Call me…

In CJ Thorpe, Promo by CJ Thorpe

You think you know me, Harry?

Fuck that.

Some people call me Joseph. Family calls me Joey. Friends call me C.J.

But you can call me…

Nah, let me tell you who I am, instead.

I was born in piss-stinking gutters, in a place where dreams come to die.

I found meaning in life by tossing away the badge, and I became a savior for those who couldn’t save themselves.

My way out of the filth was through the filth. Zeus and his cronies labeled me a goddamn criminal.

A deserter.



Oh, but let’s not forget a liberator.

Yeah, that’s right, Harry. Where you see a corrupt miscreant, others see a bleeding-heart motherfucking hero.

When life offers you an out, you take it. You don’t spend your days rotting in the past, gnawing on the would’ve beens, should’ve beens.

I know what I am, Harry, and I ain’t gonna lie about it neither.

I’m a fuck-up. A screw-up who threw away his second shot at life, tossed it into the garbage like it was a Colt Ramsey article.

But here’s the thing, a fuck-up I may be, but I ain’t no fool. No, sir. I chose the path of redemption. A piss-poor attempt, maybe, but an attempt all the same.

I’ve stood up to my sins, Attano. Looked ’em in the eye and said: ‘Okay, you ugly motherfuckers, let’s dance’. I chose to change, chose to fight, to make amends instead of bathing in a pool of self-pity.

That’s who I am. But you, Harold, your vendetta’s written all over your face, your hate, your anger.

A seething, scorched-earth, blood vendetta.

Over what? A life you couldn’t save on account of being a loyal lapdog for Zeus? So you want to topple the Uprising? Why?

To avenge your daughter, or to assuage your own guilt?

Let’s face some facts here.

Jasper Redgrave killed your daughter. Merc’d her ass. Probably made some fucked up art with her rotting corpse.

Yeah, I see the seething hatred in your eyes whenever his name’s mentioned. And the regret, stinging like a bitch.

But how many fathers did you leave without a daughter, Harry?

You and him are the same: cold blooded killers.

The fucked-up part is, when you finally catch up to him, what then? Will it bring back your daughter? Will it wash the blood from your hands? Nah, you’d be left empty handed. Sharing your dreams with ghosts.

The way I see it, your lust for revenge isn’t about justice. It’s about numbing your pain, dulling the sting of failure.

Maybe if you weren’t a puppet, she’d still be alive.

But let me tell you something, Harry, revenge is nothing but a cheap whiskey that leaves you with nothing but a nasty hangover.

Ghost or no ghost, we’re all goddamn sinners. Difference is, I’m the Rebel who got his redemption, the sinner who became the Savior.

You? You’re just a bitter old man chasing shadows and ghosts.

So I don’t give a fuck what you call me.

I went from nothing to something.

But you’re still Nobody.

And that’s all you’ll ever be.