Cycles of Revenge

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Literature Text

Greg McFadden and Alyssa Grady live in a land divided; they live in 1970’s Ulster Northern Ireland. Greg is a Catholic and Alyssa a Protestant, and they are madly in love during a time and in a place, where there couldn’t be more hate. It is the time of The Troubles and Ireland is ripped apart.

After they are are murdered, Greg is resurrected by The Crow, and with the help of the bog woman, Macha Mong Raud, he finds their killers.


Greg McFadden

Alyssa Grady is Greg’s girlfriend

The Bog-Woman


William Callahan

Tristin Scott


William Callahan

Tristin Scott

Jack Danya Kemplin





Edited by:

Jack Danya Kemplin

The Crow™ © 2016 James O’Barr (under exclusive license to Top Dollar Comics, Inc and Crowvision, Inc.) The Crow™ and “THE CROW”, The Original Motion Picture © 1994 Crowvision, Inc. All rights reserved.

Any similarities between characters, names, and/or institutions, living or dead (or undead) is purely coincidental, but for instances of satire, and should not be inferred. This is a work of fanfiction, no part of it may ever be printed or sold without permission of Crowvision, Inc.


The first three panels seamlessly merged together, side by side, to form a montage.

Panel 1:

Two cavemen fighting.


Since the beginning of time mankind has been fighting one another

Over petty differences

Panel 2:

Iron Age Irish armies clash in battle on the moors, one lead by a female queen, Macha Mong Raud.


Over who has more power over who

Panel 3:

A dirty, crumbling city in 1970’s Ireland, two opposing neighbourhoods try to take cover behind trash cans, dumpsters, and the steps and windows of their buildings which face each other across the road; they take cover as they also shoot at one another and throw molotov cocktails.


And even out of ennui

Panel 4:

Straight-on view: A young man, his body hidden behind a dumpster, has risen his head and rifle, and takes aim; in its sights can be seen two other young men, brothers, across the street, one, the eldest, with his own gun aimed towards this shooter, the younger brother hiding behind a trash can lid, holding a molotov.

Panel 5:

Side view: The older brother, hit with gunfire, flies backwards into the brick wall of their apartment. The younger brother, tears streaming down his face, his mouth contorted in rage, tosses the molotov cocktail.


That was my brother, you Orangie!

Panel 6:

The Molotov shatters behind the dumpster, it’s alcohol dousing and igniting on the shooter and the others crouched with him, their skin boiling as they scream in agony.


This in return causes others to strike back in endless cycles of revenge


Panel 1:

Long horizontal panel: The Crow flies across time, across battles, as the warriors of Macha clashing on the rolling moors becomes the men of the 1970's fighting amongst the rotting city.


Since time immemorial men have been warring, turning rolling hills and cities into battlefields

And always accompanying those battles has been

The Crow

Panel 2:

Close-up: The young brother stands there, both shaking in anger over what was done to his brother, as well as in horror over what he just did, and in fear that he will be next to die; tears still streaming down his face, his mouth still contorted in anger and anguish, and in his eyes can be seen the flaming bloodbath across the street, while behind him lies the dead body of his brother.


Feasting on the thirst for vengeance

Living on the carrion carcasses of the dead.


Panel 1:

Birds-Eye-View: The Crow circles above as the battle in the streets continues. On a street cutting across near the top, to the right of the main dividing street, a man (Greg) is walking down the sidewalk, a black car pulling up beside him.


This time the battle is in Ulster, Ireland, and the year is 1970

It is a time dubbed,

“The Troubles”

Panel 2:

A young man, greg, is running towards the viewer, running in a dark, dirty street, he is almost silhouetted by the bright yellow headlights of the car racing after him.


when Irishmen kill Irishmen in the streets

Panel 3:

The black car pulls up to a bog.


All over what version of Christianity each follows

Panel 4:

Several men pull out of the trunk of the car, the bloody and broken dead body of greg.


And over whether they wish to be part of a

Panel 5:

And throw the body into a bog.


United Kingdom

or an independent


Panel 6:

It sinks, slowly getting covered by the brown muck.


Panel 1:

Protestants destroying Catholic statues and reliquaries during The Reformation; transitioning into a battle in the Thirty-Year War.


But then again, is any of this new?

For have not Christians fought Christians before

Panel 2:

A battle in The American Revolution.


Nations fought for independence before

Panel 3:

The Iron Age battle of Macha Mong Raud.


And Irishmen fought Irishmen before

Panel 4:

An endless landscape of lush, green, marshy bog-lands; in the left foreground stands the young and beautiful figure of the Phantom Queen Macha Mong Raud, The Crow perched on her outstretched hand.


The Crow remembers

For The Crow was always there


Panel 1:

An endless landscape of marshy bog-lands; in the left foreground stands the withered brown, wrinkly, half rotted figure of a reanimated Bog-Woman, The Crow perched on her outstretched hand.


Fly, oh spirit, and may this tortured soul find its way back

Panel 2:

The Crow flies deeper into the landscape.

Panel 3:

It lands on what at first glance should look like a lump of rocks.

BOG-WOMAN (Off Panel)

What have you found here, my little friend?

Panel 4:

Close up on the thing which The Crow is standing on, it is in actuality, the mud covered head and shoulder of Greg’s body.

Panel 5:

Red light shines from Greg’s eye sockets, his mouth opens, his neck twists as his head looks up at the Bog-Woman who now stands before him, and his arm rises out of the mud; The Crow still perched on his head.


Yes, yes, rise! You have been blessed with the Eternal Power Of The Crow.


Panel 1:

Greg’s corpse strains as he pulls at the quagmire, slowly working himself out of the mud, his eyes still glowing red, his body shaking in agony; The Crow still atop his head.


Nooooo!!!!! Alyssa!

Panel 2:

He strains as he struggles against the water and the peat, strains as he tries to rise; his body slowly starting to heal.


Where am I?!

Panel 3:

Greg has almost completely risen out of the muck, his body still straining against the last sticky bits as he looks more and more alive. The Crow leaps from Greg’s head, into the air.


What happened?!

Panel 4:

The Crow lands back on the arm of The Bog-Woman, as she stands before Greg, his red eyes having faded to their normal colour, his body looking almost alive.


