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He has many names.
Soul collector.
Angel of Death.
The Grim Reaper.
Evil incarnate.
Satan's right hand.
The Deadman.
When I arrived here in this cesspool of new comers, I wasn't looking for him. It had been barely a seven months, but still pieces of him lingered and clung to my flesh – encasing me in a soft coffin. The kind silkworms wrap prey in. The kind spiders spin around their dinner. Right before they feed. It had barely been seven months, but I had managed to forget him. Not all…just the important parts. The parts that used to keep me up at night. The night terrors that forced me into days of awakened coma. For nearly seven months I felt less and less like myself, and more and more like who I had become. Because of him.
The Undertaker.
When I arrived here, I wasn't looking for him. But I found another him. I found the man they call the Devil's Thoroughbred.