Alright. Now the details my be a little sketchy, but I'll try to tell the man's story as best I can. I mean, like all history right back to the beginning, it's all a tale of some sort, ain't it? Cause if you weren't really there, how would you know? And even if someone has written of something that happened and they had some kind of front row seat to retell it, whatever it may be, how do we know it went exactly as the words paint it?

How do you even know this is real. And if it is, really happening that is, what reality is being presented? There is a saying: 'A man walks over a bridge. Ten thousand men walk over ten thousand bridges.' Cause every man's reality is different. Every story his own. Every experience gives off a differenet shade, and adds to the palate. A stroke of white here, and a brush of blue there. But no two painters are the same. Just as no two people experience the same bridge.

Now, sure, I'm blabbering on. But you must know this. Cause what I tell you is what I have come to know. As experienced through, well, various instances, shall we say. But whether fact or fiction, it is a story worth telling. As the man they called Gangster Priest lived a pretty interesting life. And since I'm calling him that, we may as well start right there, on how he got his name...

"Priest! Priest! Come quick! We need your help!"

It wasn't unusual for Francesco to be called upon by a local. He worked the streets for the most part after he got his position as head of the street parish of his home town, Conflenti. He wasn't one to sit idle, and after only months in his new post tending to the poor he began preaching across all of Calabria. He'd walk his way from place to place, singing and helping those who were in need, often comforting them through the gospel and a kind ear.

He had fully devoted himself to God, and the Catholic Roman Church. But more so, the example of Jesus, like Saint Francis before him. He believed in having nothing to his name, and in most cases he wouldn't even refer to himself as having one. He wished to be like those he worshiped, which was to simply be of service to others and to place God above all. Leaving himself, the individual, in a place of non existent humility.

That is, until he heard the call. A man, in tattered clothing rushed him as he was leaning against a fence. A morning routine of walking the local area he had slept near the night before. Sometimes it would be in the home of a kindred spirit, yet technically a stranger, and other times wherever he could find some shelter. Always with a hymn to hum or a song to joyfully express his devotion and admiration for the all mighty.

And as it was, he was in full song when the man interrupted his hearty tune. He had been walking by a farm before he stopped to admire the animals in the vacinity of where he lay his head the night before. A horse was showing him some attention, and some birds were sitting perched on a fence nearby, that needed a little work. A nail or two. The man's impatience and horror caught Francesco's immediate attention. He was still in good spirits, so not too taken back or startled. Then the blood on the strangers well worn and faded shirt quickly changed his attitude completely.

"What is it?! You look a mess. And what's with the blood?"

"Please, priest, there is no time! You must come with me! Quickly!"

The frazzled man tugged at Francesco's arm. His grip took hold like a vice. It wasn't a question, it was a demand. Before he knew it the two were off. The dirt road beside the farm was of worn down grass and bits of rock, placed there to show passers-by exactly where to tread. It wasn't unusual for some to get lost in the surrounding paddocks, on account of fences being old and broken, and a reflection of an earlier time when many horses were stolen and the farm raided. The few that still remained were in small fencings near the main house, and the larger fields were just that, large. So the handy road helped to keep travelers on track.

It was a decent few minutes before the man of cloth started to realize he wasn't cut out for any kind of physical exertion. Not in the sprint like a life depended on it kind anyway. He walked alot, and so he figured he had decent health compared to most of his peers who decided to stay in the one place. And although he tried and tried to fight it, he had a sense of pride in it. He liked he was active. And that he walked and saw to people in many different towns. He felt it was in line with what those he admired would do. And in that was his pride. And also his judging of other priests and clergymen.

He didn't necessarily think he was better than them. He just thought they were lazy. In fact, that they were what he liked to call 'convenient priests'. Only up to the task if it was less a task and more a given. Like having people come to them for their needs to be taken care of. To visit their church and seek one of God's middle men's advice or services. Or to tend to the poor only if it meant a deed was ticked off a list of to-do's, or more so, their denial of helping someone if the one to be helped was afflicted with something on a list of to-don'ts.

This all bothered him greatly. He didn't like the fact he judged others. And especially those that were also in the service of God's work, his very purpose and passion. As he knew of what those before him, the saintly blessed by the church, would do in his position. Or so it was written. Whether or not those that came before him would or wouldn't have shared the same conflicted mind as his, was also a concern. He felt he had so many human flaws, and yet so little saintly virtues. He condemned his human nature when alone, and yet embraced it wholeheartedly in others less fortunate.

And so too was he about to be tested. And like he'd never been before. And in the same vain in which he always fought against the humanity he found in himself, he would have to do it again. Yet this time it would break him. So when the door of a neighbouring farm house they had finally reached opened to the scene before him, all he could do was fall to his knees. For what he was about to experience would change the course of his life forever. And it would be the very foundation to the name that would shadow him thenceforth. Gangster Priest.

