Father O’Malley’s eyes were fixated on this man. The hairy, tattooed, beast, that had committed any number of heinous acts. Knowing time was of the essence and that the Governor himself had denied his last appeal, he still moved with the calm of a man on a tropical vacation. Rinsing his face in the iron sink that was attached to a lidless toilet, in a drab, windowless, 5’ by 8’ cell. He then turned and provided the toothy grin with a gold cap at the front. His eyes were shovels that naturally dug at one’s soul, even from behind the reinforced bars designed to keep monsters at bay.

At 6’4” 270 Pounds, Arthur McGovern was indeed an imposing man. To the average observer, he was a creature born for violence as Mozart for music. A hairless, bald head, decorated with tattoos of lightning bolts, told the story of his attitude.

Father James O’Malley felt out of place and thrown into a situation over which he had little to no control. He was new to the order and only filling in for father Ruane after a philosophical debate had ended with Arthur pulling him to the bars, repeatedly smashing his cranium against them, and then ripping the old Priest’s tongue out, thereafter swallowing same.

Given that incident, Father O’Malley had been warned ad nauseum by the Warden and guards. He kept a healthy 5-foot distance from the bars, wearing black running shoes in the event that he should have to beat feet out of there.

“Father O’Malley, is it?”, Arthur asked while drinking in this young scrawny, man of the cloth.

“Yes, Mr. McGovern. I’m here about your last rites and we’ve only got about ten minutes.”, O’Malley tried to answer with the courage of a wounded gazelle in a lion’s den.

“Yes, well, about that. I don’t have time to hash over every detail with you so I concocted a little poem that should give you some notion of how I find myself in this predicament.

“I’ve never been rich and often been slumming, but never killed a bastard that did not have it coming. Those guys at the mall, drug dealers you see. And the one on the road hung good men from a tree. For wicked folks I’ve given no quarter, like that hag up the hill who rented her daughter. And then of course, there’s Father Ruane. A despicable guy and hardly a man. A villain and devil of the most vile sort. Courting young Altar boys, his favorite sport.”

“These folks have no conscience; they wallow in mud. Do you think 10 hail-Mary’s will wash off the blood?”, Arthur McGovern unleashed.

Father O’Malley stilled himself, rose, and made the sign of the cross. “May God have mercy on your soul, Arthur McGovern. You were not sent here as Judge, Jury, or executioner”.

“No, and yet here we are, Padre’. Now you be sure and keep your hand out of that collection plate! I have never been hurt by what I have not said. But plenty by what I have seen. Be a good preacher and keep those hands clean.” He retorted.

Disturbed by those odd words, Father O’Malley rose and turned toward the door. A second later a backward glance revealed an unsettling sight. An empty cell. Arthur McGovern was gone.