This is my story of a man who is pushed to far, a tragedy of sorts that directly relates to me and my bro's Magician and Judgement storys. Dedicated to Raptor87.

Canary City, the ghetto the slums whatever you want to call it. So many different politically correct names for it, but it was hell. At high noon if the dirt at the only park was alight with the refraction of light from the broken glass shining in the sun.

Down every street the homeless, the helpless, the predators, the prey, small children playing in dirt shoveling handfuls of dirt and used condoms into broken plastic buckets and men with hungry looks in their eyes leaning against broken down 80's Chevy's.

Hell, broken, destroyed, under welfare, people caught in traps of their own wastefulness, hell a hell of smoke and pollution the green house effect sending lazy waves of heat lolling of the side walk into the open windows of unmarried mothers fanning themselves watching five children at once.

Hell the home of Wendell Green, the pious, the faithful, the enlightened. Wendell Green the street preacher spreading God's great healing word in a land, Hell, of fools and fools are deaf, caught in their own bliss of misery and great words fall upon deaf ears.

At the small clubhouse, Mr. Green sat wearing his nicest suit, a threadbare jacket over a cheap white shirt, the small electric fan barely cutting through the heat like a dull knife. Mr. Green wiped off his baldhead with a stained yellow handkerchief reading aloud from Psalms when the long awaited knock on the door came.

"Come in." Mr. Green said looking at the door through his round glasses.

A teenage boy wearing a wife beater undershirt slick with sweat poked his head in the door. "The outreach to the needy is ready."

Wendell smiled and slowly got up and walked out the door.