The scent. THAT scent. Piss fermenting shit. He'd been here before. At a time when he was months away from being ordained, Francesco had been imprisoned for denying the call to arms. Conscription, for a man of God? Who'd heard of such a thing. It was blasphemy. It was degrading. But in hindsight it laid the blueprint for what he was to do years later.

He'd served his time in that shit hole before serving the state as a soldier in a quiet coastal town. It was two years before he found his way back to his studies, and his calling. And in those months he learned a valuable lesson: God had put him where he needed to be, regardless of what he wanted.

The state under Mussolini was already in bed with the Church. Money from one side to close the gap of a relationship that had previously lay in tatters. Which was now looking more like a partnership. And in return, a way to indoctrinate the youth with state values and beliefs through having the church's clergymen teach at all schools. The state under its dictator was using the church, and the church under the pope was using the state. A match made in anywhere but heaven, but it gave Francesco an opportunity to reach the masses he never would've had.

And even though it forced him into a jail cell and two years of state service, it had opened his eyes to what was really going on. And what part he could play in it all. Although, never in his wildest dreams would he have envisioned this.

As he collapsed forward onto his knees, his heart felt a pang he'd never experienced for a long time. Not since his own imprisonment. His hands opened before him, his lips quivering, as he took in the scene. Two men were tied to the rafters of the small shack. It looked to be a storage area for various things, notably food, as there were sacks of grain off to one side and shelves with cooking and eating utensils lining the side walls.

The far wall was where the two were dangling, roped up, bloodied and looking lifeless. Their clothing no more, in pieces on the floor, drenched in blood and fecal matter. And noticeably, bits of torn cloth revealed they wore priestly garments. He didn't recognize their faces. Not that he could really see them, as the candle light didn't do too much to enlighten the space, and their faces and bodies were so badly beaten anyone would do well to know them by sight.

His heart ached, and unwelcome memories returned. The lashings on their bodies made it all the worse, as he too had experienced something terrifyingly similar five years prior. A nice little persuasive state led tactic to turn your thoughts onto the right side of the tracks, as the guard would say before whipping him. And as he reached out with his right hand, in compassion, it would the last he'd see of them. And the last he'd see of anything for another three days. A blunt object hit the back of his head. His body crashed forward. His cheek smashed hard against the wood floor, chipping a molar.

He'd soon find out a lot more than simply the fate of those two priests. So much more. It would add another layer to his already conflicted mind, regarding the church and the Italian state. And introduce him to another player in the tug of war of power entirely. Don Messina.

"So what next?"

"What next? You pour us another fuckin' drink, that's what."

The glass was pushed somewhat abruptly as it slid an inch or two. The man in black wasn't exactly calm. The story seemed to be getting to him. He seemed frustrated, like he had an itch that he just couldn't scratch.

He sighed and unbuttoned three of four top buttons on his black shirt. The very top had already been opened. His blue tie and rusty red fedora were already on the table to the right, along with a deck of cards with an ace of spades upturned on top. Their round table was off to the back of the bar. And just like the venue, it had character. A thick folded bit of paper had to be placed under one of the three legs. The fourth, missing entirely.

The story teller gave a wink to his listener as the glass was pushed back towards him. A moment of release, perhaps. But they were just getting started. The real drama was yet to be told.

"Grazie."

Down went a quarter of a glass of irish whisky, and up went a lucky strikes cigarette to his lips. As he fumbled through the task of lighting the smoke, he continued, and with a definite comfort he seemed to have found in some simple pleasures.

Now, where were we? Oh yes. What next, you asked? Well. It's funny. As I look around this room, it reminds me of a tale that a man in Calabria told me once. It was of how this priest got his nickname. It's a little off track from where we were headed, but sometimes you need to take a new route. Gain a fresh perspective. Take a journey and beat a new path for others to sniff out.

I'm already rambling again. I originally said I was going to tell you how he got his name though, didn't I...

Prison. It either broke you, or made you. You were never the same after the experience. Kind of like being a part of an organized crime syndicate. Once you were in, that was it. You weren't coming out the same way. And in a way, the church was the same thing. A criminal organization? Maybe.

"Wake the fuck up priest."

The voice came right before the feeling of water. Lots of water. Drenching the priest as he struggled to gain his bearings. The hemp hood over his head didn't help. He hadn't seen anything for days. Maybe a week. He'd only heard footsteps here and there and only after he'd regained consciousness. God knows how long he was out. He had no idea where he was, or who had taken him.

"I said wake the fuck up!" A punch to the gut and out spat the water Francesco had been choking on. It ran down his chin and chest, blanketed by the flour sack over his head. Then it was lifted.

