Ritual and Revelation

By Jeremy Mason

Another job for the club. Another assignment for the MC's Enforcer.

As Freud rolls into Gallup, New Mexico, he soon finds that what should have been a routine investigation for the Shadow Dragons seems to be something far deeper and far more sinister. Serial killer? Cult? Urban legend gone horribly wrong? The possibilities are endless, mysterious, and seemingly deadlier than the road-weary ex-cop has anticipated.

As the killings continue and the true enemy becomes even more obfuscated, Freud and, soon, the members of his club wind up in a race against time, with the fate of the talented motorcycle club and even the population of Gallup itself tied to discovering and defusing an enigmatic plan with far-reaching and apocalyptic designs.

Will Freud, awash with grief and keyed into the very emotions of the people around him, be prepared to do what it takes? Or will he act too late?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 25, 2025
• ISBN: 9798896752325

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

About the Author

Ritual and Revelation

Jeremy Mason

Copyright © 2025 Jeremy Mason

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books

830 Park Ave, Suite 135

Meadville, PA 16335

Published by Fulton Books 2025

ISBN 979-8-89675-231-8 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-89675-232-5 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Acknowledgments

First and foremost, this story is dedicated to the many people who have played a role in my life that have triggered my creativity and my desire to tell this tale.

To my wife, Melissa, and my daughters—Morgan, Gabrielle (who has also contributed to the cover art for my books), Ciara, and Miranda—the five of you make me want to succeed. Your pride in me is a daily inspiration. You make me want to be a better husband and father.

To my parents, my brother James, my sister Melanie, and my cousins, aunts, and uncles, many of my memories with all of you have helped shape the sick mind that created this tale. Enjoy and know that you all played a role in the mayhem to come. Also in this category come Cherry, Wesley, Josh, Katelyn and Sam. Family is legacy.

To Tony, thank you for all that you do to keep us moving and help us keep roofs over our heads. Thank you as well for the lessons in the legal world that led to the time I spent putting the kindling in place for the fire, which became my imagination.

To Dwayne, thank you for being a diamond when I needed a hard edge and the lessons on protecting myself from sharks. To Cedrica, once you read this, you will realize how many character interactions were inspired by the banter between us.

To Darrell and Drena, let's see if you can figure out which characters have a bit of your spark in them.

To Team 18, our shared experience inspired me to travel down this path. All of those weeks of not being able to watch the news gave me the fictional pieces of inspiration that sent me on my way.

To my SOLAR family, I can definitely link nearly every fantasy and storytelling connection that has happened in my life since I was nineteen to all of you. The time spent in the woods and in the heads of my hundreds of fellow players has made me want to tell my stories all the more. And to my family at Natty Vibes, peace and love to you all.

In John Monk, I found an inspiration who has made a career out of storytelling from a realistic point of view. Thank you for the lessons.

And to Merah, Elias, Nahtahn, Gabriel, and Abigail, my grief at your tragic loss and the anger that justice demanded helped shape my story and my viewpoint on good and evil. May you find peace in your rest.

Chapter 1

The road flowed by under his tires like an obsidian river, the heat radiating the sun's rays back at him being offset by the wind whipping by as his bike roared forward at 85 mph. The deep thrum of the engine's power was a soothing song to him as he allowed the bike to speed him toward the horizon. There was no traffic around him, so he allowed his machine to control the trip as it sped him along. His black hair blew back behind him from under his half helmet as he threw his head back and cackled at the increasing speed as his speedometer hit 100.

In the distance, on the horizon, he could see dark clouds brewing over the mountains. An occasional flash of lightning lit some of the peaks ahead, but eventually, the clouds pooled low like ink descending in a clear glass of water, covering the tops of all the mountains he could see from one end of the horizon to the other. A chill wind began to cut in on occasion, chasing the heat of the desert sun away as his bike rocketed into foothills and toward higher elevations, finally leaving the desert behind him.

I need to get up into the mountains fast because the roads will be impassable by tomorrow once the rain and snow begin to shut passes.

He passed a few vehicles, finally coming into areas where traffic was a bit heavier. The maneuverability of the Wide Glide allowed him to weave through traffic to a greater degree than most cars would allow.

After a couple of hours, he found himself passing Defiance and moving toward the outskirts of Gallup. The snow was heavy by that point, and he realized that he was probably going to be stuck outside of Gallup for a few days. He had pulled the leather duster out of his saddlebag and put it on over his kutte and placed black riding gloves on his hands and a bandanna around his face to protect himself from the ice-cold wind.

