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A Bucket of Paint

He stepped back and admired the artwork. The brush nearly slipped from his gloved hand as he nodded at the graffiti. It would do, for now.

He had made several stops around the city and had even swung past that church. When that church deemed his work with the mark as a hoax he had been a bit miffed. The occultists he had met rarely used precise measurements but perhaps they had been sloppy. The real world was much less orderly than those monks would like to believe, especially when a human’s hand was guiding the brush

He believed once that this so-called Church of the Builder might be just the people he was looking for here when he learn of the death of Mr. Underby’s bartender at their hands. Perhaps there were some in this town prepared to stand up to forces of pure evil. But even as baseless rumors caught like wildfire in the streets it was starting to seem obvious to him that the institution didn’t have the will necessary to carry out what needed to be done.

Even with his disappointment in that organization he was pleased that they had made things much easier for him. They had taken a population that was relatively at ease with itself and created a divide, with many believing that the church was responsible, if not complicit, in the little man’s death. Tension was mounting and emotions were running high.

He tossed the bucket, brush, and gloves into the incinerator along with the top layer of clothing he was wearing and strode back to his warehouse thinking about what he would be doing tomorrow.

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