I wanted to look a little deeper into the Guild, as well as tie up the loose ends with Jean-Luc. This is set some time after Remy takes Patriarchy, and the whole Unified Guilds thing didn't work.
This was only supposed to be about 200-300 words. Instead it became a monster at 5,616 words, so enjoy.
Disclaimer: I don't own anybody portrayed in this story except the Dartheville, and I'm not sure that I'm going to own up to owning them. This is purely non-profit and for entertainment.
Mourning
Remy LeBeau, patriarch of the New Orleans’ Thieves Guild, sits in his inner sanctum and wonders if he’ll ever feel like it is actually his, and not his father’s. It was, after all, his father’s for as long as he can remember, and even after six months it still feels as if he is a little boy stealing a glimpse at an adult world.
Looking at the papers on the desk in front of him; the records of births and deaths, the names of those missing and the tithing rates, he knows that this isn’t a glimpse. For better or for worse he is the Patriarch, and these thieves, no matter how few of them there are now, are his to look after. He only hopes he can live up to the example his father left him.
Standing, he straightens the patriarchal robes that lay over his street clothes, still feeling that he is a child playing dress up. However, it isn’t a child that walks out of the office and into the tunnels, it is the Patriarch. Remy knows that he can’t afford to be any less when he’s out in public. His thieves need him.
Looking around as he walks he makes a mental note to remind Lapin that the signs need repainting. It’s just fine for someone who has been living underground for as long as his cousin but for the newer members and, if he admits it, himself sometimes, the routes beneath the streets of New Orleans can be a little confusing.
His feet unconsciously take him on the route to Tante Mattie’s room and for a moment he contemplates going in and telling her his concerns. The moment passes though and, as he’s done every other time, he walks away. She doesn’t need his problems on top of hers, so he continues on his way, lost in thoughts and remembrances, wishing more than anything that his father would come home and take this burden from his shoulders.
This time his feet lead him along an even more familiar path, one that he had regularly snuck along in his youth to make his rendezvous with Belladonna. Even now he clings to the shadows along the route, muscle memory taking over while his mind focuses on other things, and he passes many of his thieves without them realising. His thoughts shift to Belle, and he wishes that they could have worked things out, at least for the Guild’s sake, however they couldn’t in the end and things had stayed the same, with the Assassins killing his Thieves almost as often as injuring them.
He supposes they are lucky, he’s teaching his best Assassin dodging moves to them, honed after years of getting to Belle and getting back home from Belle, and this month there had been no fatalities, which was a first. As he looks up at the sign that reads ‘Grey Dove Theatre’ in Thieves’ Code, he knows that it won’t continue that way and sooner than he hopes he will have to officiate over another thief’s funeral.
A sound from the entrance corridor, registered even before he really hears it, pulls him from his thoughts and he turns, a card already between his fingers. What he sees makes his heart sink, and he whispers a “Mon Dieu” to himself before hurrying forward.
There, standing in the doorway between the corridor down from the Grey Dove and the one he is standing in is Logan, his long time friend and former team mate. However it isn’t Logan that draws his attention or his whispered words, it is the limp figure that Logan has cradled in his arms. A figure dressed in familiar black and brown. “Papa,” he whispers, hoping again that he is dreaming.
“Heard on the grapevine that an old friend of mine was in trouble, but I didn’t get there in time,” Logan offers by way of an explanation. Remy isn’t listening though, his attention is fixed on the bruising he can see on Jean-Luc’s face now that he is under the bright lamp. His eyes follow the bruises down, and he gasps as he finally sees the jagged wound gaping across his father’s throat.
“Mon Dieu Papa, what did they do to you,” he feels his heart harden, and knows that his eyes are burning in the semi-darkness with restrained anger. He urgently wants to hurt somebody, to make somebody pay for his father’s death and he wants to do it now. He can feel the urge to charge up the nearest large object but he fights it down. He has a duty now, he has responsibilities, and he can’t afford to shirk them. Not now that his father is dead.
“It was a bunch of guys in funky lookin’ armour Remy,” Logan says, still bearing his burden. “Heard from a friend of mine that your father had gone relic hunting in Russia and that these guys were on his tail. Was hoping to get to him in time, but I only made it in time to see the end.” Logan’s voice is thick with sorrow and sympathy, and for a second Remy hates him for it. “I killed ‘em all for ya kid, didn’t leave any of ‘em alive.”
