A man with the love of Jesus, may see my outward rags and loud maledicts against sheep, and think me cursed with poverty. My belt holds my knife, ragged sleeves hide hands, that appear quickly to cuff those that offend me. Within a secret pocket is a gun, used only when I must. I have not yet felt the need to do so. Bullets are appropriate if my target is a coward who wishes to formally demand battle from afar. They may be used if one is foolish enough to order me to walk a few paces and turn to pull a trigger. I won't disgrace myself by standing in front of a cowards projectile. Never shall I be lazy and use such tools of death. The love of pure killing incites me to rush in close, to enjoy the feel of skin quickly turned into dark colors. A barbarians music is self made, the sound crafted with skill, so all can hear my victim scream. Fists of combat must feel bones shatter, a barbaric crusader knows fairness is nonexistent. These things are but the lesser tools in my collection of consecrated items. I have blood; life that courses through me. Blood that maybe will provide the wine of love and hate, for a young one who has earned his intoxication by draining my divine delta. This drink must be sipped slowly, served fresh, quickly poured into goblets so that lips shall be warmed, painted to give a chill to those that abhor this rare lipstick. The true treasure that I have, is the smiles from Nemesis, my seductress. She smiles, pleased each time she hears the symphony of reverence delivered from the mouths of transgressors who do not obey the jurisprudence of her blessed disciples.