He was a man of many names.
To some, he evoked fear.
These creatures were oily, depressing, monstrous things.
Capable of causing only gloom.
They called him "The Executioner" and avoided him.
He was not their friend.
To some, he evoked anger.
These beings were dangerous, vengeful, dark things.
Capable of causing only pain.
They called him "The Fox" and chased him.
He was their prey.
To some, he evoked sadness.
These people were happy, carefree, guiltless things.
Capable of causing him only regret.
They called him "The Wounded Man" and prayed for him.
He was their savior.
To the select few, he evoked contentment.
These people were just as worn, as beaten down, as sacrificial
Capable of causing him to feel.
They called him "Dean" and loved him.
He was their family.
But they were gone.
So the man of many names moved on.
Those who feared him, he hunted.
Those who hated him, he destroyed.
Those who felt for him, he avoided.
Those who loved him, he visited.
Each Sunday, he would go to the field.
Study the well-worn grave markers.
And drink aged alcohol to times past.
He saved the world because it was right.
But he lived for those people.
He was a man of many names.