He sounds so righteous right then and Remy wants to hit him for it. How dare he? “How dare you homme? How dare you deny me de chance f’ vengeance? What’m I supposed t’ do now? Jus’ go on wit’ t’ings, go after dere families, what?” He realises that he is crying, the tears running down his face, and he hates himself for the show of weakness. Logan looks like he wants to comfort him but the body in his arms stops any gesture dead.
“’m sorry kid. But I couldn’t let ‘em get away with it. An’ you’re busy here, you’ve got responsibilities now.” The unspoken ‘so live up to them’ hangs in the air between them like a lead weight for a few seconds. Finally he nods and straightens up, Remy LeBeau put back in the shadows and The Patriarch firmly in his place. Logan is right, he has responsibilities, and there will be time to mourn later.
“Mon Pere, s’il vous plait,” he says, holding his arms out to accept the burden from Logan, who passes Jean-Luc’s body over without a word. Remy bows slightly under his father’s weight and then straightens again. “Y’ won’t be able t’ come t’ de funeral homme, it’s Guild business an’ y’ ain’ Guild,” he sighs, the weight of his thoughts beginning to drag him down, “but ‘m sure y’ know the back ways in. Papa would have wanted y’ dere.”
Logan nods and fades into the shadows effortlessly, something that Remy envies because of all the work he had to put into it before it became instinct. He turns and begins to walk to the small sickbay that keeps his thieves healthy. He doesn’t notice the weight in his arms, or the whispers that follow his footsteps as he passes men, women and children on his way. Finally he reaches his destination, and lays his father down on one of the beds, thankful that the sickbay is empty.
The hospital isn’t the only thing that is empty and, as he stands there looking at the brutalised face of the man who raised him, he can feel the last of the anger drain out of him, leaving nothing but a hollow space. Taking Jean-Luc’s hand in his he notes with dismay the mangled fingers, and wishes futilely that the hand in his were warm again.
“Patriarch,” a world-weary but warm voice comes from behind him and he jumps slightly, surprised and realising that he was so distracted that he let his guard down for a few minutes and someone managed to sneak up behind him. Turning he sees Tante Mattie in the door of the sickbay and he is glad that it’s her and not anybody else. “Remy, chile, what’s wrong? I felt de empathic wave…” she trails off and he knows she’s finally taken in Jean-Luc’s body. As she presses a shaking hand to her mouth he wonders, not for the first time, just how deep a relationship between the two parental figures in his life had.
“Oui Tante, dats mon Pere. Logan bought him back t’ us,” he says, watching her with detachment. It’s like he isn’t even in the same room as her, and although he can clearly see her as she takes several steps forward, it is like looking through fog. He turns away, wanting to give Tante a moments privacy to see Jean-Luc and plucks the radio from of his belt. “Dis is de Patriarch. Dis is a priority one broadcast. De former Patriarch is dead. His funeral will be held in twenty-four hours, an’ I expect y’ all t’ be there in full robes. De honour guard will meet me outside of de sickbay in twenty-three an’ a half hours. Patriarch out.”
He sighs and clips the radio back onto his belt, then hears a noise that makes him turn suddenly. Tante is stood there, scissors in her hands, ready to start seeing to the body. She looks up at him as he turns, surprised no doubt by the speed of his turn, and he raises a restraining hand to her. “Non Tante, need t’ do dis myself. Haven’ been much of a son t’ him over de years, an’ dis is goin’ t’ be my last chance t’ show him what he means t’ me.” He takes in her wounded expression and continues, not wanting to offend her, “ ‘course I’m goin’ t’ need y’ here t’ help me. Don’ know how t’ do half de t’ings Papa is goin’ t’ need.”
She nods, and he’s glad that she understands his reasons. This is his last chance to make things up to his father, to show him how much he cares, and he isn’t going to be remiss in his duties. Not this time. Taking the scissors from her hands he starts to cut away Jean-Luc’s blacks, wincing as he reveals more vivid bruising and clearly broken bones. His father hadn’t died gently. His emotions fall flat though, like grains of sand onto the beach, and he soon finds himself wrapped in numbness again. Even as he washes the blood and dirt off of his father’s body he doesn’t shed a tear, despite the fact that when he is clean all of the numerous injuries can be seen, livid against Jean-Luc’s pale skin.
