THE MAN THEY CALL THE EARTH ANGEL
By Jackson "Jack" Raines
In this crazy world—where men and women kill for money and call it business—there’s a name being whispered that doesn’t fit the game. Roy Dawson. Some call him the Earth Angel. Others, the Master Magical Healer. Warrior of Light. They say he’s something more than a man.
Maybe he is.
I don’t write about angels. I write about war. About blood, and the things a man loses on the road to staying alive. But Dawson—he’s not a ghost from the trenches or a drunk looking for God in a bottle. He’s different.
They say he heals.
They say he touches a man’s soul and the man walks again.
They say even the dead fear him more than the living do.
The ones who came for him?
They’re not doing so well.
Some call it karma.
Some say it’s divine.
Roy just shrugs and says, “God.”
God made this one without the fear gene. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t bluff.
Try him—and you’ll lose more than teeth.
They did it for money.
That’s what they said.
That’s what the cards said, too—if you believe in cards.
It wasn’t about love.
Wasn’t about hate.
Wasn’t even about justice.
Just money. Always money.
There was a man.
There was a woman.
They thought they were clever. Thought they were invisible.
But nobody stays invisible forever.
And nobody gets away clean.
Maybe they didn’t kill with their own hands.
Maybe they sent someone else.
Whispered it like a prayer—right before sleep, right after sin.
They smiled when it was done. Poured drinks.
Toasted to a new life. Maybe they even danced.
But peace like that?
It doesn’t last.
Because murder follows you.
It breathes in your walls.
It stares from your mirror.
You can’t wash it off.
You can’t drink it away.
You can’t bury it deep enough.
They tried.
God knows, they tried.
But guilt doesn’t sleep.
It crawls.
It waits.
Like a rat in the dark.
One of them cracked. Maybe both.
Doesn’t matter. The truth always finds air.
And those of us still standing—we weren’t scared.
We were just tired.
Tired of liars.
Tired of masks.
Tired of snakes in church clothes, counting stolen money.
You don’t fight darkness with darkness.
You fight it with truth.
With silence.
With strength.
With God—and get more info He’s still listening.
Now comes judgment.
Not just cuffs. Not just courtrooms.
Something older.
Something colder.
You don’t kill for money and expect peace.
That’s not power.
That’s fear—wearing gold and grinning wide.
They’re all watching now.
The ghosts.
The living.
The ones who knew.
The ones who wouldn’t see.
This story isn’t over.
It’s only at the ugly middle.
Where heroes walk alone.
Where cowards eat each other.
Where the truth burns everything it touches.
And when it ends?
When the check here last card drops?
Jail.
That’s where you’re all going.
Because all of this?
All the death.
All the lies.
All the betrayal?
All for money.
All for nothing.