The sharpened edges of the black, flat-brimmed Stetson hat glistened menacingly from the dark recesses of the bitterly cold, largely empty ANU Bar. Something important was going down, of that much I was certain. But what? Cowering as I was in a fit of shame and fright in the farthest, safest corner of this glorified university shed, closer inspection of the Stetson or, indeed, its owner, was proving impossible. The edges of the Stetson glistened with urgency but mercifully, perhaps, I could see little else. All the while the questions lingered, like memories of sweet love lost. Who was this demon? Why had it come? Or indeed, why had I? In the icy darkness little was being revealed and even less was making sense. Even in the gloom of this horrific bleak nothingness though I searched valiantly for clues, an eager young pro bono Wordsmith (though I hate U2) conquering his fears. I eyed the shadowy figure in a panicked grasp for clarity but I saw nothing, nothing at all. Perhaps it was for the best. The likely tell-tale stains of the bloody refuse of the prior slain remained hidden; submerged in darkness along with the violent history of its anonymous owner. I, along with the other frightened stragglers joining me in the dumbstruck audience, could do nothing but wait.
Mercifully, the sound signalling the beginning, as it were, of the end, came suddenly; a ukulele began to strum and a chain, heeding the call of its jauntily plucked Master, began to rattle alongside in a foreboding, unified rhythm. Above it all, the Stetson suddenly began a slow tilt towards the heavens above, the shadowy figure underneath seemingly positioning itself for some manner of stern address. It moved with slow and deliberate assurance, seeming confident of its authority among the few lost, desperate souls gathered in this funereal pit of visible breath and shivering trepidation. As the Stetson lifted, an untraceable light illuminated the form atop which it sat. I gasped deeply as the eyes appeared; piercing and alive, tinged with sadness. I was soon after clinging desperately to a stranger alongside as the face of a being weathered but composed, solemn but unbowed, loomed into view. It was the face of a story teller, a messenger: a Man who had seen it all. An immortal.