When he is finished with that task he turns to Tante, who has already retrieved the spare set of blacks and Jean-Luc’s patriarchal robe from storage with foresight born of experience. He’s thankful that each and every thief has a set of burial clothes in storage, since normally the clothes they came in wearing were too damaged to be of any use and it would be cruel to expect the family to find some.
As he dresses his father Remy finds himself more and more asking for Tante’s help with straightening and piecing together bones. He also finds himself glad that the patriarchal robes are loose and figure concealing, and knows that the very reason they are is to hide things like this. It is very rare for any of the Guild, let alone the Patriarch, to die peacefully in his sleep. No, their lives almost always end in pain and bloodshed.
Finally he comes to Jean-Luc’s hands, and regards them with numb horror. “What’s de point Tante, all of de t’ieves goin’ t’ be able t’ see dat his hands are ruined. What’s de point pretendin’ dey ain’?” He draws a shuddering breath, the air suddenly too hot to breathe properly, and holds back his tears with sheer force of will. He feels Tante’s hands on him, and allows her to pull him into a warm, motherly hug.
“Oui Remy, ‘course they’re going to know. Dey wouldn’t be thieves if dey didn’t. But it’s shameful for any thief to die with his hands so broken, and doubly so for the Patriarch. You know dis. So we pretend, and dey pretend they can’t see it, and Jean-Luc retains his honour.” She helps him set up the pretence, untwisting and setting Jean-Luc’s fingers back into their natural shape, and then gently manipulating them into the pair of leather gloves she’d brought for the purpose.
Their work almost concluded, he steps back for a second and looks at his father’s body. They’ve done their best with his hands, and the robes and blacks cover any damage on his body. All that’s left is his face and neck, and Remy shakes his head sadly. “Need somet’ing t’ cover up dat wound Tante. I won’ have de Guild see him like dat.” He sighs, trying to think of something and looks on in amazement as Tante undoes the scarf from her neck. She fingers the white silk for a minute, and then artfully wraps it around Jean-Luc’s neck, concealing the jagged slash across his throat.
Remy takes her hand and kisses it gently. “Merci Tante, know how much dat scarf means to you. Papa, he’d appreciate it.” She smiles at him, and they both look down at the body, smiles forgotten. “Need y’t’ do somet’ing about his face Tante, mayhap make him look more alive.”
She shakes her head at him. “Can’t do dat Remy, it’s beyond my skills.”
“Well den, can y’ at least make it look like he’s at peace now?” He knows he is being a little harsh with her, but it’s taking him so much effort not to just break down and weep. She nods, silent, and he takes her hand again, squeezing it in silent apology. “I’ve got t’ go now Tante, got t’ings t’ take care of for de funeral tomorrow. ‘m goin’ t’ leave Papa in your capable hands. I’ll see y’ an hour before de funeral, t’ make certain dat everyt’ing is in order. Oh,” he pauses on his way towards the door, “there’ll be a guard on dis door in de next five minutes.”
“Take care Remy,” Tante’s voice follows him as he leaves the sickbay, and he wishes he could. He has too much on his mind though, and he slips into the shadows to avoid having to deal with anyone. He just can’t handle it at the moment. His feet take him to his father’s personal room, and he shuts the door behind him once he is inside with an almost silent click. Leaning against the door he looks around, taking in the dust and signs of neglect, and almost lets go of his iron will.
He holds himself together by the smallest of margins however, because he still has work to do. Unclipping his radio again he contacts the people who have roles to play in the upcoming funeral. The casket needs to be prepared and the wake organised, food and drink arranged and the like. It makes him feel slightly sick to think that after they bury the man that he called father there will be a party but it is tradition, and who is he to stand in the face of tradition?
That part of his duties finished Remy now goes through his father’s things, picking out items that are going to be buried with him. His hands shake as he moves boxes and opens drawers, and he continues to fight the tears, knowing that he has to get this finished. It is important that Jean-Luc be buried with the tools of his trade; his master thief’s Bo, his second best set of lock-picks and climbing gear (the best lost in Russia), his favourite writing set and his patriarchal seal. He will need them in the after life.
