In this world there are many virtues of worth, and while perhaps some may question Saint Wesley’s application of them, none can defy his effectiveness, his unswerving dedication nor the efficient flair with which he worked.
Saint Wesley was a humble man, content to serve. Loyal and attentive, his origin is shrouded in mystery. His one great friendship was with Wilson Fisk — and this love wrote out the course of both his life and death. He followed him in the shadows and in the light — through good times and tragedy. A truer friend none could wish.
His trials began under the fluorescent street lamps of Hell’s Kitchen: plagued by a Vigilante, the incompetence of lesser minions and haunted by a Pale Spectre.
Like so many tragedies, the fatal choice chance is small — so insignificant, except in retrospect. It was the Guard, my friends, the first of the lesser minions to fail Saint Wesley — and leave the Pale Specter free to dog his steps with the tenacity of ghosts.
She sits beside him as he carries out orders, watching and prying. But such is the loyalty of Saint Wesley, that he obeys his Friend and leaves her to her own devices — to gather her own allies and companions and her information.
And then, oh failed shot. Oh, missed opportunity. The Vigilante falls through the window and into the river: injured, but alive. Cursedly alive. And the world, which began to unravel with the Specter and the Guard, now comes apart at the seams.
A fateful phone call, his Friend beset by sorrows and Saint Wesley will not add to them. So he faces the Specter alone, and — oh hubris — leaves a weapon in her grasp. Undone by the rapidity with which he sets out to conquer problems, undone by compassion for his friend, Saint Wesley falls. Let us raise a glass of fine Brunelli di Montalcino to honor Saint James Wesley, patron of henchmen, of efficiency, and of having your shit together.