I can’t imagine you’ve ever been bowling, have you, Grimskull?

It’s a simple game on the surface. You grab a ball, aim it down the lane, and try to knock down the pins. That’s it. Easy.

But the real story? It’s not about the pins. It’s about the ball.

That ball—you, Grimskull—gets picked up, time and time again, by different hands. Different masters. Different motives.

You’ve had so many fingers jammed inside you, I’m amazed you’ve still got a shell left.

First, it was your flock, the cult that called you leader. They used you as their weapon, didn’t they? Rolled you down the lane at whoever they saw as unworthy. You always managed to convince yourself that you were the one deciding, but you weren’t. Vision, the broken, the blinded—you were the punishment. The tool. Not the mind behind the blow, just the one doing the crashing.

Then came JTR.

The preacher with no pulpit. A man with doors he couldn’t open alone, so what did he do? He stuck his hand inside you and hurled you at the lock. Used your weight. Your history. Your tragedy.

You cracked it open like the obedient ball you are.

And now? Now it’s The Preservationists.

They’ve got their fingers in you. They’ve chalked up your skin, lined you up on the slick lane of chaos, and are bowling you at Drewitt, at Arcadia, at anything that dares stand in their way.

You’re not rolling by choice, Grimskull.

You never are.

You’re being hurled.

Used. Again.

And while the pins might fall, one by one, do you ever ask yourself what happens to the ball?

It gets picked up. Again and again.

Used until the weight wears down. Until the core cracks. Until the fingers don’t fit so smooth anymore.

And then what?

It gets tossed aside.

Into the gutter.

Into the dark.

And that’s where you’re headed.

But not before this week.

Because now? Now you’re being rolled at me.

And I am not a pin. I’m a brick wall. Solid. Unmoving. Unforgiving.

I don’t care whose name is scribbled across your skin this week—be it cult, preacher, or Preservationist.

You hit me? You break.

Because unlike the pins you’re used to knocking over, I don’t fall. I don’t scatter. I don’t crash down for anyone.

I dig graves. I bury names. I ferry souls. And if you think you’re going to roll through me like all the others, then you really have forgotten what death feels like.

Grimskull, you’ve been so many things—preacher, puppet, pawn. But the one thing you’ve never been?

Free.

You’ve let others line you up and launch you without ever once asking where you want to go.

But after this match?

You won’t be anyone’s tool.

Because when you hit this wall—when your hollow frame shatters on impact—there won’t be anything left for them to pick up.

No more rolls.

No more lanes.

Just dust.

And the man who stood still when everyone else fell.

Gravedigger.