Once he has finished that he shrugs off his robes and collapses onto his father’s bed, hating the fact that there is only the tiniest scent still clinging to it. He wishes he was back in his childhood, snuggled into his father’s arms after a nightmare, and he waits for the tears to come. The tears won’t come now though, and he curses himself for holding onto them for too long and not giving in to his grief.
He lays there on his father’s bed for hours, fruitlessly trying to get some sleep before the funeral, and he wishes that he could stop thinking about seeing his father alive again. Eventually he looks up, and he realises that he is in his father’s arms, being carried along a long corridor. “But Papa, you’re dead,” he manages to say, although it is hard to speak through the lump grown in his throat at seeing his father alive.
Jean-Luc looks down at him, his eyes wet with unshed tears and a sad smile on his face. “Je suis desole Remy, but you’re dead, not me.” At this Remy realises that he is covered in a shroud and that he can’t move any of his muscles. He starts to thrash, and then jerks awake, hands going to his face to discover the tears there. Once he has calmed a little he checks to make sure that he really isn’t dead, and breathes a sigh of relief when he realises that he isn’t.
That sigh of relief becomes a sob when he realises that the nightmare he just had will be the only way he will see his father alive. Looking over at the clock he sees that he has an hour to waste before he needs to be back at the sickbay. It’s too little time to do anything worth doing, but it is also too much time to sit around doing nothing, especially since Remy knows his thoughts will run away with him. In the end he decides to have a shower, and he slips from his father’s room back to his without anybody noticing.
He was in the shower for twenty minutes before a strange noise draws him out of it. Going into his bedroom he realises that it is the alarm he had set to wake him, and that he only has around half an hour before he has to start the proceedings to lay his father to rest. Looking at himself, dripping wet in the mirror he wishes he could be stronger, hopes that he will be able to see this thorough, for his father’s sake.
He dries himself off and then pulls on the loose green trousers that lay underneath his full formal robes, sighing as he tightens the waistband slightly. Sitting in front of the mirror he draws his hair back into a ponytail and reaches for the binding ribbon, remembering the first time Jean-Luc taught him to bind his hair back. It had not been long after he had joined the Guild, and the memory makes him smile, even as he regrets the fact that he has to do this.
Once he has finished with his hair he dresses in the rest of the full patriarchal robes, and he is glad that they are in the green and gold of Clan LeBeau. If the Patriarchal colours had been anything else he would have been torn between family and duty, but he is lucky and that is one less worry on his plate. Gathering the small bag holding his father’s things he heads off towards the sickbay and prays that Tante has been able to work a miracle and make Jean-Luc seem at peace.
As he comes down the corridor Remy is aware of the robed figures waiting for him, bearing the engraved ceremonial staves of the Council of Thieves. He ticks them off, counting the twelve other clans and their colours, naming each one in turn in his head. He shoots a small sad smile towards his cousin, and Emil gives him one in return, self-consciously smoothing down the green and silver robes he is in, apparently very aware that as the last member of Clan Lapin he will be the only one wearing them.
He heads towards the sickbay, the Council behind him, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he sees the work that Tante has done to disguise Jean-Luc’s injuries. He nods to Tante, who is stood by the side of the litter on which his father will be carried, noting how different she looks in the white robes with the blood red cuffs, compared to her normal clothes. It is a rare thing to see Mattie Baptiste in the formal Traiteur’s robes and an even rarer thing to see her not wearing a sour expression on her face with them.
That changes as he takes Jean-Luc’s things out of the bag and places them at the foot of the litter. Her expression sours and she shakes her head, muttering about how much of a waste of useful gear it is. Remy fixes her with a look, not angry but still upset. “Would y’ deny him de tools of his trade, Tante? Would y’ use a dead man’s t’ieving tools?” he questions quietly, and sighs when she crosses herself and shakes her head. After all it is bad luck to use a dead thief’s tools, the thieves are notoriously superstitious, and he isn’t surprised by her answer or her reaction.
He looks at the honour guard and nods to the six premier Clans, the ones with the gold decorating the front closure of their robe, the hem and where the sleeve joins the body. They are the founding families of the Guild, and it will be the six of them who will carry the litter, while the six secondary Clans, those with silver decoration, will guard the body with the staves that are more than just decorative. Clan LeBeau is the seventh of the founding families, but Remy as Patriarch is leading the procession, and so exempt from carrying duties. Part of him almost wishes that he could help carry his father, but the hours of Henri’s lessons in how to be a Patriarch that he sat in on stop him from pushing one of the others aside.