"Wakey wakey."

The light in the room was non existent. His eyes took a moment to open and then they only allowed a squint. They were sore, and it felt like it was from more than just from having something over his head. The corner of his right eye felt like it had been cut. The water still dripping down from his wet hair and head stung as he painfully blinked. His left eye felt like it was bulging, like it was bruised.

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes!"

He heard the shadow of a man break out into laughter, seeing as he was barely able to open his eyes. And then in the semi blink of those eyes, he had stopped his manic display. But it wasn't of his own doing. As Francesco's efforts to see what was before him beyond a blur failed, his ears let him bare witness.

The sound of a gun firing rang out. Just as it did, he heard a bullet tear through flesh. Similar to what he heard whilst conscripted. And then a loud thud, most likely of a body hitting the floor. His heart began racing.

Footsteps came from what seemed to be the other side of the room. Slow and steady. Still, he couldn't see enough to make out who it was or might be. And no voice cared to inform him. The priest stayed quit, yet began quivering. His lips shook and his body trembled. It was then he felt how numb his mouth was and that ropes were cutting into his wrists and forearms, which were stretched out above his head.

He felt himself dangling there as the footsteps approached. His body limp. His legs and arms weak. And his face felt like a mess. Francesco closed his eyes and began praying. As he did, his lips moved as bits of saliva and blood spurted out of them. He wasn't asking for God's intervention. He was asking for his mercy. He was requesting that his death be quick.

The footsteps stopped. Francis readied himself for what was to come. Then a hand grabbed him by the hair and forced his head up. Through the bruised and bloodied slits on his face, he made out a large statured man. Then, he was unconscious again.

It would be three more days before the priest would awake again. But this time, he would find himself in a bed. He'd yet to know anything. Not of the slaughter at the farm house, or the man who's laughter he would still hear ringing in his ears and echo through his nightmares. A dark figure he presumed to be the devil himself. He knew nothing of what in the Godly hell was going on.

Three more days of coming in and out of consciousness. Then he would learn of his fate. And maybe what God had in store for him. Definitely, more than he ever imagined. More than a simple priest should know. Francis of Calabria would never be the same again.

Storms. Deep within, where one finds it hard to deal. To just be there, in the moment with what is. Some call it a dark night of the soul. Others, a test. His mentor called it that. An obstacle to be overcome. To be approached head on, in full revelation of one's self. To stand there, eye to eye with the demons in the mirror. Vulnerable. Completely open and honest. It was the only way to truly know yourself. That's what he would tell Francesco later.

At the time though, he wasn't so wise. As with anything in life, the trials and tribulations were what brought about that bit of knowledge. And coupled with experience they were priceless, necessary even. One event had him still ashamed to look back on. One of those rough nights on the high seas of emotion. A time he might still rather have lived differently given the opportunity. But then would he truly have learnt his lesson?

His eyelids fluttered. Bits of dry sleep and overall dehydration keeping them at a squint. He dragged his body out of bed. The cool floor underneath his bare feet. A dim light under the bedroom door. And as per usual, he could hear him again. That voice. The radiating anger. It pierced like a dagger. His heart usually ached. Especially when he heard her voice attempting to justify his actions after the fact.

But that resentment. It was like he was being given the keys to a door. Everytime. Every night he came home drunk. The same key. To the same door. One that would lead him into a dark room. No comforting feeling. No joy to light up the darkness. Just a deep dark chasm. A place one entered sometimes in a rage. Sometimes at will. And sometimes, like Francis, after being thrust against it over and over again to the point he just inadvertently broke through.

He hated it. All of it. His fathers late nights out drinking. Drowing himself in a bottomless glass that didn't do any more than float the problems to the surface. His mother's reluctance to do anything. To say anything. To fight back. But he understood. Even at the age of sixteen, he knew that she felt guilty. And of course, his brother. Lost to them. But it had been a year. He didn't understand why they just couldn't go back to how things were.

He clenched his fists, grabbing onto his blanket as he grit his teeth. He hated it. So much ill feeling could only breed the same thing. The cold tiles underfoot no longer a thing. The emotions boiling to the surface had him transfixed. In the storm. In amongst the same passions that were brewed in the house weekly. Francis was back there again. To that familiar place. The reason behind the posters covering certain sections of his bedroom walls. Fury.

No more. He heard a large thud and that was it. The yelling stopped. His mind ticked over. But not for long. He pushed himself up off the bed and grabbed at a tree branch he'd had next to his dresser. He imagined it going like this. Over and over again. Mostly as he cried himself to sleep. The carefully picked and shaped piece of wood hung next to his right thigh as he forcefully pulled open the door and marched out into the hallway.

