[ WP ] Hell is real , and sinners and nonbelievers go there , but if one living person prays for you , you get sent to heaven immediately . Your protagonist just arrived .

If not for slamming a double of what tasted like motor oil before the fight and for his faint contact high from the dense, smoky haze of the dive bar, the heavy, satisfying thud of knuckles on flesh would have hurt pretty damn bad. He still feels the sting and the pressure, the ache up his wrists and forearms, but it feels good in the same way that revving his bike past the redline does or the way he feels alive when bullets were whizzing overhead and he'd just fired his last tracer round bright and green in the night sky. 
 
 He hits him again. The prick is n't fighting back much now; his mouth is bloody and his eyes dull and glassy; his adrenaline is fading even as he keeps shaking fists up, reacting too slowly to protect himself from another hit. 
 
 `` Man! Cool it! You got ta knock it off!'' 
 
 It's a voice of authority, of command, and he hates it instantly. The bartender, an older guy who does n't mind a little brawling so long as it does n't look like it's going to leap from assault to murder. 
 
 The kid stares up at him dumbly, ropes of bloody saliva oozing down his chin. He must have fallen against the wall, because he's on the ground, skinny limbs folded awkwardly beneath him. 
 
 His hand hurts. He turns to the rest of the bar, his head thudding in concert with his heart, and there's a sinking pit of nausea in his stomach. He'd done it again. Lost his temper again. All because the kid, what? What had he even done? He ca n't remember. 
 
 `` So,'' came a frightened voice from his left, a girl's voice, thin and reedy. `` What's your -- what's your name?'' 
 
 He takes him a second to realize that the girl is talking to him. He stares at her, sees her stringy, home-cut hair and big eyes in a skinny face, and thinks she almost looks familiar. `` Fuck off.'' 
 
 She is n't caught off guard by the insult. `` It's just a question. You, uh...'' she gestures vaguely to the kid still on the ground. `` Thanks.'' 
 
 He ca n't remember. God damn it. He does n't -- had the kid said something? Done something? There's usually a trigger, or -- 
 
 *Except when there's not*, a nasty voice in his mind suggests. *You* wish *there was always a reason. * 
 
 `` You know?'' the girl is saying. `` He just... I do n't know how you knew, the restraining order is n't... `` her lip quivers for a split second, or maybe imagines it, he does n't know. He just wants another whisky. He wants to pass the fuck out. And do it all again tomorrow. 
 
 `` So what's your name?'' she tries again. 
 
 `` Why the fuck do you care?'' he spits out, because he's getting tired of it now, all he wants is -- fucking *finally*, the bartender took long enough. He throws it back. 
 
 A thin, pale hand reaches towards him and he fucking *hates* it but he flinches back and she stops. `` I want to... you got anybody praying for you?'' 
 
 Rage boils up in his chest, so hot and violent that he almost crushes the glass in his grip. He looks down. His hand is bloody, but not from the glass. Just from the guy's face. `` Do n't need anybody fucking praying for me. I do n't need anything from you, you stupid bitch.'' 
 
 He does n't look at her, but he sees her expression in the corner of his eye. Her fear, her anxiety -- it's not really there anymore. She's just looking at him. He wants it to stop. Her face is smooth, thoughtful. 
 
 `` That's fine,'' she says finally, and he hears it through the roaring in his ears and the pounding headache. A long pause, and he sees her arm moving in his peripheral vision. `` If it does n't work without a name, then He's not much of a God, is He?'' Her slender hand -- she bites her fingernails down to the quick, like him -- slips back into his line of sight. He forces himself to remain still. She sets down a ten dollar bill. `` For your drink. And thanks.'' 
 
 He ignores her until he does n't. He looks back at the chair a few moments later. She's gone, only the ten dollar bill remaining. He glances down on it. She writes neatly, but it's still hard for him to parse, even though it's a phrase that *everyone*, even him, knows by heart. 
 
 *UNTO GOD MAY YOUR IMMORTAL SOUL BE RETURNED* 
 
 
 
 

