I’ve never wanted a lapdog.

But I can see the appeal.

Obedient. Loyal. Always waiting at its master’s feet, desperate for a scrap of approval. It barks when told. Licks when told. Rolls over when told. It doesn’t question. It doesn’t think. It just sits there, tail wagging, waiting for a pat on the head. I used to be a lot like this, didn’t I? I sat at the feet of Tombstone, answering his every beck and call.

But not any longer. That’s not me now, is it? No, that’s you, Ezekiel Graves.

A dog. A pet. A well-trained little animal who’s spent his whole life at the knees of a master who doesn’t even know he exists. You yap and you whimper about the Good Lord, about his love and his divine plan, but what has he ever done for you?

What miracle has he given you?

Because at Invasion, when it mattered most, when your faith should have delivered you, it wasn’t you who ascended into heaven, was it?

It was my wife.

She took the Invasion briefcase. She was the one rewarded.

And you? You were left scrambling in the dirt, clawing at the heels of your so-called destiny like a starving mongrel, wondering why your god let you fail.

But that’s the thing about pets, Ezekiel.

They’re only useful for so long.

And one day, when you get too old, too slow, too pointless, your master won’t hesitate. He’ll put you out to pasture like every other mortal in Arcadia. Because that’s what he does, right? That’s what your god has always done. He gives you just enough to keep you coming back, just enough to keep you loyal, then when your time is up—bang.

He puts you down.

It doesn’t matter how much love you show him, or how much loyalty you show him, all that matters is how useful you are to him and once you’ve exceeded that use, you’re not worth keeping. You see, I knew that one day my loyalty to Tombstone wouldn’t be enough. I knew that he’d put me out to pasture just like your master will you, so I did what no dog in their right mind should do and I bit the hand that fed me.

I turned on Tombstone and instead, I put him out to pasture. 

Because I refuse to be a fucking dog. I refuse to be someone’s fucking pet.

That’s all you are, Ezekiel. A dog on borrowed time.

But don’t fear that end.

Because when it comes—when your god finally puts you down like all the rest—that’s where we’ll meet.

And when we do?

I’ll be there waiting.

And I’ll send you on your way.