1 Chapter 00: What makes a good man? (The Heavy)(EDITED)

Tell me now (tell me now)

And show me how (show me how)

To understand (understand)

What makes a good man?

-The Heavy

The storm raged on, with each clap of thunder shaking the very walls of the prison. The howling wind outside matched the howls of despair within the cells. But little did they know, tonight was different. Tonight was the night when the silence would be broken when a man would take his final breath.

The warden walked down the dimly lit corridors, his footsteps echoing through the cold halls. Behind him, a group of burly guards trailed, their eyes cold and indifferent. The warden stopped at a cell and peered inside, where a frail old man sat, his hands and legs bound in shackles.

"Tonight is the night, Prisoner 24601," the warden said, his voice heavy with sadness. He gestured for the guards to unlock the cell and approach the old man. As they shackled him even tighter, the old man's eyes widened with fear. He knew what was coming.

The storm outside intensified as the group made their way through the prison, the lightning illuminating their path. Little did they know, this was just the beginning of the end for one man.

The old man didn't react with fear or anger. Instead, he just smiled and calmly looked at the warden.

As the warden and his goonies entered the cell, the old man met their gaze with a serene smile. He couldn't help but notice the warden's flaws - his narrow-mindedness, closeted homosexuality, sadistic tendencies, and occasional corruption.

But does that make him a bad man? The old man pondered the question, knowing that the answer was not a simple one.

The warden and his men forced inmates to fight in dogfights, ran a betting ring, and turned a blind eye to heinous acts such as killing, maiming, and prostituting young prisoners. They even took advantage of their power to rape new inmates.

Perhaps it was just part of being human - the ugly, depraved side that we often try to ignore. It was a reminder of the abhorrent deeds we are all capable of once we let our guard down.

The old man knew that his time had come. But he wasn't afraid. He was ready to face his fate, whatever it may be.

But in this world, who can truly claim to be a good person?

Priests have been known to engage in the heinous act of child abuse, self-proclaimed holy men preach hatred and intolerance, politicians put on a facade of righteousness while secretly selling their souls for money, and the wealthy indulge in their extravagances while the rest of us struggle to survive.

As the old man is led through the labyrinthine passages of the prison towards his final destination, he contemplates the concept of freedom.

In death, he will finally be free from all the burdens and obligations he has shouldered throughout his life, obligations that were often imposed upon him by society or himself without any true justification.

Perhaps, in the end, the only true freedom lies in shedding the shackles of society's expectations and embracing the imperfections of being human.

As they marched down the grimy, dimly lit hallway, the warden couldn't help but feel uneasy around the old man. He had been in this job long enough to know that the prisoners had their own hierarchy, and this man was at the top. The warden knew that without him, the prison would fall into chaos, and he didn't want to think about the consequences of that.

But the old man seemed to be lost in thought, his eyes taking in the surroundings with a mix of sadness and amusement. "It's a strange world we live in, isn't it?" he said, breaking the silence.

The warden raised an eyebrow, unsure of where this was going. "What do you mean?" he asked cautiously.

The old man let out a wry chuckle. "Here we are, humans caged like animals by other humans. And for what? Some of these men did what they did out of necessity, out of desperation. They're not all monsters."

The warden couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt at the old man's words. He knew that some of the prisoners had been dealt a bad hand in life, and had ended up here through no fault of their own. But he had a job to do, and he couldn't let his guard down.

As they reached the end of the hallway, the warden gestured towards a heavy metal door. "This is it," he said, his voice heavy with regret. "I'm sorry it had to end this way, Prisoner 24601."

The old man simply smiled. "In death, we are all free," he said. And with that, he walked through the door, towards his final destination.

The old man walked by each cell with a sense of familiarity, his presence alone evoking fear and respect. Some of the inmates cowered in the shadows, too afraid to even look at him, while others reached out, hoping for a glance or a nod of recognition. It was clear that the old man was no ordinary prisoner - he had a reputation that preceded him, a legend that had grown over the years.

As he passed by one particular cell, a group of inmates jeered and taunted him, spitting on the ground in his direction. The old man simply smiled and kept walking, as if he had seen it all before. But the warden could sense the tension in the air - something was about to happen, and he didn't like it one bit.

