text: [Themes: celebrity, hollywood]
  
  > Look around
  Softly burning oil lamps attached to the walls by iron brackets cast a warm, pleasant illumination all around this monumental structure. Tilting your head upward, you cannot see the ceiling; just a dark space where the light of the fires cannot reach. The doors that lead out to the graveyard are to the east; in front of them is the pulpit complete with wooden lectern. In front of that, the pews sit in their solemn, respectful rows. There's an undeniable beauty to this place, a sort of old-age splendor that you're not used to seeing these days. The building has the look of a labor of love built by many strong hands with keen eyes and an intense attention to the minute but significant details which a religious structure requires. Offsetting that is a small, plain-looking wooden door in the south wall.
  
  To the east, the large doors stand shut.
  
  On the lectern is an a black, weighty tome.
  
  > examine the tome
  Very interesting, this book. The light seems to slide off of the cover, leaving it a small pool of inky blackness wherever it lies. Just looking at it gives you eyestrain; maybe it's just the light, or maybe there is no title printed on this book at all.
  
  > read tome
  You flip the book open to a random page. The words shine from the paper, in a wide-spaced font that leaves little room on the page: "The secrets contained within the town of Gainesville are for you, and only you. The book from which you are now reading is intended to help give you a tool for you to use to conquer your demons. If the burden becomes too heavy, this volume gives you the power to dispel anything that dares to stand against you. How you choose to use this tool is entirely up to you."
  
  > check what you're carrying
  You are carrying:
  an a black, weighty tome
  a handgun (with 6 rounds)
  your trench coat (being worn)
  a match
  your keyring
  
  > examine pews
  Your eyes briefly slide over the rows upon rows of pews--this church looks like it could have seated hundreds of people. But it is now empty.
  
  > Go south
  As you step towards the exit, a hand shoots out of a pool of shadow cast by the lamplight beneath the door and seizes one of your shoulders in a vice-like grip. You start to whip around but the hand does that for you, bringing you face to pouchy, fat face with your father.
  
  "Well," he says, cold eyes boring into your face with an unmistakable air of malevolence. "Well... well well." He looks you up and down, taking in the disheveled state of your clothes; the dirt you've tracked all over the church floor. He just sighs. "You know, I miss the old days. They knew how to handle uppity women back then. I wouldn't have to deal with this kind of disrespect then, I'd just black your eye. But now I gotta tiptoe through the goddamn tulips else y'all start screaming 'He hit me! Raape! Domestic assaauult! Aaaaahh!' and I gotta dip into my retirement funds to get lawyers and blow through court dates and skip town and it's just such a stupid waste of time. Ah, time. We all have such a limited amount of time. Do you see what I am saying, Kristen?"
  
  "Get your FUCKING hands off me you *cretin*--"
  
  "Temper, temper, child," his face growls. His grip increases, your shoulder crying out in pain. You aim a sidehand chop at his arm; under normal circumstances you're quite certain it would have broken his wrist, but it doesn't seem to have fazed him. "This is a dangerous place. You can die, and there won't even be any carrion to come 'round to strip your bones. Not even the worms will love you. So watch your step, or you'll find yourself back in a 6-foot hole like your doped-up fag friend back there." He shakes his head. "Fine fucking company for my daughter to associate with. So that she can become... Just. Like. THEM." He spits with disgust. "We've tried. You know? We really did. But you just wouldn't have any of it. So off you go."
  
  Quick as a flash, his hand lets go of your shoulder to whip towards your face; you lean back to avoid the devastating punch you're sure is coming to break your nose, and his fist closes over your chin. His fingers are like iron; his horse-like face is brought an inch from yours as he hisses at you to open your mouth. You grit your teeth; he slaps you across the face. His strength wins out over your will; his other hand comes out and forces a pill down your throat. You gag with all your might, but it's no good. He releases you, backing up a few steps, wiping off his hands on his robes as if ridding himself of a particularly unseemly form of vermin. You always thought he'd make a great name for himself as a preacher, and damned if he doesn't look the part now. Amazing the things that run through your mind at times like these. As bad as you usually feel for putting him in the hospital, right now you can't think of anything other than how much you wish you'd finished the job.
  
  "That's better, Missy. This'll fix you right up. Now get out of here. You're a Cymbalta child now... Not mine."
  
  His words echo into the near distances, feeling as if they're traveling a thousand miles to drop into your head. Your father's face morphs into the face on the Christ statue, creating some sort of unwholesome amalgamation, lamps raining fire down upon you as the world turns away. Inside your mind, you hear the church bell... hell's bell... school bell? Oh, right. The bell to end first period, it rang right before everything really went to shit. Good times.