“Is everybody ready?” he asks and is pleased when they all signal their readiness without argument. He knows that after the funeral things will go back to normal and he will have to fight for every small agreement, but he welcomes their willingness now. He opens the door wide, putting the block in to keep it open, and heads off towards the graveyard. Behind him he hears the litter bearers pick up their load, the guard take up their positions, and he knows Tante will be bringing up the rear.
They head down the corridors and in groups of twos and threes robed thieves join them, their colours marking which Clan they belong to. He sighs as he sees Mercy join the throng, the only other figure in green and gold, the last of his family and not even of the LeBeau by blood, and he wishes that both Henri and his father were still alive. At least then his family wouldn’t be dieing out and he wouldn’t be alone.
He almost trips over his feet when he notices another figure in green and gold join them, a short, hooded figure in a robe that he can immediately tell has be taken up by Tante. Instead he smiles a little inside, knowing that Logan will get to say goodbye to his father in a way that they both would have wanted. That fact is enough to almost banish the cold, empty shell that he’s put around his heart. Instead he keeps walking, head held high as befits the Patriarch.
As he steps through the archway that leads to the graveyard the sight, as always, takes his breath away and reminds him slightly of the Morlock graveyard. There is no grass here however, just what appears to be a cobbled street that stretches down the cavern, with crosses hammered in at regular intervals. He notes the beads and ribbons tied to them, still looking new after all this time, and is glad that these graves have someone tending them still. That is what these crosses signify after all, markers for the graves that lie beneath the cobbles.
His feet move over them, and he walks carefully so as not to disturb the sleeping dead below him, his destination so close now. At the far end of the cavern lay a collection of closed stone caskets, one for each of the previous Patriarchs, and one open for his father. He knows that they’ll have to add another one now, for him, and hopes that it is a long time before he fills it.
Standing at the head of the casket he watches impassively as the six honour guards lay down their staves to pick up the edges of the shroud Jean-Luc is laid out on. They lift and use it to lower him into his final resting place, leaving the edges loose around him. Remy watches silently as Tante performs the last rites, folding the shroud so that it wraps Jean-Luc securely everywhere except his face, which is left uncovered. It is as she is laying his tools around him that Remy realises that although she is usually so uncomfortable performing any Guild ceremonies she isn’t showing that now, and he is thankful.
Finally the ceremony is over and the time has come to lay the grave gifts. He remembers how he gaped at the first funeral he ever went to as the mourners lay expensive trinkets in with the body. He understood the wisdom only when Jean-Luc explained to him that they were there to distract any grave robbers from the body, the idea being that they take the grave gifts instead of the corpse. It had stuck with him since that day, and even at the funerals of the various X-Men he had been to he had always ensured that there was a grave gift.
He goes first, as is his right both as Patriarch and Jean-Luc’s son, and drawers the antique oil lamp and small book of matches out of his deep pockets. “Because no t’ief is always in darkness,” he mutters under his breath. “Goodbye Papa and may you sit at the Goddess’ right hand.” He knows that many of the thieves believe that the Goddess of Thieves is outdated, but his father believed in her and that is enough for him.
He steps back to his place at the head of the casket and raises a hand, letting the gathered Guild know that they are free to give their gifts now. A few of them look to Tante, expecting her to give her gift second, and the looks shift subtly when she doesn’t move. Remy knows however that she gave her gift first, that it is her scarf maintaining Jean-Luc’s dignity, and that is more than he could have asked for. Eventually the first person steps forward, gift held in his hands for all to see.
Remy looks at the man’s black and gold robes, the colours of Clan Dartheville, and holds back a sneer. That they should be first, when they were some of his father’s loudest opposition, and that the Pointier, the blue and gold that he had seen so often in his childhood, should be holding back made him sad. Still they come forward eventually, laying gifts on the stone surroundings, and it is if a tide has broken, the thieves coming forward in one and twos.
He finds himself slipping back into old habits as he watches them lay the gifts, appraising both the monetary and sentimental value of each one. He holds back another sneer as he realises what Pierre has given on behalf of his main family, and how once again that Clan has entirely missed the point. The fine set of obviously expensive writing tools have clearly been stolen for this funeral and hold no sentimental value, unlike the multitude of ‘final tithe’ items from others, gold earrings and bangles worn to pay the last tithe if there is nothing else to do so. The writing tools are pointless as Jean-Luc already had his own set with him.
