HEAVY THUNDERSTORM TEEMED in the big-yard that afternoon, which had darkened the hour as nighttime. Most Intersexuals took shelter anywhere with a roof to stay dry. But, Joe was with the incorrigible Kiki-boy and Hank, who were all getting wet — joking with puerile pranks, among the gang of the frivolity White Wesleyan boys, after the weeks of a heatwave.

Across the fence, the Hispanics were having a good time too, playing soccer in the muddy pitch, while their supporters cheered from the scarcely covered haven in the rain.

The tower-guard Preslie Baker stood up from her chair and dropped down her book on ornithology studies. She festooned her gold medal ribbon onto her neck — she picked up her personal Olympic rifle at the watchtower — aiming the double-barreled Beretta DT10 over...

Starlings and pigeons were sitting on power-lines that ran along the yard, she aimed the rifle at the perched sodden bird, and waited the seconds — and each time there was a clap of deafening thunder, she shot as many birds on the go — cleverly fooling the birds — which couldn't distinguish the sound of a gunshot from the thunder...

Dead feathered marred carcasses fell on the muddy yard below — Marlin observed the tower-guard from his cell window in F-Block. The blond boy sensed accuracy in her targets — but yet the Buddhist found her stupid-human-trick to be grisly.

Alone in the flooding cage, the desert rain was beating hard on the tin roof, Doran was shivering wet in the drenched blanket-robe, sitting on a crate. His eyes were closed while he rolled his holy-beads in supplication with his trembling hand — the strong, wet, sopping arid region wind was hitting inside through the metal bars.

Marlin then saw two female guards wearing ponchos coming to the cage — Doran was released, and his hands were gaffled behind his back. Reeves who kept himself dry under a makeshift shed, too spotted the manacled Doran being escorted in the rain, into the main building.

*

Wet footprints stamped along the corridor floor. The dank hermit was led to the Visitation Room — it was his first time there — he was dumped on a chair facing see-through plexiglass with holes. On the other end was a haggard-looking Agent Wolfe sitting imperious...

She was nodding slowly at him, with a thin smile — as a sign of homage...

"Hi there Fighter — long times, no see — do you remember me?"

She asked while signalling the two guards there, to leave the antechamber.

Of course, the monk did evoke the malefactor who was present — dredging up his unforgotten vista when he was only twelve of age, of Wolfe's shooting Sister Lisa Marie's face at point-blank in front of his eyes. The two shots hollowed the nun's face...

To this very day, he cannot comprehend why Wolfe had mutilated her in the execution — defacing her as his own mother had disfigured him.

The antipathy and the desire in seeking revenge against the Secret Service agent were still there hidden in him, because he still daily prayed earnestly for avenging the departed souls of every nun who died to protect the monks in the Convent attack five years ago in Cleveland, Ohio.

The two rivals were now there, face to face alone in the visitor's room — but, Doran remained centred and calm, and he showed no sign of retaliation. He then scrutinized Agatha Wolfe putting a cigarette to her lips — bitching out internal monologues like he was not there...

Maybe it was that she wanted the monk to listen to what she was saying — which all started with a note of profanation...

"So, it has been 5 years since my last fucking confession, padre."

The Secret Service agent laughed...

"I was a fucking Catholic once before, you know — before and I quit it because the Middle East desert fairytales became insignificant in my real world, happened when I was still in the Marines — so I had no choice but in needed a substitute, and I picked up smoking instead — it is way much healthier option," the iconoclast lit up her smoke and blew at him.

"So then, it has been 5 long years since I last put you in here, kid — and now, look at you, all grown up — and I even heard you have got an illustrious status over here, am I right Son?

"Read the paperwork that they all call you the Desert Preacher now, isn't that so? I should confess that I will always remember you, for icing those elite soldiers that day at your Convent — Kung Pow! What an incredible feat for a 12-year-old scrawny Bruce Lee kid with no military training doin' it. In fact, I was the one who wrote the fucking report for those 5 dead stupid-cunts you killed back there, to be precise...

"Yes Fighter, it is true when they say that, if you push the right button — some people could do great and incredible things...

"...and indeed, you are one of those special ones..."

Doran envisioned Sister Lisa Marie presence standing behind him — she placed a hand on his shoulder saying...

"Doran, you are a special boy."

The wet and dripping Doran shut his eyes with regrets, still thinking of her pestilent death — and at the same moment, he kept listening to Wolfe continuous monologue — while still figuring out the puzzling question of the whys...

