PAUL BEARER

He was there to put Peter in the ground. A solid man and friend. The rock was more than a nickname. He built and destroyed, depending on how you moved. You felt him before you saw him.

He always wondered; “Why was Black the color of mourning? Because Angels had to be Black if ghosts were White.”

It was cold out. Fellas pranced, rubbed their hands together, imagining a warm drink and soft body between them. Ladies were doing the I have to pee dance.

Paul smirked. His fists, bullets, and dick made people dance too.