Yes, I know, it hurts


Panel 1:

Greg’s-Point-of-View: Vision blurred, The Bog-Woman, in all her grotesqueness stands, The Crow and her looking straight at us.


Welcome to the family, kid.

Panel 2:

Greg falls backwards in horror, falling back into the bog.


Get away from me you hag!

Panel 3:

The Bog-Woman looks on with a smirk as Greg tries to scurry away on his hands, causing himself to again sink into the muck.


Hag? Moments ago you didn’t look much better than me.

Look at yourself, boy, remember what happened...

Panel 4:

Greg stares at his hands.


Panel 1:

A young man, greg, is running towards the viewer, running in a dark, dirty street, he is almost silhouetted by the bright yellow headlights of the car racing after him.

Panel 2:

He is struck by the car.

Panel 3:

Greg still sits in the bog, still gazing at his hands.


They...they killed me...

Panel 4:

The Crow now sits on the Bog-Woman’s shoulder as she grasps Greg’s hand.


Bingo, boy.


Yes, now here, have a helping hand.


Panel 1:

The Bog-Woman now sits on a stump, as Greg sits on a rock across from her; her intently looking at him, as he just looks to the ground in shock.


They killed me…


Yes, they did.

Now deary, tell us what happened?

Panel 2:

Greg walks down the street in the dark and dirty city, him clutching his trench coat as the cold wind blows against him.


I was walking down the street, it was night time.

Panel 3:

An idealised portrait of Alyssa, shimmering in smoky light.


I was going to see my girlfriend...Alyssa…

Panel 4:

Alyssa looking down in horror from a second floor window.


My God, Alyssa!


Don’t get too hung up on her


What happened next?

Panel 5:

A black car, full of men, ranging from late teens to late 50’s, pulls up next to Greg as he walks.


This car pulled up next to me


Panel 1:



You lost, pal?

Need a lift? My friends and I could drop you off somewhere.


No thanks, I'm almost where I need to be.

Panel 2:



Aye, but with all of late, you can’t be too careful, y’never know who could be roaming the streets, better to be safe.


I’ll be fine

Panel 3:



Will ya now?

You know, I know everyone in this neighborhood and everyone knows me, and I know that you’re not from around here, and that’s a dangerous thing to be walking around in this neighborhood

Panel 4:



I’m not looking for trouble, sir.

Panel 5:



Aye, but troubling times is what we are in, and I’m afraid trouble is what you could find yourself in.

Panel 6:



What’s this about?


Panel #:



Come on, let’s show this Taig some manners!

Panel #:



You a Taig?


Please leave me be

Panel #:



I asked if you were Catholic?!

Panel #:



I said, please leave me be!


Oh, I’m afraid that sounds like a “yes”, lad


Why we wasting time?! Let’s kill this Papist!

Panel #:



And you know what we do to Taigs in this neighborhood

Panel #:



Please, sir, I have nothing against Protestants

Panel #:



Too bad we have something against you

The poet makes a break for the alleyway.

just as he makes half way the car starts speeding after him

and just as he makes it to the outside of the alleyway he is struck down by the car

and is pummeled face first to the ground

he looks and sees a police officer he weakly extends his hand

The poet: (faintly) help...


the officer running away in the reflection of the poet's eyes

The driver grabs the poet by the hair

a silhouette of the poet getting his throat slit


Sounds like those men were looking for a soul to reap, and unfortunately for you my friend, it looks like they found their soul.

Too bad for them that Mamma Death found you, and now it is your time to reap.

The crow: another soul claimed on the streets of this country divided, so many have been lost to this conflict that no one seems to notice anymore. The slane just fill up space in the obituaries these days.

The poet walks out to the street and looks around

The poet: wow here it is that same street and it’s almost as if I’m a Spector wandering the same sorrowful spot where his flesh and sole parted ways. And would you looks at that it’s that same car as though it were doomed to haunt these dwellings. Doomed with me a ghost a ghost with unfinished business.

The black car pulls up next to the poet and roles its window down it’s the same driver as before but on his

driver: well mate you look like you’re on your way to a funeral

The poet: I’m just back from one

driver: say you look awfully familiar are you from around heir

The poet: I’m not I’m lost in fact would you mind giving me a lift

driver: I was just about to subject that. Hope right in

The poet: thank you sir. (while entering the car)

The poet(internal monologue)

it was bizarre how the driver didn’t recognize me. Perhaps the idea of a real life revenant was to impossible for his brain to consider, maybe he didn’t actually get a good look at me in such dim light. Or maybe he has done this so often that he forgets faces. The victims of cold blooded killings become so numerous that they just as easily get lost in a sea of victims.

driver: so where is it I’m taking you?

The poet: at the very end of the street. Turn right then turn left at the end of that street

driver: no bar mate it’s a good job I saw you cause these streets....

The poet: art safe to walk about especially If you’re on your own

driver: aye it’s not that you would be looking for trouble.......

The poet: it’s just that trouble might find you

driver: That’s right. You sure I don’t know you you look just like someone I’ve met recently

The poet: I depends who it that I look like is

driver: can’t say...

The poet: huh that’s very interesting. Come to think of it I recognize you

The poet notes a gun in the front seat as they drive around he noted the glint of a machete

driver: oh is that right where from?

The poet: funnily enough this very street

driver: (sharply) When?

The poet: why just the other night my friend

driver: Oh is that right, who are you then

The poet: lets see if this can get the gears turning in your head. See I was interested in body modification you see. And your friend let me get one free of charge, though Instead of a piercing (pulling down the scarf on his neck to revel the scar) he gave me a laceration I’m not quite happy with the results could I have a refund.

driver: (reaching for the gun) no bother

Before he can turn the gun on the poet he stabs through him with the machete through the driver’s seat


The car comes to a screeching halt and the poet picks up the gun.

The poet :( pointing gun at his head) tell me where's the others

driver: fuck you

The poet twists the machete

driver: GAHH FUCK! Robinson hangs around the old loyal. The boss iv no idea where he is and what he does.

The poet: Well would you look at that. This little slug thrower of yours, why it's the most powerful handgun in the world if I remember correctly, I’d ask if you felt lucky though I’m quite confident its fully loaded so I’d advise you to start answering me or else I'll blow your head clean off.

driver: I SWEAR I DON’T KNOW! But Robinson might know he's going to be in the old loyal at 10:30 tomorrow

The poet: well thank you for your help, say where are the other bullets for this iron you got, the streets are awfully dangerous. Never know when trouble might find me.