The old man's story was a fascinating one, full of twists and turns that led him to this prison cell. He had been a victim once, but now he was the one in control. His eyes glinted with a mix of defiance and pride as he walked towards his final destination.

He had learned how to play the game, how to navigate the treacherous waters of prison life, and how to make the most of the cards he was dealt. He had earned the respect of his fellow inmates, and they had come to rely on him.

But now it was time for him to leave this world behind. The old man knew that his story would end here, in this cold, dark prison cell. He had accepted his fate long ago, and he was at peace with it.

As they reached the end of the corridor, the old man turned to face the warden one last time. His eyes were filled with a sense of calm that the warden had never seen before.

"You may have won this round, Mr. Warden, but you will never truly win in life. We all are born to lose, and my story may be over, but yours is still ongoing. And one day, you will face your own reckoning in some way, and maybe it will even be a fun one if you are lucky."

And with that, the old man carried on walking towards his final destination in the light.

The old man's eyes glint with fierce determination, his voice resonating with a pearl of otherworldly wisdom.

"You know, warden, most people are just prisoners of their own minds. They believe they are free, but they are chained to their own desires, their own fears, and their own limitations. They are trapped in a cycle of existence, never truly living, never truly experiencing the world around them."

He takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling in a slow and steady rhythm.

"But me? I am free. I have lived my life on my own terms, without any regrets or hesitation. I have found joy and purpose in this prison, and I have found allies who will take revenge for me. Death holds no fear for me, for I know that it is just another step in my journey."

He turns to the warden, his eyes piercing and intense.

"You see, warden, life may have fucked me over, but I have taken that pain and turned it into strength. I have fought tooth and nail to survive in this godforsaken place, and I have emerged stronger for it. So don't you dare pity me, or think that I am just another sad old man? I am a survivor, a warrior, and a king in my own right. And when I die, I will do so with my head held high, knowing that I have lived a life worth living."

With those words, the old man falls silent, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the prison walls. The warden and his goons exchange uneasy glances, unsure of how to react to this unexpected outburst of emotion. In the end, they simply turn and lead the old man toward his final destination, their footsteps echoing through the cold, dark halls of the prison.

The old man's voice thundered through the prison walls, igniting a flame of determination within each and every prisoner. His words pierced the air, carrying a message of liberation and defiance.

"Gentlemen!!! TONIGHT IS THE NIGHT! I AM FORGING A PATH TO FREEDOM! IF THERE IS A HELL, I WILL FACE IT HEAD-ON, BUT I WILL NOT BE IMPRISONED ANY LONGER! DO NOT MOURN FOR ME, MY BROTHERS! FOR I WILL BE WAITING ON THE OTHER SIDE, STANDING STRONG, READY TO EMBRACE YOU ALL!"

The old man's words echoed through the hearts of his fellow inmates, filling them with a renewed sense of purpose. They felt the fire of rebellion burning within, urging them to rise above their circumstances.

"HAHAHA, THIS IS WHAT WE EXPECTED OF YOU, OLD MAN!" a voice boomed from the crowd, resonating with admiration.

"GO ON AHEAD, YOU MAGNIFICENT BASTARD! I WILL FOLLOW CLOSE BEHIND, DEFYING ANY OBSTACLE THAT STANDS IN OUR WAY!"

"EVEN IN HELL, WE SHALL BE UNITED, OLD MAN!"

"DON'T YOU DARE SHOW WEAKNESS DOWN THERE!"

With each word, the atmosphere crackled with determination and solidarity. They would not be broken by their confinement; they would not be reduced to mere prisoners. They would march forward, reclaiming their dignity, and carving their own destinies.

As the old man stepped into the unknown, he carried their hopes, their dreams, and their unwavering spirit. Together, they would overcome any challenge, defy any adversary, and rise triumphantly.

"WE WILL NEVER FORGET YOU, OLD MAN!" a chorus of voices shouted in unison, their fists raised high in the air.

"YOU WILL LIVE ON IN OUR HEARTS FOREVER!"

For in their hearts, they knew that true freedom was not found in the absence of chains but in the indomitable spirit that refused to be subdued. And with that spirit, they would transcend the confines of their prison, embracing a future filled with limitless possibilities.

The old man's legacy would forever burn bright, a beacon of resilience and defiance, inspiring generations to come.

