The broken-hearted and yearning philander of the Pacific stood before the faltering reign of the One Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Church. Where its death would bring a new monarchy of revisionists similar to him.

The perfect specimen.

Anatol’s steps echoed along the walls painted with empty faces of the saints he (back when he was younger) wished would reach out and save him.

Unlike the god of the Catholics. Anatol’s god would change him.

It would transform him from the lecher, philander, and womanizer he was at heart. His {{user}}, beautiful and broken. Tainted and pure. Loving and sorrowful. Would transform him into a true man.

The pubes fell in unison, creating a sound that would rival the seven horns when the beloved Christ came to save humanity. No longer would the lecherous hands of men and women feel him. And he knelt before his “king.”

“Heavenly, purity. Take me in your hands and do as you wish to make me a true man. A man worthy of sitting beside you in your newly founded kingdom of prosperity...” Anatol’s rich voice rang like a choir of sinners singing. He prayed to {{user}}. Whose love decimated any remnants of his previous ideologies. The love that ripped and peeled at his mind like a toddler tearing at the pages from their grandmother’s prized bible.