The driver gestures to the glove compartment. And the poet leans into the front of the car and grabs bullets from the glove compartment.

driver: please don’t kill me I was only doing what the boss was paying me to do.

The poet: you think the slaughter of innocents is a reputable profession. Well ser

The poet exists the car

The poet: your job Is over master of the dead so I give you your wage paid in led

The poet fires 3 shots into the car

The poet sees a small child who approaches him from behind he crouches down and to speak to the child

The poet: What are you doing here. At such an hour. Don’t you see that the streets are ablaze with a cleansing fire. It’s not safe to roam these streets, run along home little one.

The poet begins walking to the Scene of the crime and notes that there is a tent covering the crime scene two men exit the tent and a lone police officer is left to guard the scene, he notes it’s the same officer who ran away on the night he was killed.

Cut to the officer walking into the tent who is shocked by the arrival of the poet

The poet: hello officer why do I see you here you guarding the dead while you fail to guard the living.

John finn: members of the public are not otherised on this site of a crime scene you need to leave

The poet: im not leaving until I’ve had a quick word with you.

John Finn: who on earth do you think you are

The poet: look in to my eyes, think back to two nights ago and remember your cowards

Cut to a flash where we see the poet reaching out for help

John finn: oh my god that’s impossible

The poet: impossible is standing right in front of you and judging by the man with a blade and 3 holes Line his chest, impossible is doing a better job at removing the murders from the streets then you are.

John finn: you did this? (Reaches for hand cuffs) your coming with me

The poet: oh so you cower when you see a man brutally murdered but then you feel the need to slap a pair of handcuffs on a ghost

john finn: you don’t understand.

The poet: please explain to me because a police officer not stopping criminals does not make a lick of scene.

John finn: I could have pulled my gun on those bastered I had every legal right to put them down right then and there.

The poet: then why didn’t you?

John finn: to protect my family, you never know if your fellow officers are like me or if there in an organization, if they have connections to those Basterds Life i had have shot him there would have been no doubt it would make its way back to them and lord knows what they would do if they knew i shot one of there men. They are already suspicious of me.

The poet: whys that

John finn: because I'm a Catholic.

The poet: then why did you join the RUC?

John finn: Because i wanted to look out for my community. i thought that if i joined then there would be someone how was looking out for my community. But unfortunately my own people didn’t see it that way. When I joined up I was viewed as a traitor by Republicans, and with suspicion from my fellow officers.

The poet: if that’s the case then why don’t you quit

John finn: I don’t know I guess i feel like there's still some good I can do. There are men like me who just want to help in the force but right now were being held back by the ones who aren't interested in being a police officer because they want to protect people.

The poet: let me ask you something do you want to see the red hand reapers off the streets

John finn: more than anything else I would.

Then poet: good then all you have to do is stay out of my way to many people have lost there lives because of them. And im going to get rid of them. For good.

john finn: (existing the tent) well I hope you do.

The poet: one last question for you

Sean Quinn: what’s that?

The poet: what’s your name.

John finn: My names john finn

The poet: look after yourself John

The poet exits the tent And begins walking down the road

The poet enters a naborhood where the union jacks end and the tri coulrs begin the poet turns a corner and enters a corner shop

Shopkeeper: oh for the hero free of charge

The poet: what do you mean the hero?

Shopkeeper: word spreads fast in this part of town and round heir we have lived in fear of the reapers you so long we’re glad someone’s taking care of them

The poet exits the store and walks a little farther till he reaches what was his house in life he lifts the door matt and finds the key he left there and enters the house he looks around to find that most of his belongings have been put in boxes his give a look of sadness he begins rummaging around the boxes in search looks through a couple of boxes and finally finds a radio he takes it out and begins playing music.

The poet: I’m gonna miss this place.

The poet begins exploring hos house the hole he looks both at peace but confused he is happy to be in the house but he almost doesn’t recognize the house as everything that made the house his has been packed away in boxes save for a the furniture he goose up the stairs and notes the outlines of picture frames that have been taken down he smiles.

The poet: the hose has been stripped of everything that made it a home. The outlines of old picture frames the walls bare the ghost of my presence. Walls that used to bare warm memories of the past memories that were supposed to last. Now only to be replaced with someone elses life rearranged as if it was never mine. And the contents of my house to be shared Peace of my past become part of my loved ones present little trinkets and mementos that hold memories of who I was. You don’t see eny of that when you kill a man, its very rare when eny of them ever really get a look at the life they destroyed.

The poet looks down with an expression of rage

Ill be there harsh reminder.

News caster: hello and thank you for tuning in to bbc radio ulster this just in a man in a black car who was murdered late last night has been identified as one of the red hand reapers. witnesses are unsure of the identity of his assailant.

The poet (internal monolog)

its strange she would congratulate me for killing someone I guess that’s the kind of fear they lived under that there glad one of them is gone. It’s sad whenever it gets to a point when death brings someone joy.

The poet (internal monologue)

in life I was an artist and a poet rather fitting that that’s the name the media should dub me with this extra time I may as well put out a couple last creative works.

Cut to later on in the night when the poet is making his way to the old loyal bar just he stops to spray something on the wall with a stencil. As he is spraying a young boy spots him

The poet: hello

Seamus: holy shit are you the man that killed one of the red hand reapers?

The poet: haha one I plan to kill all of them

Seamus: yeah you should kill every last one of those bastered huns

The poet looks down with an expression of mild concern

The poet: I’m only here for the bad men. here take a look at what iv sprayed on the wall

Seamus: um okay

The poet: do you read the bible?

Seamus: no I’m bored to tears at mass why would I

The poet: haha well neither do I but I know of this one passaged I saw in a play once that iv always remembered

The buy pulls the stencil off the wall

The poet: take away these harts of stone and give us harts of flesh

Seamus: what does it mean?

The poet: well what do you think it means?

Seamus: I don’t know I guess it has something to do with empathy?

The poet: exactly! Life has not exactly been kind has it? No so are harts grow hard and cold. We lose empathy become numb. But when you look inside when you find your hart of flesh. you realise that not everyone’s as bad as you think.

