lot, Shade has added a lot, because it’s what I do. I write.

There are some who would say I don’t fight fair. But Mrs. Hegg has never said that. Mrs. Learmann has never said that. Bekah, Willow, and Rayph have never said that. Tigress has never said that. Lioness has never said that. X, Grr, Jammy, and Katty have never said that. It seems I only don’t fight fair to the people who hear bad things about themselves. So, here we go. I’m gonna put it in a phrase, maybe more than a phrase. Maybe let’s call this a statement.

Dick Grayson should not have been slapped by all the Roses, the Lesses, the Sirens, and the Sasquatches of the world. His block should have been thrown with all the Grrs, the Kattys, the Preciouses, and the Jobs of the world. And that cross, that lightning cross, it’s charged with the Bekahs, the Guardians, the Assassins, the Servants, and Shadows, of the world.

So many of those I just named in the cross are within myself. Remember that, when you’re a Dick Grayson and you’re standing in front of a gobsmack.

This chapter is from Reality of the Unreal Mind, Vol. 3: The Keepavailable on Amazon.

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