'Why shoot an innocent old nun in the face to disfigure her?'

Her face was purely horrid after the shooting, just like his immolated mother's — burnt to her death in the basement many years ago, whom he too saw through the crack of the door when he was seven — he was with her rotting corpse for three days, where her ghost spoke to him for the first time — before, he was rescued from the locked cellar...

Doran's cuffed fists behind were clenched tight with hatred tugs — but, he still refrained from retaliating back — instead, he paid attention to the Washington woman's intention — breathing shallow to calm himself...

'But why did she return back many years later — to brag and torment him — ever since, their last bloody encounter?'

"Yes, Preacher-boy — truly, I am actually here to say my confession, that — I really had the best fucking adrenaline rush 5 years ago, when we both had that 'connecting' moment at the Convent. See here kid, you even gave me a 'little' battle scar to commemorate that day."

Wolfe was caressing her scarred eyebrow that Doran hollowed by a blow with a wooden crucifix from the nun's deathbed. The Head of the Secret Service then further prattled her mind out...

"Yeah, I had been enlisted in the Marines back in my Afghan tour days and I was at the top of my game until that fucking Medusa Virus came and wiped off all the excitement in my life. Since then, there have been no major wars anywhere in the damn world for two damn decades — no more kicks and thrills any more here — and boy, what an unfortunate fucking waste of joy!

"Shit! I am really at the lowest nadir of my life right now, my dear boy — coz I will be turning 38 soon! I always believed that 38 is something special — but my life isn't special anymore — and the other day, I fucking came close to the point of putting a gun to myself — and I almost pulled the fucking trigger. (I am feeling so damn empty) — getting old and empty is not fun, boy — no, it is not..."

Wolfe smiled sheepishly at her past in sadness and ended profession...

"You will know that too someday when you are 38 yourself, Son — this is just a thought of the day for you, here — but, neither am I gonna let you live that long..."

Wolfe now chuckled, while she next snorted coke on a needle-like spoon from a tiny vial — the blow made her grunt. Her bright heliocentric eyes now shone...

"Hey, kid, I hear you got a mutiny going down here in Tombscradle — and you got the Warden and the Governor pissing in their skirts, with all of your great prison breakout threats...

"So, Fighter, when that shit is happening coz every one of us in Washington is also anticipating it? We want the best front seats to that extravaganza event that is about to happen soon!"

The banshee-like laughter by the mocking woman then followed...

"The moment you do that, I will be waiting for you out there, Fighter — so that I can have another showdown with you, just like our good ol' times — that will be my well-deserving 38th birthday gift, when I will happily put away your miserable shemale existence out for good — now, give me that pleasure, Jesus-boy...

"Come, make me — high and mighty special — just like you..."

Agent Wolfe took out her .38 Magnum...

"Yes Fighter, I know how to push your buttons — since I wasted that fucking nun whom you loved before, with this very same pistol — and I can do it again because..."

She pointed the gun at Doran seated behind the glass...

"...I am the Head of Secret Service — and I am given the power of authority to decide on matters of national security threat — against the President, to her people and to her country.

"To put it short, Preacher-boy — think of me as the same level of that God, that you pray and mumble to — coz I too can decide who lives, and who dies!"

Wolfe pulled the trigger, and the .38 Special clicked — it was not loaded.

Wolfe snickered aloud...

"Nah, that will be too easy — you and I — we should have that show-down-do again — so Son, it is high time now for you to preach less — and to be more like the fighter whom I once knew...

"Now listen to me very carefully, Doran — you have exactly 3 days — to start this Herculean revolution that you have been promising to all your girlie-dick followers for those many years — so, if I don't hear or see any shit-progress, I will pay you a return visit again...

"... and boy, I will really push your buttons even harder the next time — by lining up all those Jesus-monks brothers of yours in the yard — and I make you see them, all down on their knees — and in front of your eyes, I will execute them one-by-one — with this very same fucking gun, that I had killed your old-bitch nun with before!"

The handcuffed Doran growled like a raged animal — he then lunged forward and was continuously ramming his forehead hard at the plexiglass in front — while Agent Wolfe hooted in amusement at the other end...

The two female guards then rushed into the Visitation Room and dragged the screaming Doran away, with Wolfe, who was laughing hysterically at him...

"We will meet again soon, Fighter — pray hard to your Invisible-man, for your quick death, when we fucking meet again!"