A man with the love of Jesus, would see me dressed in these rags- imparting loud maledicts against sheep, and think me cursed with poverty. My belt holds my fathers keen blade; torn sleeves hide calloused hands, that appear quickly to strike the hapless fool who offends me. A secret pocket holds a rusted pistol- used only if I must. I haven't yet felt the need to do so. Bullets are appropriate if my target is a lowly coward that desires to engage me in battle from afar. They may be used if one is witless and orders me to walk a couple paces then turn to pull a trigger. I'd never disgrace myself by standing before a cowards projectile. Never will I be wretched and use such tools of death. My passion for murder compels me to rush in close to my prey, so that I might feel their skin blush with 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 shattering; a barbaric crusader knows fairness is nonexistent. These are but lesser tools in my collection of consecrated items. I have blood; life that courses through my flesh. Blood that might provide the wine of love and hate, for the youthful rogue spirit that earns his intoxication by slicing my throat and draining my scarlet delta. This nectar must be sipped slowly, served fresh, quickly poured into goblets so that lips shall be warm; painted to horrify those that abhor this rare lipstick. The true prize that I posses, is the smiles of Nemesis, my seductress. She smiles, pleased each time she hears the symphony of reverence delivered by the mouths of transgressors who do not obey the savage jurisprudence of her blessed disciples.