"There is no witness so terrible - no accuser so powerful as conscience which dwells within us."

-Sophocles

What remains of the First Baptist Church of Chicken City sits on a grassy hill, long forgotten. A cemetery just to the left, a gravel parking lot sat before it, still.

But the church itself has long sat in ruins.

The night of its undoing, Fire Marshall informed the deputies immediately upon investigation that it was a case of arson. The criminal who performed the act wasn't discrete about where the fire started, how he started it, and how he spread it so quickly.

What investigators would later discover was that the arsonist did take great care regarding concealing any forensic evidence that connected him to the crime. No hair. No prints. No DNA.

Just an arson.

...and a homicide.

When the investigation was ongoing, no one had any news about who could have done the awful deed. Rumors were all anyone had, and those were hardly based in Reality...

(Speaking of, hello. 'Tis I. Reality.)

...but rather, speculation.

Though speculation was better than nothing. And the entirety of Chicken City was whispering that a young teenager by the name of Freddy Dick had done it.

Why did they suspect it was young Fredward who set the church ablaze? Could it be because he was a bastard of a child his entire life? A manipulator? A hustler, a liar, and a snake?

Yes. Of course. However...

There is more to it.

Much, much more.

22 of May, 2001

"People we are gathered here today to witness the... Shall we say, un-eviling of a child."

The way the sun was shining down on the congregation, who had been herded outside and gathered into a circle, the way the clouds were fluffy, white, lackadaisical, the way the birds were singing, you'd never know it was the absolute worst day of Freddy Dick's young life.

In the center of the circle stood Pastor Billy Hall, with a small collection of books.

Not just any books.

Freddy Dick's books.

And not just any of Freddy Dick's books, of which he possessed a surprising amount given his intellectual acumen.

Freddy Dick's Dungeons and Dragons sourcebooks. All of them. The Player's Handbook. The Monster Manual. The DM's Guide.

All of his dice.

All of his miniatures.

All of it.

The word "tears" fails to do justice towards the rivers that fell from Freddy Dick's eyes.

"I'm beggin' on ya," Freddy pleaded. "Please, Pastor... These are everything to me."

"I know they are, Freddy," Pastor Hall said. "I know they are. We all do. But within these books exist evil influences. Spells to bring forth demons. Polytheism. And worse? Not a word in these pages condemns homosexuality, nor the Democratic party."

"It's not real!" Freddy tried to clarify. "The spells... The... The poly... It's all pretend! It's all make believe!"

"Well Freddy," Pastor Hall explained. "Your mama and daddy explained to me that your worldly psychiatrist, of whom I do not necessarily approve and of whom is a woman, but nonetheless will trust her expertise in this specific matter, states that you might be spendin' a little TOO much time playin' pretend! A little TOO much makin' believe! She said you've got... What do they call it, Harold?"

Freddy turned to his father. His father, the traitor. His father, who outright refused to look him in his face, but rather, looked above him to the Pastor, and only the Pastor.

Harold sighed, rubbed his face, and answered. "They said he has a, quote, 'tendency to freely disassociate,' unquote."

"Well, there you go, Freddy. But I appreciate you being a man about this. I know it hurts. But sometimes, love hurts. You just have to know, we all love you, we all want what's best for you, even if what's best for you hurts. And we are proud of how mature you're handling--"

That was when Freddy got, as he would put it, "butt ass naked" in front of everyone.

"OH HELL NO!"

"HARRY CONTROL YOUR DAMN SON WHY DON'T YA!"

"GETCHO DAMN CLOTHES ON BOY!"

But Freddy didn't put his clothes on. Instead he desperately flung his naked body onto the pile of his most beloved treasures.

"You'll either have to burn me," Fred screamed! "Or you'll get charged for child molestation! Either way, somebody's going to GOD DAMN PRISON if you try to take these books from me!"

"Harry," Pastor Hall said. "Please remove your flesh and blood from the pile of Satanic artifacts."