He sighs and then smiles slightly as the short figure in green and gold lays a single origami crane down in offering. The paper is obviously old and originally had a different purpose, but the words have become the markings on the bird’s wings and crest, and he is glad that Logan has given something so personal and obviously well made. Not that he was expecting him to give anything less, but it is a pleasant contrast to the ignorance of the Dartheville.
Few other gifts are notable in the hours that he stands and oversees the gift giving, but those that are stick in his mind for one reason or another. The first is Lapin’s gift, a bottle of the exquisite Bourbon that Jean-Luc always liked to drink, and his cousin places it without a word, holding it up so that the gathered thieves can see that the seal is unbroken.
The next comes from another figure in black and gold robes, who as he moves forward makes Remy wonder what mockery is going to be given by Clan Dartheville this time. However, as he watches the young man place a crystal decanter next to the bottle of Bourbon, he knows that he judged too soon and that this gift actually means something. He catches the man’s eye as he heads back to his family and nods slightly, recognising Anton, the youngest son, and knowing that the decanter had meant a lot to him. Maybe there is hope for that Clan yet, he thinks to himself.
The third noteworthy gifts come from Mercy, one from her and one on Henri’s behalf. Mercy gives a single empty picture frame, its tarnished silver catching the light and revealing the lack of glass in it. He recognises it as the frame that used to hold her mother’s picture, and appreciates the sentiment. From Henri she gives a small silver, that as he looks closer he realises is Henri’s christening bracelet, and one of the last things of his that Mercy has kept hold of. He nods to himself, knowing that Henri probably left it with her for just such an occasion, his brother probably knowing that he wouldn’t live to see his father’s funeral.
The last gift that he makes note of is not due to its value or his connection to the gift giver, in fact he doesn’t recognise the elderly man dressed in the brown and gold of Clan Trahan. No, the gift draws his attention because it so effectively breaks the solemn mood as it is put down. With a single silvery peal from its antique body the bell that the man is trying to set down quietly shatters the spell that has held the thieves silent and marks the end of the gift giving.
Remy watches as six of his strongest thieves lift the casket lid and seal Jean-Luc inside, knowing that in fourteen days time the casket will be reopened, a false bottom laid over his father's body and the grave gifts put on top to hide him. The he calls the thieves to attention. “Mon Pere is dead, but his death does not define him, was his life did dat. So let us go t’ celebrate de life o’ Jean-Luc LeBeau,” and with that the funeral is over and everybody begins to drift away.
He watches them go, assuring the few people who notice him staying that he will be along shortly, he just needs some time to say goodbye. Once they have all gone he climbs on top of the sealed casket and lays flat along the lid, glad for the empty silence of the cavern.
From his resting place he can see the multitude of names painted on the walls, chronicling the dead, and he vows to himself that his father’s name will be painted with real paint instead of hastily scrawled with spray paints as so many of the recent names have been. He sighs and then begins to speak, not expecting an answer, just needing to say his piece.
“‘m gonna miss y’ Papa, an’ t’ings ain’ gonna be de same wit’ out y’. T’ings haven’ been de same wit’ out y’, but at least dere was always de hope of y’ coming back. Now I don’ even have dat.” He feels a sudden swell of anger, “How could y’ be so careless Papa? How could y’ leave me all alone like dis?” The tears finally come and he is surprised when a set of strong arms lift him off the casket and cradle him close, stroking his hair as he sobs.
Eventually his crying storm passes, and he dries his eyes on the offered handkerchief before looking at his mysterious comforter. He isn’t actually surprised to see that it is Logan, nor is he surprised to see the man back in his street clothes so quickly, since they both know that he can’t remain underground much longer. “Merci homme,” he manages to grate out eventually, and accepts the offered hand held out to help himself stand.
After saying his goodbyes to his former team mate, Remy straightens himself out, brushing the worst of the creases out of his robes and heading off to the wake, feeling sick at the thought of celebrating with his father dead, but at the same time knowing that life must go on.
_________________
And I sit, endlessly watching the people as they walk below me, knowing that I will never walk among them, knowing I will never live as they have lived and loving them for it.
Bang mon ami, you dead!
God loves Tante, he's too scared to do otherwise. |