The sun was down as he pulled into a motel on the edge of Gallup, in the town limits of Mentmore. He parked his bike and fought the howling winds into the office of the Red Roof Inn. Stopping for a minute to enjoy the heat in the office, he unwound the bandanna from his face and took off his helmet. He approached the counter and was greeted by the wary eyes of the female clerk at the desk.

How may I help you, sir?

I need a room for a few days. It looks like I am going to need to wait to ride on.

That'll be fifty dollars a night, sir.

He nodded and pulled out his wallet, handing her a credit card. She ran the paperwork through and gave him the key cards to his room. He traveled once more into the wind, grabbing his bag out of the saddlebags and stashing his helmet. He then proceeded to his room.

He took off his coat and removed his kutte as the room's heater kicked in and began to radiate around him. He grabbed the television remote and flipped it on. Most of the local channels were focused on the blizzard, as a town that averaged twenty-one inches of snow a year was expected to receive up to three feet. The roads were salted, and the plows were ready to go, but people were still panicking a good bit, especially considering this blizzard whipped in the day after Halloween.

The howling winds were doing their own damage, throwing everything that was loose that wasn't already weighed down with snow. He heard the sounds of trash cans and lids banging against the sides of the building and hoped that none would get high enough to reach his room window.

He sat in the chair next to the table and groaned as he stretched his legs. He then took in the room around him. It was relatively nondescript, with a large double bed, a half dresser, upon which sat the television, a small half refrigerator, a table, a desk, and a couple of chairs. The door to the bathroom was at a forty-five-degree angle to the door out of the room. The room, overall, was sparse but comfortable. And the heater was more than adequate for the needs of the room.

After a few minutes of allowing the heat to seep into his bones, he stood up and shrugged off his kutte. The long-sleeved red flannel he wore underneath was still dry on the inside, though he had done a good bit of sweating on the long ride to New Mexico from Phoenix. The moisture-locking Under Armour shirt he was wearing beneath his flannel had done a wonderful job of keeping his clothes dry and not allowing the snow and freezing rain to sap the heat and strength out of him.

He removed the holster over his left shoulder and placed the Smith & Wesson M&P .45 Shield on the bed. He had never been a fan of firearms, but his life experiences had taught him that there were many situations where a weapon could make the difference between life and death.

Especially in the MC, he thought.

He grabbed a towel from the rack outside of the bathroom, grabbed the holster and belt of his handgun, and headed into the bathroom to get a shower. After about twenty minutes of relaxing and soaking in the superwarm, high-pressure water, he got out, dried off, and stretched out on the bed. He relaxed a little and caught an episode of Criminal Minds on a local station. He always found the show fascinating, especially when he considered his own education in forensic and investigative psychology. There were many details in the show that were spot-on and a few that were sensationalized to tell a better story.

After an hour and a half, he realized that his stomach was growling. He stood up and caught sight of himself in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door. At five feet, ten inches, and nearly 260 pounds, he was definitely not in the best shape of his life. His black hair was fine and long, and he had very little facial hair, a blessing from his Native American blood. His brown eyes looked tired and haggard. But he had been riding for almost a week straight, so he looked as tired as he felt.

He had noticed a sign for a bar and grill as he approached the motel. It would be an interesting ride in the howling winds and blinding snow, but he figured a few warm drinks and a hot meal would make up for it, as well as give him an opportunity to check out the lay of the land. The roads were salted and being plowed in the area, so it would be no more dangerous than any other ride. Now that his shoulder-length black hair was dry, he should be fine to go out.

The clock in the room read 8:13 p.m. He gathered up his pistol and strapped on the shoulder holster, then put on his boots and a clean change of clothes, including black jeans and a flannel shirt over a black T-shirt. He put his kutte—the sleeveless black leather vest that contained the patches related to his membership in the motorcycle club—back on and swirled his leather duster over the top of it all. He then opened the door to his room and left, heading out into the storm and into the parking lot while putting his black half helmet on his head.

A trip that would normally take two minutes took ten, as it took him three or four minutes to get to his bike. Fortunately, the snowplow had just been through, and the street was empty as he crossed the road, parked, and fought the winds into the door of the Tres Hermanos Bar.