"What do you suggest I do, Pastor?" Harold asked, terrified of the answer, but far more terrified of looking like a bad father in the eyes of his peers.

"My suggestion? Pick the boy up, carry him around the side of the building, and whoop his ass until it's red! That's my daggum suggestion, Harry!"

Freddy once again looked to his father. His father still wouldn't look him in the eye, not even if he was naked on a pile of priceless treasure, which he was.

He looked to his mother, Sandra, and she appeared as she always did -- half-drunk and paying no mind to anything.

But in that moment he was scooped up by his father and carried, kicking and screaming, around the side of the church, at which time Harold dropped Freddy to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

Freddy stood up, dusted a few grass blades off his wiener, and pointed accusingly behind him.

"Are you really gonna listen to that crazy ass ol' coot?" Freddy asked his dad. "Are you really gonna whoop my ass instead of helping me defend THE ONLY FUCKING THING IN THIS WORLD I EVEN CARE ABOUT???"

Harold Dick bit his lip. He was teary eyed himself. How had he let things come to this? How had he allowed his son to become the kind of young man who does not seek the Lord, but rather, seeks demonology? So that Satan and Satan's works were all he cared about in this world, as opposed to the Lord, and His works?

"I'm sorry son," Harold said, sniffling. "I'm sorry I let you down."

"It's fine, dad..." Freddy said. "It's fine. We still have time to save it all before he lights it on fire!"

Suddenly, Harold snatched Freddy by his ear and yanked him to within spanking distance.

"I'm not trying to save your stuff, son," Harold said. "I'm trying to save you."

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Each collision of Harold's hand into Freddy's butt cheek brought all at once a wave of pain, of embarrassment, of shame, and most troublingly, of absolute fury.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

"Spare the rod," Harold said, wiping tears away from his eyelids. "Spoil the child."

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

...

Please, challenge yourself to imagine just how much pain, how much embarrassment, how much shame...

...and how much fury...

...Freddy Dick felt in that moment.

Try to consider how much it multiplied moments later, when his father brought him back around the church -- just in time to see everything that mattered to him...

WHOOSH!!

...go up in flames.

"Hey, Harry," Pastor Hall said gleefully through the smoke and flame. "You still gonna come by and repaint the office?"

"'Course! Freddy's gonna help me!"

A big thumbs up from Pastor Hall.

A smile on everyone's faces...

Well, almost everyone, at any rate.

Suddenly, those rumors feel a lot more like safe assumptions, don't they?

Freddy Dick, what was left of him? You might as well consider him as having been burned with his precious Dungeons and Dragons items.

Because ever since that day, all he's ever been is pain, embarrassment, shame, and fury.

Oh, and lest we forget, a giant piece of shit of a human being.

Let's talk for a second about what Pastor Hall reported Fred's "worldly" psychiatrist had to say.

Let's talk about freely disassociating.

The one power he wields which makes him perhaps my most formidable foe.

The question you most likely have, is what Freddy's "worldly" psychiatrist even meant by freely dissociation.

In nearly all respects, dissociation is considered a symptom of a disorder. It is a disorder where a person, in one way or another dissociates from me, Reality.

It is considered a disorder because everyone, even you, are merely peasant members of my universal fiefdom.

All of you follow my laws.

All of you recognize me as the ruler of all.

Though the way you see me may differ from person to person, the one thing uniting all of you, is that all of you see me.

To dissociate from me, is to dissociate from you.

It is unorderly.

Therefore it is disorderly.

Therefore it is a disorder.

And for nearly all who dissociate, that's all it is.

But for Fred, or Freddy as he was known at the time, the ability to dissociate, or perhaps the inability to remain associated, is not merely a disorder.

...it is also a choice.

Which means, it is also a super power.

It is a super power because somehow, in the midst of Fred's free dissociation, he obtains the results he wanted prior to dissociating.

Do you not yet see?

