The heretic is always better dead...
Joey walks into the abandoned locker room. He was the first superstar to walk into it for a year and a half, and it showed. It was dusty, relatively dirty, and some of the lockers still had the nametags of long-gone superstars.
Joey looked into his hand, at the key which had been given to him. '#12' was the number. He looked around, seeing his locker. It was located in the corner of the room, by a bench. He walked over to it, with his equipment in hand, to put it away. A tough pull on the door broke the rust that was cieling the door shut, and it opened with a loud creeking sound. He coughed frantically, having to retreat due to the dust that bellowed out towards him. When it cleared, he looked inside, blowing once again to remove the remainder of the dust and cobwebs inside. He put his bag neatly on the low shelf, removing his drink and towell, before shutting the door again.
He brushed the bench at his side, removing the empty plastic bottle and yet more layers of dust, before putting his towell on the wood and sitting on it. He took a sip of his drink, looking around him. He thought one thing:
"Damn... someone really needs to hire some cleaners for PAW..."
... And mortal eyes cannot distinguish the saint from the heretic.
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