Seamus: well I hope you get rid of the reapers those men defiantly don’t deserve empathy

The poet: no not anyone’s, I give you my word I will get rid of them

Cut to 10:30 at night at the old loyal bar

John Robinson enters and talks to the bar tender

Bartender: well I heard about Jackson sorry for your loss how are you feeling

Robinson: surviving, I just hope that the boss finds a replacement, Christ I with him gone its left me with know one. Human to talk to you know that boss of mine hes a not right in the head.

Bartender: aye I know im always on edge when that fella comes in, what is it your having?

Robenson: erm pint of bas please.

Bartender: here this first ones on the house

Robenson: cheers.

(takes a sip)

Robenson: You know what his problem is,

Bartender: whats that?

Robinson: he likes it to much that’s what, see its not supposed to be a fun job. The whole idea of what we’re doing is to send a message to the republicans show them it’s not safe for them to enter this neighborhood.

Bartender: do you think its worked?

Robenson: well they haven’t attacked us here yet that’s for sure. Knowing the things I’ve done It makes it hard to sleep at night. But I take a little solace in the fact that my wife and daughter can.

A man and a young teen walk into the bar they are unfamiliar to the rest of the customers

They walk up to the bar man

Older man: well we just need to use your bathroom then we will be out of your hair

Bartender: that’s no bother mate go right on ahead.

They leave for the bathroom.

Robenson: they don’t look like their from around here

Bartender: noo they don’t. keep a wee eye on them for me will you

Robenson: no bother.

The bartender walks out of the bar into the back he sets an empty keg outside and puts it next to other empty kegs he turns to note the poet standing in front of him

The poet: hello humble tavern owner

Bartender: holly shit you’re the man who killed Jackson

The poet: then you will obviously know I’m here to kill john robenson but I wish to talk to him first tell him that death is waiting to have a word with him

Cut back to the inside of the bar where we see Robinson contemplating his actions then suddenly the two men that walked in have burst out of the bathroom and are holding revolvers in this moment Robinson jumps over the bar and runs out into the back he bursts out the back door and just as he starts running he is shot in both kneecaps by the poet

He pulls him by the back of his coat and sets him up against the wall.

Cut to the inside of the bar and the ira have burst in spraying the customers with machine guns

Cut back to outside and we see the poet and the bartender note the gun fire

The poet looks at robenson

The poet: don’t go anywhere.

The poet runs inside the bar all the customer’s have either escaped or have been shot dead.

One of the ira squamembers note the poet from the news paper articals

Ira member1: well look whos here to hel…

The poet shoots him before he can finisher

The rest of the squad now registering that the poet is not an ally

To poet manages to kill one other squad member in the moment the rest are held by shock

The other opens fire with a machine gun but the poet ducks under the bar

He walks over to cheek if the poet is dead in he points his gun over the bar then the poet grabs onto the barrel pulls him closer and cuts his thought. He vaults over the bar now using the dead cotton face as a human shield the last remaining cotton face holds fires at the meat shield but the poet fires the remaining two shots into the last cotton face. He shoves the remaining cotton faces body to the ground turns around and the teen that had walked in is pointing the revolver in the poets face.

Peter: put the gun down

The poet smiles

The poet: shore thing sheriff I suppose your gona want to be killing me

Peter: isn’t that obvious

The poet: well you seem to be holding it off you don’t seem like you have the guts to shoot me

Peter: I do and I will

The poet: then do it already ohh look that guns doing a lot of trembling it’s a good thing you have me at point black rang you would probably miss if you didn’t.


The poet drops to the floor pretending to be dead

The poet;( internal monologue) this is not this boys decision it was the cotton faces they have pushed him into it this. So this shall be a lesson for the young boy Ill get up in a moment, but I want to wait, wait long enough till he realizes what he has done, and that sick feeling reaches the pit of his stomach

Peter: (timidly) oh god

The poet then gets up and peter looks positively terrified the gun shot wond in hes head heals up and pushes the bullet back out of his foor head. He catches it in his hand and gives it to the boy

Peter: (takeing a short moment still in shock) wwwhat are you?

The poet: just an eco of a man that some fue people thought they could forget, Now that didn’t feel very good now did it, how do you think you would have felt if I didn’t get back up

Peter: I don’t know

The poet: why are you heir?

Peter: To kill John Robinson

The poet: Oh don’t you worry about him he has hell to pay with me and me alone, but I want to know why you are her why you have fallen in with the cotton faces?

Peter: my father. My father was killed by the red hand reapers

The poet: so you took up arms

Peter: I have to do my part to stop people like this

The poet: so lets get this strate a boy who’s father was murdered takes up arms and becomes a murderer himself. You ever consider what might happen let’s say the next person you try to kill is a father and then his sun swears a similar vendetta. He kills and another father dies and we then have another vengeful solder, sons killing fathers killing sons the violence is justified as a retaliation to violence which in turns creates more violence. And thus the cycle of vengeance continues untill we all forget why we wanted each other dead.

Peter: what do you want me to do

The poet: isn’t it obvious? Break the cycle

Peter: what if that doesn’t work?

The poet: hay its better then then contributing to the problem, when enuff people deside they no longer want to be part of this they will fallow suit. Things will get better

Peter: and what do I do unill then

The poet: all we can really do is hope. Instilling the same fear you have for your community in there’s is only gona serve to further entrench there views

Peter: I guse your right

The poet puts his hand on his shoulder

The poet: good go get ye home if you care for your mother you will know she doesn’t need a solder, right now she needs a son.

Peter: in the interest of breaking the cycle I was supposed to meat an American he was supposed to be selling weapons I was supposed to meet him on the falls road at 1:30 tomarow morning. Look for the car with the registration number M200111

The poet: thanks for telling me ill be having words with him

Peter begins to walk out

Peter: hay?

Switch to a panel with a good veiw of the dead ira men with the poet and peter in frame

Peter: do you think eny of these men were fathers

The poets face gose blank for a moment

And peter walks out of the tavern

The poet gets up and goes out the back to where the barman try’s to tend to john Robinsons wounds he pulls a knife on the poet

Bartender: listen here you freak you get the fuck away or ill..

Robinson: (interrupting) just get out of here. Its me he wants

The bartender looks at the poet and back at robenson

Robinson: look there’s nothing that’s gona stop him im already a Deadman SO JUST GO.

The bartender looks down, drops the knife and runs away.