With each step he grew more outraged. More cold, but all the while heated. More intense. Intentful. His white knuckles told the story by the suffocating tight grip on the homemade weapon. His jaw clenching as thoughts burnt through his mind. Nasty, thoughts. Yet they seemed appropriate to him. They seemed to justify what he intended to do.

As he stepped through and into the kitchen, his grip loosened. His furrowed forehead relaxed. To his surprise, his little sister was there. Attempting to comfort his mother. Blood above her right eye. Amelia was lightly shaking her. 'Mamma. Wake up, mamma.' And then he returned. The brute of a man. In stature and character. Once seen as simply hard nosed and stern. Strict even. To those that had to put up with his shit. And when they hadn't lost Antonio.

Tony was a good brother. He looked up to Francesco with such love and admiration. An older sibling couldn't ask for anything more. And even though the youngest, he was always trying to protect Amelia. After scoldings from their father, little Antonio would comfort her. Sometimes by giving her a flower, if they were outside playing in the garden. Or by hugging her leg. Like he sensed the hurt, the rejection and wanted to blanket her from it. Absorb it like a rag, just so his sister would smile again. Or forget the harsh truth that their father was who he was. A cold bastard.

His movements were more a sway. A hate filled face at the top of a torso that lacked a soul. Even before Antonio was hit by that car. But afterwards, whatever shine he had left was sucked out of him. Maybe it was always going to go south in that way for him. His childhood, as Francis remembered his mum telling him sometimes, was no better. She used it to justify his actions. She would tell him, 'he doesn't know any better, Francis. He has had a tough life'.

She had a heart of gold, like Antonio. And that's what Francis couldn't understand. Why she kept putting up with his bullshit. It just added to his frustration. More demons to fight off at some point. But now, as the man he had no choice but to call his father began shouting at Amelia, now wasn't that time.

"Back off, you piece of shit!" Francis exclaimed, his grip tightening once more around the mostly straight bit of wood.

"You touch her too, and I'll show you what it feels like you prick!"

"Ohhh?" The slurred words. "You? Little Francis? Mamma's boy?" He stumbled towards Francesco, away from Amelia and their unconscious mother. He stood before Francis, swaying a little.

"You couldn't even save Anthony." His drunken stench radiated from him, in both scent and energy. "None of you could! You all failed." He began trailing off. The father turned and grabbed onto the kitchen counter as he rambled on. "Failed. You couldn't do anything. You didn't fight back. You didn't face them. You didn't stick up for yourself. Your family." He began sobbing. His emotions pouring out of him. And what he had been directing at his wife, and his children, was more what he was afraid to face within himself.

"You're a coward. A fucking coward. That's all you are. All you'll ever be."

He tried to regain himself, yet his drunk state had him jumping from intense sorrow to manic laughter, as he began laughing for no apparant reason and wiping the tears from his face.

Then, in a show of compassion, Amelia hung onto his leg. Much like Antonio use to do to her. She hugged him, and for a moment he responded in kind. He rubbed her hair, but all it did was bring him back to where he was. Back came his self loathing and reflected hatred.

"Get off." Was all Francis could remember hearing. What he remembers seeing was a man who despite all his faults and failings, was still somehow loved by those who were his emotional and mental punching bags. That same man, nudge his nine year old sister to the ground. That was the last he remembers. A violent rage was what came next.

In hindsight the moment itself was a blur. He remembers bits and pieces. Like swinging the crooked wooden bat over, and over, and over again. And the feeling inside. It was as if there was a point he just wasn't able to return from. Like until that moment, the emotions built up and up and up till they exploded into a single act of insanity.

He remembers little at the time, but the effects thereafter of his act of passion, or compassion, couldn't be forgotten. Every night he prayed for his mum and his sister. And later he even had the compassion to pray for his father. What he hated for so long, wasn't that he nearly killed the man who helped bring him into this world. But that he didn't finish the job. That he left them with him. And ran away.

It was the toughest decision Francesco had to make. Leaving them with a monster. But he couldn't stay. As his mum had more to say to him nearly putting an end to their suffering, than what she ever did to her husband for treating them like dirt. He couldn't fathom it. So he lef, to find peace and forgiveness.

The storms within eased as the years went on. They never got as bad as they had that night. He seemed to sail a less choppy ocean than when living years under the same roof as his father. But at what cost? Were calmer emotions the right answer? Was running away from all that, the trials that could potentially have shaped and moulded him like a diamond under pressure, the right choice? Was he a coward? Was he just like his father...

An event to come would bring it all crashing back again, giving him the potential to choose another way. Whether right or wrong, it would bring him a sense of peace he never knew existed. Life was an adventure. The storms came and went. And he would find a new door to step through. Ironically, it would be the same key, his own anger, that would open it.