Trevor Stains broke the brains and moulds of old that held remains of Grecian Gods and Goddesses true, though he would claim he never knew.
Entering years of twilight shade and creating with metaphorical bucket and spade the sand castles of power across this world his evil plans unfurled and whirled.
Trevor had spent a decade or two or three or more but not quite four, plotting and scheming but never believing in the villainy thrust upon his person.
He’d wanted to be good, despite misunderstood, and this damaging hood of scar and past seemed to outlast the vast and fast code switches in peons when he tried to clasp onto the nets of relationships his withered fingers cast.
Trevor began to lament, ‘he was spent’ he would vent, that life had been bent away from his wants and desires and fires of his minds aspires and towards the embers of dashed scopes and goals.
That was it. He was done. He would turn his back. Lookout for number one. He knew what he wanted. He wanted some fun. He would do it himself. His day in the sun. Trevor was joyous. Trevor begun.