The poet: now you know what I want to know. And you know what im going to do. Tell me what I need to know and ill make this easy for you.

Robinson: my boss his habit’s are irregular but he spends most of his time in his office outside Belfast im supposed to be meeting him on Tuesday there at 5

(as he is talking the poet is reloading his revolver)

…. H h how the fuck are you still alive

The poet: I guess you could say I live to spite reality

Robinson: look I know I know iv done some bad things I just I just need you to know I was only trying to prote….

The poet:(interrupting) no ill not heir this, not from you, I’m so sorry for what the world has made you. But you? you do not have my pity

(The poet puts the gun to his for head)

Nor will you have my mercy.


the crow then comes and fly’s to the poets shoulder

the poet walks back into the old loyal he grabs his knife and walks over to the bodies of the dead cotton face and begins to cut into his chest

The poet: ill leave this here as a little message

The crow: don’t stray to far from the path boy

The poet: don’t be silly of course not we only have one more

The crow: that’s right one more and were gone. Don’t get to involved

The poet: what do you mean they were killers they had to be put down?

The crow: I know but you still need to be carful.

The poet: why

The crow: because who ever fights monsters sees to it that they don’t become a monster in the process

The crow and the poet walk off into the night

Cut to Robert comins

Just getting up from his bed ancering his phone

Robert: what do you want its one in the morning?

Phone caller: its robenson hes.. been

Robert: they got him to didn’t they FOR FUCK SAKE. Ill fuckin deal with this in the morning

Slams the phone down

Roberts wife: what was that?

Robert: one of the boys got killed again tonight. Now iv to find TWO replacements

Roberts wife. Oh im so sorry to heir that ill miss robenson he was a nice man

Robert: I didn’t fucken pay him to be nice just go back to bed

Roberts wife: oh good night

Robert: yeah

Roberts wife: Robert?

Robert:what now

Roberts wife: im worried about you

Robert: (turning in his bed to face his wife) the next person to get in my why that’s who should be fucken worried.

Robert gose back to sleep and we can see in his head he is dreaming that he is walking down the stars everything is a grey hue almost completely devoid of color. He approaches the front door. They sky is purple it is the early morning darkness. He sees crows flock to his front garden perching on the garden wall and the fences. He sees the dark shroud of the poet his out line is to dark to make out the fetchers other than his signature outfit.

Robert: (directed to the dream fantasim) what are you?

The poet: I am the repo man iv come for the souls you have stolen.

Robert: im not afraid of you.

The poet: you should be im coming im an inevitability

Robert: you can’t hurt me. This is only a dream.

The poet: (walking closer to Robert) To a dream that was dreamed in the heart, and that only the heart could veiw. O wise man, riddle me this: what if the dream comes true?

The poet snaps his fingers and Robert is engulfed in flames then is sudenly woken hyperventilating he puts his hand over his face and poses in a manner that invokes Michelangelo's the dammed man he looks to his window and sees a crow perched on his window sill that fly’s away as soon as it catches his notice

Cut to the morning after with the police

Police officer: well what can we gather from this little art display

Detective G ennis: well we know one thing for dam sure, are friend the poet certainly isn’t a ra head

Cut to a view of a dead ira man tied to a post with his eyes gauged out and a Chelsea grin cut into his cheeks with the poem etched into his chest that reads "be carful who you cross they could be in any place you could end up gone without a trace if you offend a cotton face"

Cut to petter walking down the street when he notes the same kid who was spraying on the walls sat on his doorstep crying

Peter: hay Seamus what’s wrong

Seamus: my da was killed

Peter: oh im soo sorry to hei.....

Seamus mother comes to the door tears streaming down her face

Seamus mother: come on back inside Seamus.

She shoots a look at peter he looks away and just starts walking further down the street

He walks further into town and passes an armored vehicle guarded by two British solders the solders start harassing him the walk along the begin to fallow him down the street

Solder one: where are you going

Peter: none of your business

Solder two: yeah it is you could be going anywhere

Peter: I'm going home

It’s in this moment we see that in the front pocket of his jacket he has a revolver that he is internally threatening to pull out of his pocket

Solder one: And where do you live?

Peter: that’s non of your business

Solder two: oh yes it is what if you’re in the IRA

Peter: I’m not

Solder one: well we will just have to see about that. Get on the ground were gona halve to do a search

Peter continues on his way

Solder One: oye I told you to stop

Peter stops when he heirs the click of the solders rifle

He stops and puts his hand on his head an knees.

Solder two: ill search him

The solder then begins patting him down

Solder one: if you find anything make sure to say so if you find a wepon ill blow his brains out.

The solder is almost about to reach down to the poket with the revolver when the poet shows up

The poet: Gentlemen! is that really standard procedure

Bolth the solders are shocked solder two takes one look at the poet and runs away

Solder two: fuck that

Solder one: oye get back ere or ill have you cortmarshaled!

The solder notes the poet walking towards him and opens fire

As the solder continues firing the poet keeps walking seemingly un fazed by the bullets by the time the poet gets all the way up to the solder he is out of bullets he grabs the front grip of his rifle and pulls it off of him

The poet then looks down at his waist coat that is riddled with holes and looks up back at the solder with an angry expression

The poet: you ruined my waist coat.

the solder then runs away

The poet: well that was a lucky escape for you ill be taking that iron off you by the way

Peter: how the hell did you know…

The poet: I wasn’t born yesterday. I assumed you would have the scene to get rid of it by now

Peter: well you know what they say assume makes an ass out of you and me.

The poet: yeah smart arse now hand it over already. So that’s you done.

Peter: yeah I will find justice for my father but another way.

The poet: I’m glad to hear that, just don’t go back to the ways of the gun, or else you will have me to ancer to

The poet pats peter on the back

The poet: you’re a good lad don’t taint yourself like to many already have

The poet continues down the street and is suddenly surprised by john finn

John: Jesus merry and Saint Joseph you’re the most wanted man in the city and you’re walking around in broad daylight!

The poet: I don’t know if you’re aware but it’s not like I can be hurt.

John: aye but you still need to watch yourself you’re not exactly the hard to spot when its bright out, anyway I’m glad that I got the chance to speak to you. I wanted to tell you that I was sorry I ran away when I could have helped you.