His first impression after the door slammed shut behind him was of the pervasive darkness in the place. There were very few people inside, as the storm seemed to have limited the patronage. The bartender was cleaning glasses and watching him as he walked into the place. She laid a glass with a napkin on the bar in front of him as he strolled over and sat down, shaking the snow out of his hair as he went.

Her beautiful green eyes and native complexion struck him right from the beginning. Dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt, she did not seem to be bothered by the snow falling off him as he approached.

What can I get you? her soft, nearly musical voice asked.

He noted the calm energy around her and found himself relaxing a bit.

Coke, he replied. And a menu, if I can.

She nodded, then motioned to a hostess.

The hostess approached, and she said, Show him to a table, and bring him a menu.

The blond older woman nodded and motioned for him to follow. He did, and she grabbed a menu at the workstation just before the tables. She sat him down and dropped the menu in front of him, then placed silverware and his Coke in front of him. He nodded and sipped in thanks, then began looking through the menu. He decided on a burger and onion rings and placed his order with Sadie, the hostess.

As she left to get his order prepared, he looked around the room in detail. About a dozen people were scattered between the pool tables and other tables in a place that had the capacity for ten times that number. There was a small stage and dance floor at the far end of the room and tables and chairs throughout. The place was fairly cozy and warm, and there was a little smoke from people smoking at their tables.

He pulled off his coat and set it down in the booth with him, and a few sets of eyes turned to him as people regarded his kutte with a combination of curiosity, apprehension, and some hostility. He could taste it in the air around him, a growing and powerful anger that seemed sparked by his taking off his coat and revealing his MC allegiances. His eyes darted around the room, looking for someone who was either displaying that anger openly or was wearing the colors of another MC. His eyes settled on the cop in the corner, and he had his answer.

The New Mexico highway patrolman glared in his direction, not bothering to conceal his animosity for the biker. Internally, he chuckled. He nodded respectfully to the officer and motioned Sadie over, giving her money to pay for the officer's meal. He then sat back down in his booth and sipped on his drink, looking down at the cell phone that he pulled out of his pocket. He shot off a quick text to Bradbury.

Stuck in blizzard on outskirts of Gallup. Will give you a call once I get into Gallup to investigate.

—Freud

After a few minutes, his burger arrived, and he tore into it since the last thing he had eaten had been at six that morning in the Chandler area of Phoenix. The food had been prepared perfectly, and he relished the smoky grilled flavor of the meat as he destroyed the meal in a couple of minutes. He was so into the meal that he was a little surprised when he looked up from his plate to find the state trooper standing there with a suspicious look on his face.

Is there a particular reason that you paid for my meal?

The trooper's name tag said Martinez, and his accent was fairly thick.

Freud raised an eyebrow and smiled, his smile as warm and friendly as the roaring fire going in the fireplace at the other end of the room.

Where I come from, Trooper, a law enforcement officer risking his well-being during dangerous weather conditions to see to the safety of others is a hero. Heroes eat for free wherever I have any control of the situation.

Trooper Martinez took an uneasy step back, his facial expression running the gamut from surprise to regret to shame. He could feel the shifting, conflicting emotions of the officer as he digested that answer. All hints of anger were gone.

I am just doing my job. But thank you. It is a rare motorcycle enthusiast that has respect for law enforcement—he pointed to the Enforcer patch on his kutte—especially from outlaw clubs. In general, in my career, I have been met with distrust or outright hostility by clubs wearing a 1% patch. While you may not wear that particular patch, a lot of the details on your kutte are the same.

Freud nodded and motioned for the officer to sit across from him. Hesitating at first, the Trooper finally sat down.

"In general, outlaw clubs try and avoid law enforcement. Sometimes, it is the fact that the club may be involved in some criminal activity. Sometimes, clubs don't want to recognize any law and order except for their own organizations. Sometimes, it is a reaction to the hostility that they feel is being afforded them by law enforcement officers who feel that outlaw club means they break the law and immediately pin a criminal label on them. In most of those cases, it is a literal misunderstanding.

"Outlaw is a term for bikers who do not adhere to the rules and bylaws of the American Motorcyclist Association, which made a statement once that 99 percent of all bikers were law-abiding citizens and the other 1 percent were antisocial barbarians. As such, an outlaw biker does not necessarily mean a criminal but someone who does not have a lot of respect for laws established by the government. It is an easy misunderstanding to fall into."

