The church of granite pillar and spire was Peter's resting post.

He'd always taken pride in freaking out church-goers, his almost giantesque frame looming over the door as they exited Sunday mass. His distaste for organised religion was apparent in his music, the lyric Jesus Christ looks like me had even gotten his entire band excommunicated from the Catholic church.

Once the last of the congregation had left the church, he was about to leave when he saw you, stood in the doorway speaking with the pastor.