Gezzy had been working his days as an associate in The Loop. He was a low level Wise Guy, with arms like a Greek God. It was the envy of all of the district and most of the city. He was asked at least once a day, 'how do you get guns like that?' but Gerwyn would just smile and say it was genetics or eating his vegetables and they would eventually get the picture and move along. Until the next person would see his glorious biceps barely contained within a cotton polo-shirted prison and the whole thing would repeat itself. 

What they didn't know, is that a physique like this doesn't happen all by itself, regardless of whether or not your mother was a fox. It takes work. In Gerwyn's case, that meant a lot of lonely nights spent down at the local cemetery digging up corpses. His shameful secret was that he was a grave goblin. A dirty, stinking, thieving rat. The worst of the scum. It was as far from noble work as one could get and most people wouldn't dream of getting their hands this dirty. Lucky for him, Gerwyn's had been honed on 24g mini javelins, so a shovel was fit like a glove.

This particular evening was a complete fucking disaster, even by the standards of a guy who steals from dead people all night long. He could feel the ache in his back as he tossed the earth on grave after grave after fucking grave. He looked down at the list he'd paid good money to acquire - a list of recent corpses which hadn't yet been picked over - a let at a pained squeal. 43 different graves he had exhumed and he had rooted around in the pockets of every single one of the bastards. Not a fucking thing. EdwardMadea. The final sack of ass on a list of useless anuses. He sighed. The shovel bit into the earth and he heard the familiar thwack of it striking the coffin.

This time, you fucker...

He cracked open the lid and looked down at the poor piece of shit he was desperately hoping to rob. It didn't look good. His suit was cheap and he didn't even have shoes on. What sort of dweeb didn't have a pair of suits to die in? Undeterred, Gezzy's questing fingers went into the inside pocket first; this was where things were sometimes hidden. Was that a bulge in the lining? His heart quickened. Nearly-numb fingers fumbled around in the suit jacket, searching, hunting, fumbling around at something, anything...was that? YESSSSSSSSSSSSSS. A fucking ring. A ring. You beautiful little twat, EdwardMadea. How did you squirrel this away, eh? HA. Fucking right. 

Gerwyn stood up and held the ring up in the half-light, trying to work out if it was valuable or not. It must be worth something if this silly shitbag had bothered to hide it? Definitely stolen, that was for sure. Gerwyn bit it and realised immediately that was a mistake. Who wants mouldy dead-guy rings in their mouths? He coughed and spluttered, casting more of the corpse-stench and cadaver-dust about himself, leading to more coughing and more spluttering. 

As he flailed about in the twilight, the sweat-death scent clinging to him, he wondered again at his line of work. Could he make a better living doing something else? Maybe, he considered. Could he get pythons the envy of the country any other way? Not unless he soiled himself at the gym with the other chancers. No, he thought, wiping a final lump of grave-dirt from his mouth. Better to toil away with the bodies than slump to that level. 

Another night in the graveyard. $50 was all that ring had yielded. $50! Not even a lousy hundo. Too rich for the likes of poor Gerwyn. His goods were not of the requisite standard, apparently. Apparently, they looked like they would never grace a jeweller's window and in fact seemed as if they 'had been stolen off a corpse'. The mighty sigh followed; the haggle was over. The battle was lost. Gerwyn lay splayed at the summit of the mountain of all his great deeds and he lay in the shadow of a neighbouring molehill.

There was a time when a man of Gerwyn's stature would use $50 bills to wipe the shit from his anus, but alas, that time was not now. Now was the time to inject shovel into earth and revel in the bounty of those interred within. A glorious life? It wasn't not. A way to hone the best biceps in Chicago? That could never be denied. He looked at his two favourite sons, glistening contentedly. Loyal servants about their business. The way the world should be.

The name of JamesMadea would be etched forever upon Gerwyn. He was the useless son of a bitch who yielded a crud $50 in exchange for a night of digging and Gerwyn would never forget him. James. Madea. JamesMadea. J-a-m-e-s-M-a-d-e-a. He ran the name through his mind and tasted it on his lips. It tasted bitter. Worse than bitter. Like a lemon rolled through piss. The taste would haunt him. And the name would haunt him. He would be haunted, it was fair to say. A grave goblin haunted in the graveyard. Fitting, really.