His voice was calm and easy as he spoke, carrying over the din of the music in the place. He could feel the calm beginning to come over the officer as their conversation continued.

What about your club? Trooper Martinez asked him. What side of the law do your fellow members sit on?

Freud chuckled.

"Our viewpoints about law enforcement are about as many and varied as society as a whole, I would say. You know, there are many of us who are lawyers, former law enforcement, or former military. At the same time, there are elements among us with criminal records, though none has any sex offenses. We have some fairly strict rules about those. Our club has subcontractors, psychologists, attorneys, PIs, and even a librarian and a retired preacher. We even have a few who have worked as mercs.

Primarily, we all love the freedom that our bikes represent—freedom from mainstream society and an ability to pass without notice in many places—while at the same time a look and culture that makes those who may do us harm hesitate to act.

He smiled at the trooper. Then he motioned Sadie over to refill their drinks—Coke for him and coffee for Trooper Martinez.

Shadow Dragons MC has nearly a hundred members from various walks of life and located all over the United States, Mexico, and Canada. That membership is not exclusive to men, and there are many women who are tied to our organization in important ways. Roughly a hundred is small for the amount of territory we cover, but our criteria for membership makes joining a real accomplishment.

The trooper nodded and smiled back at him, sipping the coffee.

If you don't mind me asking, what is your club about?

Freud looked at him, tossed it around for a moment, and then seemed to come to the realization that this officer was genuinely interested in what he was asking.

This is going to sound a little crazy, but why not?

Freud took a swallow of his Coke, then set it down.

We are all supernatural buffs. We travel the country and do investigations into hauntings and old urban legends. We also look into intersections between crime and the supernatural. We investigate cults and ritualistic murders and anything that local elements blame on supernatural activity, usually in an effort to debunk paranormal thought processes and point the blame at more conventional human criminality. We then turn our information over to local or federal law enforcement agencies who are investigating the same crimes.

The eyes of the trooper got wider as Freud spoke.

The old cemeteries in Gallup. The murders. You are here to investigate those.

Freud nodded.

Yes, sir. I am here to determine whether those killings are the act of a cult or an organized serial killer. I know that a lot of the citizens of the area are claiming that it is old, native spirits doing the killing. I am going to get to the truth of the matter.

Trooper Martinez looked at him curiously.

What skills do you have to carry out an investigation of this nature?

Freud took another drink and then looked at the officer.

"I have a master's in forensic psychology and some extra classwork in investigative psychology with a minor in criminology. I worked for a few years as an investigator for the state police agency in South Carolina, as well as did a little consulting with other law enforcement jurisdictions. Quite frankly, though, I got tired of the politics involved with jurisdictions and territorial sovereignty, meaning that I had to approve any information through multiple bosses before it could be acted on.

The MC recruited me, and now I work their investigations and do occasional consulting wherever I may. The MC makes money from various legal business enterprises in addition to some patrons with financial push, and thus, all of our members are well taken care of. I can feel free to do investigations and ride wherever fate may take me. And then in my spare time, I write about the experiences.

After another drink, he continued, In the current case, we have women and men being murdered in a ritualistic fashion and left in an old graveyard with native remains under it. I am here to help decide whether we have a serial killer in operation, or we are dealing with a cult of killers trying to perform some sort of ritual. Or whether it is a cartel or some other criminal organization attempting to scare law enforcement away by killing witnesses to their activities in a ritualistic fashion. Either of the three is intriguing, but I would rather deal with one killer than a group of them.

Trooper Martinez nodded. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. He handed the card to Freud.

If you need anything, please let me know. It is good to finally see some help coming on the killings. I hope you can help shed some light on the nastiness.

He stood up and offered his hand.

Pleasure to meet you, Mr.…

He froze, realizing he didn't know this gentleman's name.

Martin. Joshua Martin. But my friends all call me Freud. You may call me Freud.

He took the offered hand and shook it firmly.

Trooper Martinez turned and headed out the door, dropping a cash tip to both of the women on his way. A huge roar of wind blew a wall of white snow in the door as he headed out.

Peace to you, Trooper. May you be safe in the storm and find your way into the arms of your family at night's end.