Most recently, he freely dissociates, and in the process convinces himself that he is the mother of a meat-crazy, buff boy moron, and all the while, wins a tag match against Sage Pontiff and Paxton Ray.

And this is a mere drop in a Pacific Ocean-sized bucket, proverbially speaking.

Sometimes...

He so freely dissociates, that he doesn't even remember doing something.

The most surefire way to make sure there's no witnesses?

Make sure your conscience doesn't see it happen.

29th of May, 2001

The night had begun young and vibrant, but like all young things, it became old, crotchety and forlorn.

Father Hall was clacking away at his brand new Dell PC, with Windows XP on it. It was a brand new computer, paid for, Praise God, through tithes to the church, so it was only right it stayed on church property. Normally, on a Tuesday night, he would've already been home, eating a lovely supper prepared by his wife, and playing catch outside with his daughter, who he loved very much.

If he was going to be on the church computer instead, he ought to have been preparing a sermon, but he wasn't.

He was on Kazaa, downloading things like "bigassfuckedhard.exe" and "Limp Bizkit - hYbRiD tHeOrY.mp3"

But the pornado he was about to finish downloading mattered very little. Because through the fine cedarwood flooring of the church office, and through the cracks in the doors, he could smell the odor of burning paint and wood and plaster.

Somehow, in his heart, perhaps it was God whispering to him (but then, the pornado), he knew what had happened.

He knew he had pushed a troubled young man too far.

He just couldn't be sure which one.

Immediately, he moved to the window.

He tried to open it, but... He couldn't. He tried very hard, but it was almost like it was glued.

Smoke was really starting to pour in. Pastor Hall was forced to cough a few times as he fought with the window.

He checked the seal of the window.

Oh, it had been painted over. Sealed shut.

The door had all but melted away. The fire began blazing it's course around the walls of the office.

Pastor Hall could barely breathe, he just kept coughing and coughing, and his eyes were burning really bad, and his body was perspiring an insane amount or, maybe it was wall melting down upon him, he wasn't totally sure. All he knew for sure was he knew the mother fucker that did it.

"Hey, Harry," Pastor Hall said gleefully through the smoke and flame. "You still gonna come by and repaint the office?"

"'Course! Freddy's gonna help me!"

And there, carved ever so faintly into the paint that had sealed the window, was a smiley face:

ッ

All at once, Pastor Hall felt pain, embarrassment, and shame.

There wasn't any time left for him to feel fury.

"You don't want to kill Cecilworth Farthington," Fred Dick says.

Fred sits on a golden throne in the middle of the ruined, burnt down First Baptist Church of Chicken City. The throne itself is a stark contrast to the soot-soaked remnants of the holy grounds. Holes in the dilapidated ceiling reveal a sky overhead that is full of rain clouds.

"I get it man," Fred says, slight touches of a grin curling on the edges of his lips. "I get that way sometimes. I'll be like, 'I'M GONNA KILL YOU BITCH!' and at the time, you know, my emotions, they got the best of me, but in the end? Shit, I don't really mean it, do I?"

Fred scratches his chin and looks up at the ceiling. A couple of raindrops trickle down. They land on his hair and shoulders.

"I know, I know, I know. You want to tell Ol' Fred that this is different. This is about BLOOD. This is about REVENGE. This is about tickling the belly of that little monster inside your head what tells you to do bad things to people. I know all that, punk ass little boy. There's a monster in my head too."

What began as a few drops becomes consistent sprinkling, raindrops slowly pattering against the old, burnt up flooring, clacking against the throne's arms.

"Truth is, folks like you and me? I used to think there wasn't a whole lot of them out there. But they're all over the fucking place man. We ain't rare. We're just evil bastards."

Thunder rolls above the church.

"So when I see you're little patsy boy, Harold, who is named after a real shid head of a human being in my daddy, posting all over the jibber that he will reward folks for killing a man that you say you want dead?"

Fred scoffs.

Lightning streaks across the sky.

The rain falls harder.