All of hell broke loose in a cacophony of voices. The prisoners erupted with shouts, cries, and a symphony of noise. Some hurled insults at the old man, challenging his audacity. Others proclaimed their unwavering loyalty, vowing to seek him out and follow him even into the depths of Hell.

Amidst the chaos, the old man stood tall, a wry smile curling upon his lips. He soaked in the diverse array of voices, each one a testament to the richness of life when surrounded by intriguing souls.

"Life," he thought, "is an exquisite tapestry woven with the threads of remarkable individuals."

Life is an ironic dance, isn't it? We all enter this world in the same raw state, naked and smeared in the mess of our birth. Yet, it is this seemingly insignificant detail that molds our predetermined paths.

From the moment we take our first breath, our destiny is shaped by the circumstances of our birth. It determines the opportunities that will be bestowed upon us, the privileges we may enjoy, or the hardships we must endure. We are told that we hold the power to shape our own fate, but let's face the harsh truth—it's often just an illusion.

Sure, we can play within the confines of our prescribed roles, content with mediocrity. We can pretend that we have a say in the matter, embracing the notion of personal agency. Yet deep down, we know that the vast majority of us are destined to fulfill the expectations society has laid upon us.

Only a minuscule fraction, perhaps a mere speck in the grand tapestry of humanity, will possess the audacity to defy their predetermined fate. But what does that fraction really amount to? A fraction of a fraction, barely a blip on the radar of statistical significance.

So, as we navigate this theatrical masquerade called life, let us remember that our choices, our dreams, and our aspirations are often confined by the narrow corridors of our predetermined existence.

The old man stepped into the room, greeted by a gathering of individuals who had already assembled.

"Are you ready?" inquired a man dressed in a distinguished suit.

"Haha, that's the same question the director asked me long ago, just before he sealed my fate," the old man mused, his mind drifting back to the memories of the past.

Among those present were a few stern-faced wardens, the somber executioner who bore the weight of his duty, and a solemn priest offering solace in the face of impending doom. And then there was that accursed family—their son had met a tragic end, slain by his own brother. Blaming the old man for their loss, they relentlessly sought his demise, ensuring he spent a grueling 70 years on death row.

Now, the time had come for his ultimate reckoning, where his very consciousness would be fried, erasing his existence from this world.

As the old man took his seat on the electric chair, he couldn't help but chuckle to himself. After decades of being labeled as a criminal, it seemed that he had finally embraced the role that society had assigned to him.

Despite the gravity of the situation, he felt oddly calm. He knew that his time had come, and he was ready to face whatever lay beyond. With a tired sigh, he looked around at the assembled group of people.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he said in a resigned tone. "Let's get this over with, shall we? I have an appointment with the devil, and I don't want to be late."

The bald, fat man's face was twisted in anger as he accused the old man of killing his brother, while a woman broke down in tears, seething with hatred towards him. Meanwhile, the priest just looked down his nose at the supposed murderer, his judgmental gaze making the old man feel like a bug under a microscope.

But the old man couldn't help but wonder: what was the point of religion, anyway? All his life, he had been a devout believer, but now, facing death, he couldn't help but question the existence of heaven and hell. After all, no one had ever returned from the dead to confirm or deny their existence. And if they were real, then why live in fear of them all your life? Better to live life on your own terms and face whatever comes next with courage and dignity.

The moment the electricity surged through his body, the old man's senses were instantly overloaded with a pain so intense that it felt like every inch of his body was being shredded to pieces. His muscles convulsed violently, causing him to thrash and contort uncontrollably as if he were possessed by a demon.

The agony was indescribable, yet it felt like it lasted an eternity. He could feel his flesh sizzling and burning, and the acrid stench of burnt hair and flesh filled his nostrils. It was as if he were being roasted alive, and the pain was only getting worse.

But just when he thought it couldn't possibly get any worse, it did. The pain intensified to the point where he couldn't even scream anymore. His body spasmed uncontrollably, and he could feel his muscles tearing and shredding apart.

And then, suddenly, it was over. The darkness should have come, but instead, he felt as if he had blinked and opened his eyes again. It was as if he had been reborn into a new, unfamiliar world, one that was both terrifying and exhilarating at the same time.