He felt a slight twinge of sadness as he felt the officer disappear into the dangerous storm. He always felt that sadness when he saw people making sacrifices for the good of others. He finished off his food, paid the hostess, and then headed back to his room across the street, moving his bike at the fastest pace he could in the howling banshee of a storm. It was nearly midnight when he finally got settled down in his room and was able to unwind a bit.

Joshua Freud Martin spent much of his childhood and early adulthood traveling the world as a military dependent. He lived in Germany, California, Colorado, Kansas, and Arizona. Finally, his father settled down in South Carolina. Freud went to college and married and raised two daughters, but he always knew something was odd about his situation.

Counseling, therapy, and social work—these were the areas he started exploring in his young adult years. Eventually, however, his attention was pulled to the psychology of criminality, and he found himself wanting to use his gifts for understanding and catching criminals. He voraciously devoured any material he could get on serial offenders of all sorts. In his spare time, he would spend hours poring over crime scene information provided to him by colleagues with access, learning what he could about the specifics of various offenders operating all over the East Coast of the United States. His work as a law enforcement officer had honed his skills to a razor's edge.

A tragedy made the decision for him to move in a different direction in life. In one day, he lost his wife and two daughters. It was a pivotal point for him, and the one that sent him in a direction that could be considered closer to vigilante than law enforcement would have liked. The friends and contacts he had made in his work and studies and classes helped keep him out of trouble in the consequences of the situation, but he burned some bridges by doing so. It was soon after that the MC had come along, recruiting his talents to expand their operations. And he had not looked back since.

In the two years since, he had ridden from one end of the country to the other, doing various investigations for the MC and cleaning up threats as they appeared. This was his most ambitious project yet, however. The possibility of a cult of killers or, perhaps more disturbing, a serial killer whose ritual behavior was only matched by their prolific pace—this was the type of case that Freud was built for. His job was to investigate, profile, and then decide whether reinforcements needed to be called in.

As his first investigation involving death, he knew that this was a huge test for him from his brothers and sisters in the MC. He thought about that for a while as sleep finally reached out to claim him.

*****

He was pushed out of bed to the ground by a loud boom and the concussion that came with it. He could smell smoke coming from everywhere as he popped awake. His eyes adjusted to the night quickly, and his ears could make out the unmistakable popping of fire consuming the lower levels of the house. He looked for his wife, and she was not there. He scrambled out of his room and up and down the halls, noting that the kids' rooms were empty as he went.

There was fire rushing up the stairs, so he had no more time to wait. He ran back toward the end of the hall, then to his window. He opened it and pushed out the screen, putting his legs through the window and looking for a safe spot below. Finally, he dropped about twelve feet to the ground below. His ankle twinged, and he fell down, landing hard but safely. He immediately jumped back to his feet, turning toward the burning house and screaming out the names of his wife and daughters.

After a few minutes, neighbors showed up and began to attempt to investigate the house for signs of the missing three. Chaos reigned as law enforcement and the fire department did everything they could. They laid water into the fire and got firefighters into the bottom floor of the house as fast as they could.

He could feel grief grip him as the first body was pulled out of the house. It was obviously the body of a child. Then came the second. Finally…out came the body of his wife. His world shattered there in that moment, and he found himself wrapped in stifling grief as the ground rushed up to meet him.

*****

He awoke with a start, on the edge of falling out of his bed. He could still faintly smell the scent of the burning house around him, but it was fading into the background again. As the dreams always did, their power over him slowly drifted away, and he found himself able to return to the present once more.

Looking over at the clock on the nightstand, he saw that it read 10:00 a.m. He jumped up in shock, surprised that he had actually slept that long. He quickly dressed, strapped his piece under his arm, and then pulled his kutte around him. He headed down to try and rustle up some breakfast. In the end, he decided on food out of the vending machines in the room on the bottom floor.

While he was chewing on his Hostess cupcakes, he drifted to look out the window. There was a solid blanket of white on everything. They were in the middle of a break between snow squalls, so there were a few light flurries drifting around. But everything not within range of the snowplows was covered in snow. Nearly a foot and a half was out there, covering cars and buildings and any area with grass. Somehow, the roads were relatively clear, as the plows had not stopped moving all night.

After finishing his food, he returned to his room. He hit the button on his cellphone and waited as the ringing came over the line. Eventually, there was an answer.

Historical Society!

Yes, sir. I am looking for someone to give me a tour of the graveyards in your town, preferably once the snow has been taken care of, so in a few days. What do I need to do? he answered the soft female voice that came from the phone.

