Wet from an unforgiving rain and covered in the mud of his own grave, Dudley stands atop an altar gripping a revolver buried in its stone face. Ignoring the pain, the confusion, and the fear, Dudley tightens his wretched skeleton fingers around the pearl handle and begins to pull. An unholy strength pulses through his corroded muscles —the revolver budges. In his lifetime Dudley saw kings, holy men, the righteous, and the profane all try freeing the gun from the stone. All spoke of entitlement and fate. All tried to wrest the revolver from its stone sheath and all failed. Now, in the wake of his resurrection with the fog of consciousness setting in and memories of the void fading: Dudley knows he will not leave empty-handed.

His slippery fingers strangle the revolver, it wiggles like a loose tooth and in a pale flash is freed from the stone. Mad laughter echoes into the night sky as Dudley twirls his prize on the end of his trigger finger.  Aiming at the ground Dudley fires three times, each shot lifting him higher and higher into the sky. The cylinder cycles but never empties Landing on his back Dudley stares at the wicked weapon in his gnarled hands. He knows that the revenge he promised those who betrayed him would finally be fulfilled. The only question is who first and how bad was he gonna make 'em hurt?