"I know there's nothin' further from the truth. Because when it comes to crimes, you and I both are well aware that the only way to guarantee a crime's success is to leave no witnesses. And if you didn't know that before, you know now, don't ya? That sad bit of BIDNESS with Crash and all. BIDNESS YOU AIN'T STANDIN' ON!"

"You don't ninja vanish from whooping your buddy's ass when he steps out of line," Fred says. "Unless he ain't really your buddy. And you don't have your patsy boy Harold publicly announce your desire to reward someone for killing a man, unless you don't really want that man dead."

"See, Maxy Pad? You don't want Cecilworth dead. If you did, he'd be as dead as a dumb ass preacher who burnt my books a long time ago. Naw, you don't want him dead."

That wry smile that began a minute ago on the corners of his lips now blazes a trail all the way across his face.

"You just want Cecilworth to acknowledge you. That's it, ain't it? You want him to really SEE you. You want him to apologize for hurting your feelings. You want him to account for not saving your sad little ass, Max."

Fred tosses a knowing little head nod towards the falling sky.

"But if he's dead, he can't give you none of that... Ain't that right?"

Thunder crashes in the heavens and they open all the way up. Rain pounds the old, burnt up church, and the man in the throne within it.

"And so, here you are. PLAYING WITH YOUR MEAT(?), and crying out for ol' Cecilworth to give an old friend a minute of his time. A genuine minute. A heartfelt one. Hell, maybe after that, you would kill him. I don't know."

Fred winks.

"But I do know that you damn sure wouldn't have Harold log into jibber and talk to the world about it if you did."

Fred inhales sharply, let's the rain wash o'er him.

"If you cry, you do it in the rain," Fred says. "You know that, too, Max. And the same applies for killing in private."

Fred stands up from the throne. He walks around, arms wide out, peacocking. His body saying what his mouth could never, "Look at all I've accomplished here!!!"

"But tell you what, Max. Since Cecilworth won't give you a minute of his time, Fred will give you some well-earned attention. How about some positive reinforcement? Would you like that, baby boy?"

Fred mocks rocking a baby back and forth in his arm.

"You've done real good for yourself. Yes you have. Real good. Won some gold, lost some gold, raised some hell, and possibly even endured some Hell too. That's livin' baby boy, and hey, you've been active as hell ain't you? Scheming all over the world. Making that sweet bread. Empowering that sweet will."

Fred pounds on his own chest as the rain continues to pour down, soaking his mullet and his clothes.

"Unfortunately bubba, that shit ends here. Because you can bet your soft little, loud mouth havin' ass, that I got not one, but two Jordans that I'm gonna shove straight up it. And in this case, I'm gonna let the whole world witness it."

Fred chuckles, shakes his head. His eyes are happy. His mouth shows all them teeth.

"Lindsay Troy is gonna see my Jordans up your ass, Crash Jackson is gonna see my Jordans up your ass, Violent Purple is gonna see my Jordans up your ass... And best of all?"

A pregnant pause. Drama.

"Cecilworth fuggin' Farthington is gonna see my Jordans up your ass."

Fred bursts out laughing!

"Bahahahaha! Hey, maybe that's what he needs, naw'm sayin'? Maybe he just... Needs to see you at your worst to make things right."

Fred slaps himself on the forehead.

"Oh wait. That already happened. And he let you die."

Suddenly, a thought intrudes Fred's mind. Eureka.

"Or... Or maybe, he just... Did it in a way that left behind no witnesses. Not even his conscience."

Fred scratches his chin, feigns pondering.

"That'd be a real Dick move. Nawmean? Shid. Then, he'd have nothing to feel bad about."

The moment darkens, and darkens, and darkens, until we see only black, and hear only the rain -- until Fred's voice cuts through to the ears like a MEAT? cleaver.

"Then, he'd have nothing to apologize for."

"Forget it. Black stockings are a waste of time. No one's gonna remember us because we're leaving no witnesses."

-Dick from Capote's "In Cold Blood"