I would be happy to arrange a guide for you, as well as provide you with any literature that we have on the local scene. Would you like to ride or drive your own vehicle?

He thought about that for a few moments before responding.

I will meet whichever local you send and will ride with him or her. Best that I trust the driving to someone familiar with the area.

I will send Ricky to meet you, then, in three days. Just give me the address where you are staying.

After finishing making the arrangements, he pulled out his laptop, connected his mobile hotspot, and started looking into the local rumor scene. There were a lot of wild reports on various chat boards that ranged from alien sightings to chupacabras to secret government facilities supposedly running ops from all the way in White Sands. There were also advertisements for local ghost walks. He took down the information on some of these.

Ghost walks are a great way to move around and explore local legends without attracting the wrong attention.

He looked at local news for a while, seeing what he could find on the murders at the cemetery. Nineteen victims had been found thus far in a chain of killings that had taken place over the course of nine months. The newspapers had not mentioned anything about the cause of death.

He popped open an email from a former colleague who worked for the New Mexico State Police. He noted that all the victims in the cemeteries had the same cause of death: exsanguination from six cuts to the arms, legs, torso, and finally, neck. Though the wounds were not deadly, the loss of blood was nearly total. But even more interesting was that there was no sign of the lost blood in the area.

The other common thread between all seventeen victims was ligature marks where it appeared they were suspended upside down with rope. Blood ran from the wounds upward on the body, which would indicate suspension.

So where did the blood go? And for what purpose?

Males and females, all the victims were between the ages of eighteen and thirty, with the victimology crossing boundaries of sex and ethnicity. Some were Latino, some African American, and some Caucasian. Each of the victims had been identified, but nobody in their orbit had any information that was helpful to the case. Two of them had been out; a few of them had gone to the store. One of them disappeared from his job site as a security guard. Nothing stood out to connect the victims beyond the manner and location of their deaths. He began to realize that it was going to take more than a cursory glance at the location to figure out what had happened.

He sighed and shook his head, closing his laptop. He sat in a relaxed position on his bed and placed himself in a meditative state, closed his eyes, and allowed himself to feel the world around him. Before long, he was walking among the snowdrifts, his consciousness feeling the ebb and flow of the vibrations of the people in the world around him.

He could feel curiosity and joy as children played and threw snowballs in the streets of the neighborhood two miles away from the motel. Their joy was so contagious that he found himself drawn to it. For a few minutes, he sat and absorbed the happiness radiating from the children. Feeling his energies replenished, he drifted farther, looking for signs of misery or other dark feelings.

For the most part, the snow seemed to have calmed a lot of people down. There was some frustration from people in traffic, but that was being drowned out by the happiness of children and the feelings of joy for those looking at the beautiful layer of snow over everything. He found a few homeless folks who were huddled and miserable in the cold, but even they were getting a fire started in the fireplace of the house they were squatting in. As the fire warmed things up, their emotions became a melted blend of warmth and contentedness, with a wariness that tinged everything due to their knowing that they did not own the house they were in. Regardless, they felt soft and sleepy to his senses.

He returned to his own room mentally and felt the usual weariness that crept in whenever he extended his senses over the course of miles without something to boost the signal. Despite that, he still felt elation every time he stretched his mental legs and used his senses to scout his surroundings.

Even considering all the years his abilities had been part of his life, knowing how to properly use them was a relatively new feeling for him. He had always had a hint of his empathic abilities, as he could always walk into a room full of people and go immediately to the one person in distress. As a child, he would always play with the lonely kids. As a teenager, he was a source of stability in the lives and relationships of the groups of friends he ran with, providing advice or an empathetic ear in situations where relationships went wrong on an intimate level or on a domestic level in the case of friends with broken families.

Moving out of high school, he went to a few years of college and discovered that being a psychiatrist was not the direction he wanted to go in life. There was not enough room for intuition in a medical field. So instead, he began to explore how his unique abilities to connect with people could help him professionally. He was always the peaceful, loving coworker who was interested in the well-being of his colleagues no matter what area he worked in. He would often look after his fellow employees and make sure that they were as peaceful and adjusted as possible. When conflicts would break out at work, it would be physically painful for him.

In his professional career, he had spent a majority working in law enforcement. In each of the settings and scenes he became part of, he applied his intuitive connections to people in various ways. Often, it was beneficial. But