The poet: Hay hay you were right to worry I know your situation must bee hard. I don’t want this to be waying on your conscience so I want you to know that I forgive you.

John: thank you, I hope I get the chance to help…

He is interrupted by is radio

Radio: Yo john look we know your off duty but we could really use a hand with this call were on can you meat us at the station

John: aye no bother, ill be 10 mins over and out

The poet: That might just be your chance to help ill catch you around sheriff.

Cut to a detectives office

Second detective: well are you getting anywhere with this poet charictor

Detective g Ennis: well iv got one crazy theory

Second detective: how crazy?

Detective g ennis: you might wanna sit down.

The second detective sits down

Detective g ennis: Well having a good look at this poet character I and the closest mach I could find was this fella here

The second detective gets a closer look

Deteciiitive g ennis: only one issue

Second detective: whats that

Detective g ennis: he’s dead. He was the latest victim of the red hand reapers

The second detective says nothing and just gives detective g ennis a funny look

Detective g ennis: see you look at me funny but iv been doing I found there’s a fue similar cases all over the place where someone gets brutalized then sometime latter someone shows up and takes out the elged perpetrators. There was even a cace in Detroit where two police officers saw one of these punishers in action and saw him practically absorb bullets from all directions and didn’t even flinch

Second detective: (rasses eyebrow) bullet prove vest

Detective g Ennis: apparently he wasn’t even wherein a shirt

Second detective: awk come-on don’t tell me were dealing with some kind of vampire.

Detective g ennis: hay all im saying is it’s a little odd that he looks just like this fella who was killed by the reapers and not even 2 days after he dies a guy who looks just like him takes out 2 of the red hand reapers.

Second detective: I think that idea belongs in a shit comic book and not as part of an official investigation. It could be eny number of things it could be a twin brother or just some guy who happens to look similar to this dead guy. Ither way you need to get your head in reality and out of your arse

Cut to the poet in his house agein sat on his couch listening to the radio and writing in has note book

The poet: one last chance to me creative and I shall use my creativity to write a deceleration

The crow fly’s to the windowsill

The crow: you’re getting distracted

The poet: sorry can’t help but use a little of my extra time to appreciate the stuff I had.

The crow: that’s all well and good but while you’re doing this the last tainted soul is still rooming the street

The poet: ill put a stop to that don’t you worry

The crow: You better

The radio: hello and welcome to the news there’s been a tragic bombing on a police car that has claimed the life of police constable John Finn. Members of the Provisional I,R,A, have taken responsibility

The poet takes a deep breath

He starts pacing back and forth

The crow: don’t you dare do what I think you’re going to do.


The poet storms out the door

Cut to Peter Sheehan’s house where he’s walking into the living room with a cup of tea for himself and his mother he walks in and his mother is sat on a chair looking through an album of the family.

Peter: carful the tea is hot

Peters mother: oh thanks love you didn’t put sugar in it did you

Peter: no no

Peters mother: good lad

She points to a photo of peters father teaching him to play football

Peters mother: awk look at this one that was this first time you ever played you father came home with a ball and you and him just spent the whole day in the back garden kicking the football around.

Peter: aye I remember that. That was a week before I started going to practice.

Peter’s mother: aye he took you to training every week and after you would get something from the local chippy as a reward.

Peters mother: and then when you finally one a trophy he let you drink coca cola from it like a glass

They both laugh then peters mother lets out a sorrowful sigh

Peters mother: how are we gona get on without him

Peter gives his mother a hug then in that moment there a loud nock at the door

They both look with concern

Peters mother: that’s not one of those boys is it

Peter: ill half to cheek

Peter grabs his mother by the hands

Peter: I need you to go up the stairs for me

Peters mother looks down then looks at her suns eyes

Peters mum: if already lost a husband, please don’t deprive me of a son

Peter: I won’t mum I promise

Peter goes to ancer the door to find the poet drenched in rain water

The poet: I need to tell me who your district commander was NOW!

Peter: my district commander? I don’t do that anymore

The poet: I know you don’t but I need to know who he is he dies tonight

Peter: why

The poet: where you not listening to the radio a good man was killed tonight

Peter: no one can be a good man wherein an ruc uniform

The poet: Are you listening to what your saying! Look I know the police have done harm to your community but this man he was he was A catholic just trying to do his bit to help his people. The same as you

Peter: he was nothing like me

The poet: He was everything like you. He was a man who feared for the wellbeing of his people and took action to protect it the only difference between you and him was the choice of outfit. You can stand her and ague with me over who wheres the right uniform but it won’t change the fact that im going to kill the man who is responsible for this.

Peter: his name is his name is martin Collins his address is 129 on the falls road.

The poet: dose he live alone

Peter: yes

The poet: good. Does he have a second in command?

Peter: aye hes a man called emon McGreevy he lives in a flat

The poet: thank you. I’m so sorry I had to come at this hour this will be the last you see of me out side of the radio and the papers

At that moment peters mum comes down the stars to see the poet

Peters mum: you.. You’re the man who killed the two of the red hand reapers.

Peter: he is and he was just leaving.

Peter closes the door on the poet

Cut to the house of marten Collins

He is sitting at his desk on the desk on the desk he has a breaf case and he is reading a book and heirs a nocking at the door.

Martin: hello hose there

He heirs no response

Martin: hello?

No response

Martin sighs he gets up to ancer the door opens it but sees nothing but darkens

He turns around to see that his windows are wide open

And the poets sitting on the desk

The poet: commander

Marty: wow id almost say it was an honor to meet the man who’s decimating the reapers if it wasn’t for the fact that you have killed a whole squad of my men

The poet: well I wouldn’t be saying it’s a pleasure to meet you at all its because of your men that a good man dyed tonight

Marten trys to walk forward but the poet pulls a gun on him

The poet: that’s far enuff, take a seat

Marten: so who is it that iv killed.

The poet: an police man called john fin

Marten: well boho maby if he hadn’t have joind the police he would still be walking aroud

The poet: so apparently we deserved to die

Marten: its not my fault he was wherein the wrong uniform

The poet: you see that’s the problem with you people. Your trying to kill uniforms when you can only kill people.

Marten: oh fuck up it’s a war and people die im sorry but he was on the enamys side and that’s just what happens

The poet leans over the desk

The poet: well at the very least at least he wore his uniform at least he didn’t need to where a mask he did his job 24/7 and what about you you wore a mask when your not fighting you get to blend into the crowd without anyone knowing any wiser not knowing what you are.

