Francis Wolf is free-floating wisdom, prophecy and poetry, a hermit and a wandering soul. Cut off at the roots by time and chance, he’s seen things no-one should ever see and he’s done things he’ll never speak of again, although they didn’t bother him as much as they probably should have. He sees angels behind ambulances and he talks to birds. Sometimes they talk back. He was struck by lightning…twice. He has fallen through every crack and still wears his name around his neck. It’s all just thoughts and memories. He only wants to go home.
Cain Cora Jacobsen is lost and found, otherworldly and elegantly draped in contradictions. She longs to be loved dangerously and held tenderly. She is music and madness, violence and light, fragility and wild abandon. All her knives have pink handles and she’ll cut you, but only if you ask nicely. She has an encyclopedic knowledge of psychoactive substances and drifts between states of consciousness on a tide of calculated doses. She always leaves a light on.
Mercy Amelia Sotira is vengeance, but it’s not personal. It’s just a way to pay the bills. She wears gloves with reinforced knuckles, walks with a cane and drives like a demon. She drinks good beer and knows bad people. She’s been there, done that, bought the t-shirt, burned it and pissed on the ashes. Pain is a quiet companion and patience is a distant memory. She is the chariot, the hunter and the concealed weapon. She doesn’t say much, but she means every word. It’s not her fault she has her father’s eyes.
Noah James Thurston is death, the storm, the sea and the unbreakable rock. He has given up smoking, but also he kind of hasn’t, and he drinks a lot of very expensive coffee. Most people recognise something in him that triggers profound discomfort, but others see only a familiar and comforting face. He kills for money, but also just to kill. It is its own reason and its own reward, and he attaches no moral value to it. He is charming and not fully accepting of his own solitude. His coat cost more than your car.
Brett Archer is chaos, wildfire and the sweetest deception. He has a freezer full of vodka and a head full of everything all at once. He gets paid too much to protect people from people like him, even though he doesn’t care about money or people. He has an impressive collection of scars and the kind of smile that makes things happen. He is a predatory masochist, manipulative, vicious and eloquent. He frequently dreams about the end of the world and wakes up curious. His moral standing is lying down and buried in a shallow grave. Death before drudgery and experience before everything.
There’s a tender stillness, a blessed inertia, as we watch each other. Again, he tries to make himself remember something he’ll inevitably forget. Again, I try to believe that this time, he’ll manage it. We both know we’re lying to ourselves, but we let it happen.
I would give you half my body if I could, for all it’s worth. I would rip it apart with my bare hands and carry it to you in a heart shaped box or a cut glass coffin or bleeding through my fingers.
Sometimes it feels like we’re the only ones who really see each other. Inevitable and invisible. They look at anything but us. We have those kind of faces. The face of a clock, the face of the light they see at the end. Or what they imagine is the end. Whatever.
A rough and ready contemporary reimagining of an urban gangster All Father.
The blood was warm through my fingers, over my hands, soaking my clothes. All my own blood for a change.