The newspapers said he did it for thirty pieces, but that simply isn't true. There were a good many more than thirty pieces to be had for the follow through, and on top of that, it's who he was: a betrayer, doomed to the ninth circle of Hell. But it didn't matter. No one could convince Blessed Damn he hadn't entered his final resting place years ago.
In the early hours of the morning, he tottered down the streets of his own grizzled city, muttering. He puffed away as the sun broke over hundreds of domed rooftops. Seagulls swarmed down to get a peck at whatever he had in his mouth, but he batted them away. "Geroff, you rats, you good-for-nothings!" He waved his cane in the air long after they'd flown. Gulls were persistent. He granted them that.
Blessed didn't even need a cane, to be honest, but he carried one anyway. It served him the way a rubbing stone served a bank manager: stress relief. It's crooked top had a shining divot where he would rub his thumb back and forth any time a person irritated him, which happened almost every time he spoke to one. He would stand and nod, imagining what it would be like to crack them over their dirty, greasy heads. But the best part of his cane was the tip that popped off and revealed a precious stash of what only he would have the gumption to call "medicine."
He knocked the ash from his pipe and popped the base from his cane to retrieve more.