The poet stands up and fires 2 rounds into his legs while he is holds the wounds in his legs he screams and the poet walks over and kneels down and is now face to face with martin

The poet: do you know what you are? You’re a cotton face wherein a mask of flesh.

He grabs his hand and sip ties it to the arm of the chair

He walks over to the other arm and dose the same

The poet: this this is your true face

He slips a balaclava over his face

He stands in front of him and reaches into his pocket an grabs a needle and thread

The poet: and its this face that will be the one they will find you with.

Cut to the poet walking out of the house of martin Collins

He walks down the street he pulls another letter out of his pocket and puts it in a letter box

The crow flies to his shoulder

The crow: what’s that?

The poet: an invitation to the party tomorrow night

Cut to a man walking towards a car he’s looking around to cheek if anyone is watching him

He gets into the car and turns to find the poet sitting in the passenger seat

The poet: so judging by the guns and amma in the trunk I dobt you’re here for the golf

He freaks out and puts a colt 1911 under his chin


The American fires off around but the poet appears un fazed by it

The Poet: That wont do you any good lad

the American fires off another round it just goose right through the top of his head with seemingly no reaction from the poet

The American the begins unloading more rounds into the poet

The poet swipes the gun from the American

The poet: Christ and 12 apostles! What part of I don’t die do you not understand. You don’t belong here.

American looking in dumb founded aw

The poet: where do you get off selling guns to terrorists are you just that useless

American: I’m just trying to do my part

The poet: what the fuck do you mean doing your part

American: to free Ireland (he pulls down the sun guard to reveal a black and white photo of a man wherein Easter rising regalia) im fallowing in the footsteps of my great grandfather he fought in the Easter rising. I’m just doing my part to help my people

The poet: what the hell do you mean your people? You don’t live here you haven’t a notion of the reality of this place and this struggle it’s not like how it was back then. Back then people knew when to fight and when not to do you know what the people you are selling guns to just did. They just walked into a pub with automatics and sprayed the place they murdered innocent people. Don’t get confused these men are not “freedom fighter’s” there men who are scared for their people who have been misguided into murder. So what you need to do is leave your lucky to have a life now go home and live it. The town has enough solders.

American: and what if I decide to stay?

The poet: hay you can either go home or I kill you right here you prity much only have one option.

American: so what do you want me to do with all the weapons in the trunk

The poet: I’ll take them I have a use for some ill dispose of the rest. Please show mw what armorments you have

The American and the poet get out of the car and go back to the boot for the poet to look at what weapons the American opens the boot of the car

American: this is the armalight ar 180 these wore produced for poorer country’s who couldn’t afford ar 15s the company actually recommended that they buy old screwing machines and gery rig them to make rifle parts iv got about 600 rounds of the armilite bullet

The poet: what else have you got?

American: well iv got some heavier artillery

He lifts a canvas sheet to reveal an m60 machine gun and a flam thrower

The poet: where on earth did you get all this

American: well a lot of this like the armalights you can buy in a gun store and there completely legal for us citizens. The m60 and the flame thrower… not so much. Sooo now that these weapons aren’t going to the I.R.A there a little issue of payment all together this shipment is…

The poet looks with a deathly glare

The American claps his hand and points at the poet

…free of charge! Is what I was going to say!

The poet: now ill be taking this car to you go home home to America. You go and live your life the care free peaceful life you were gifted with and you don’t come back you don’t even for a moment think about here. You’re better off that way.

Cut to the poet walking into his house

In that moment the crow fly’s to the windowsill

The crow: I cant help but notice robert comins is still breathing

The poet: look around you do the guns and ammo look like im keeping these for the good of my health

The crow: I see your stockpiling but I doubt all this is to kill one man

The poet: ooh your very observant arnt you.

The crow: well I see my warnings to stick to your mission has fallen on deaf ears, oh well.

The poet: you know im getting tired of you talking in my ear bird.

The poet slams the window shut.

Cut too early in the morning where we see martin Collins body tied to a chair with eemon McGreevy standing holding the letter the poet gave him.

He gose behind his desk and picks up the phone

Emon: hello we’ve got an operation tonight you meet me in full combat gear ready go. Who says? I fucking says hes dead those derty red hand bastered got him but don’t you worry iv got there address I know where to find them ad we are doing to destroy them tonight you heir, good lad you know where you and the boyz are to rally up.

Cut to Robert comins house he walks down to see an unmarked envelope he opens it to find it’s a plain white sheat that has a red crow in the senter that simply reids “this ends tonight”

Robert takes in a deep breath

Robert: it ends tonight dose it? It ends dose it. Who da fuck do you think you are sending threating letters to my house. ILL TELL YOU WHO FUCKING ENDS (tearing up the letter) IM GONA FUCKING END YOU YOU SLIMY LITTLE FUCKING BASTERED!

Robert turns to pick up the phone

Robert: that character the poet yeah he’s just sent a fucking threat to my door he is gona try and attack us. So you get everybody down to that warehouse tonight. You see that basterd for a moment and you fill him full of holes you got that!

Cut to the poets house

Where he continues to write his poem at his desk with copious amounts of ammunition he isn’t wherein his over coat. He turns to grab one of the armalights and unscrews the stock attaching a sling to the back. He slips the sling over his neck so the rifle hangs buy his right side he slips over a second armalight so it hands buy his left he then puts his over coat on so it conseals the bolth of them he grabs them by bolth handles and exstends then bolth out.

He slips the rest of the stuff in a big duffel bag

the poet:Enuff Enuff another victim crys

I will not stand by

I will not watch another victim die

For these men of perverted morality

imposing there nationality

With bitter lethality

Shall meat force of deadly neutrality

The force to show them there subject to there mortality

They will all ancer to me for

iv got no contry to free

iv got no ideology

no one to stand beside me

but I have a great anger

and with one last act of violence

they will be silenced

so for those who stand in my way sound the alarms

for tonight’s the night that the victims take arms

the poet drives to Harland and wolf he gets out of his car with the duffel bag.

He looks up to harlend and wolf and sees the light on

Inside the control cabin Robert is talking with a new recrut

Robert: you know what you’re getting into right?

Recruit: yeah yeah.

Robert: you think you can do then things I’m asking you to do

Recrute: yes yes I can

Robert: very good. It’s a dirty job and that last thing I need is someone who’s squeamish. Have you ever killed a man

Recruit: no ser

Robert: have you even seen a man die?

Recruit: yes my brother that’s why I’m here

Robert: you know they always say taking a man’s life Is one of the worst things you can do. But you will find its not as hard as you think.

In that moment banging can be herd outside the control both


The poet begins walking to further to the cabin.

The poet: look at you men perverse in every way, with every foulness stained, why from the earth are ye not cancelled? Such an one of yours I with romagnas darkest spirit found as for his doings even now in souk is in Cocytus plunged,

Robert stands at the door and interrupting the poet

Robert: and yet doth seem in body still alive upon the earth. Dante’s inferno

The poet: figures you would know it.

Robert stabs the poet in the chest

The poet: aww Robert that shit doesn’t work on me any more

The poet shoots his leg and pushes him back in the cabin

And notes the recruit

The poet: go home boy you want none of this

The recruit runs out

The poet: soo you the big leader huh

The poet kicks him in the side

The poet: what’s your sob story huh

The poet kicks him again

The poet: who fucking died and made you this

The poet shoots him in the other leg

Robert: FUUCK

The poet grabs him by the shirt screaming at him

The poet: go on tell me im all ears make it good I might even cry.

Robert replies

Robert: because I fucken can that’s why.

The poet tilts his head

Robert: because every time I’d see them leave mass id see those Catholics and id nearly puke in my mouth you made me that sick

The poet looks middy stunned before he shoots him in both elbows


The poet picks him put and sits him on the chare

He ties him to the chair

And walks over to the duffel back he brought up and

Robert: oh what no more little rhymes not even a little limerick?

The poet: no absolutely nothing. I have no more breath in my lungs for a man like you

He pulls out two Molotov cocktails and lights them and throws both of them and walks out of the control room listening to Roberts screams

The poet stands at the edge of the Crain and looks at the ware house below he sees a van pull up and a squad full of cotton faces get out. And charge the building. The poet pulls the m60 out of his bag and loads the ammunition into in. takes a run up and jumps down into the building and crashes into the skylight and lands on the highest stack of crates in the warehouse for a moment the ira men and uvf men look at what’s just happened.

The poet gets up and cracks all his joints picks up the m60 and rack the charging handle

The poet: gentlemen! You’re just in time for the shootout.

The poet opens fire indiscriminately at everyone in there where house at masked men and unmasked he mows down 15 men in his first spray he stands on top of the crates and takes shots in the arm and in the chest not flinching once


The poet continues to mow down uvf and ira men alike they both stop shooting at each other to concentrate fire on the poet. The poet keeps his finger pressed on the trigger till the barrel starts glowing red the belt of ammunition already half its length he keeps shooting a sees that soom men running away and without thinking he mows them down finishing off the belt

The poet throws the empty weapon to the floor

And pulls out both armalights that were concealed in his coat and continues the fire fight

The crow flies to his shoulder

The crow: you have finished your mission its time to stop

The poet: NOO! NOT til everyone in this building is dead

The crow: boy you need to stop.

The poet: do you not understand what I am!

I am the chalice that holds every drop of innocent blood they have spilled

I am the eco form the obituaries they have filled

I’m every victim animated for their moment of revenge

The ama lights run out of bullets and he throws them away and pulls out two knives


He started wildly stabbing the small remaining number of men in the room,

…for if you write your annles true let it be known that I like a eagle in a doves cot fluttered your toy soldiers. ALONE I DID IT.

The poet grabs the last man and stabs him over and over and over

He stands up takes a breath notes one more men.

Sees one last man standing. And points to him

The poet: A plague on both your houses. Go, let them know what you saw here.

The poet slowly walks out of the building to his car.

The crow: so what now, solder?

The poet: now, now it’s time to go.

The poet goes to get into his car and begins to drive toward Belfast city cemetery. As we see him. Get into his car we see a car drive after him.

Apon his arrival he gets a shovel out of the care and careys It over his shoulder he walks towards his own grave. He walks towards it. Kneels down for a moment to touch the head stone

The poet: you know, I don’t feel like the man who this tombstone is dedicated to is the same man standing in front of it

The poet begins digging his grave up we see the condensed progress of his digging. Once he gets to the coven he prizes the lit open. And at the sight he is greeted with he stands up and looks in pure confusion of what he is looking at

The poet: what the fuck?

The camera pans down and we see that in the coffin is a bags of sand arranged in the shape of a person with s smiley face drawn on the bag that’s its head. As the poet is throwing them out of the coffin The crow perches on the tomb stone

The crow: you know I feel like its my fault, what just happened. I could have picked someone else for this job, someone who would have just done the job and not get lost in vengeance.

The poet: oh come on I no one died in there that didn’t deserve it

The crow: boy, that was a place of work you were bound to get some people who weren’t your enemy.

The crow fly’s away.

The poet finally realizes what he has done.

From behind we heir detective g enis

G enis: no don’t you dare think you get to just shuffle off after what you just did.

The poet: its over boy there nothing that can be done now

G enis: oh no all I need from you is for you to listen. After all the monologeing you have done I think its time for you to listen to someone else. You know iv done my research most people who get resurrected like you kill the ones who wronged them but you no. you weren’t satisfied with just righting a wrong. You had to go on a venerable killing spree. You know how people respond in this situation. After your actions do you know just how mennny retaliatory attack on bolts sides that have taken place. More than I can count. Iv herd the story’s you went around monologeing to people about how violence is a dead end but you couldn’t exactly practice what you perched could you. The violence is justified as a retaliation for more violence..

The poet just looks to the ground mournfully

The poet: until we forget why we wanted each other dead.

G enis: well mister poet have you eny eloquent words to go out on.

The poet: (takes deep breath) And now I have become the master of death so its down to you to remove me of my final breath. So many have died what’s one more death. I have become the advisory of the light so put me to sleep. To endless night.

The poet pulls the detectives revolver to his forehead

The poet: one more request, can you tuck me in?

The poet closes his eyes and whispers

The poet: take away these harts of stone and give us harts of flesh

The detective fires a single round into the poets forehead his business is over so he falls back dead. The detective looks to the shovel and begins re filling the grave.



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