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City of Dogs
Episode IV
BRV 1.5: Fallen Angels
Nathan Valentine faced the men with cold
control over his racing heart, biting back on the panic, hoping to cut through
it with enough pressure. This could be the end of a previously successful
night. With a substantial amount of Franco’s men gone, including his right hand
man, Franco was open season. All Valentine needed to do was use the cell phone
he got from the man with Tarantula Tattoo call Franco and find his location.
But Valentine was outnumbered, and outgunned. He lightly fingered the Walther
P-22s taped to his forearm, waiting to get an opportunity to fling them out and
lay waste to this human garbage, but one false move would mean maelstrom of
lead pounding into his ribcage and vital organs.
The
Bouncer moved forward, shotgun in hand, looming like a grim reaper, but not so
grim. More sickly delighted in his work.
“Say
goodbye to your kneecaps,” he said.
Just
then a gunshot rang out from the roof overhead, followed by the clattering of a
pistol down into the alley. The Bouncer’s gaze didn’t move the way Nathan had
hoped. He just kept staring that bloodthirsty, million-mile stare right into
Valentine, and yelled out,
“CHECK
IT!” he yelled. “Two of you stay with me.”
Five
of the men trained their guns on the roof, watching like vultures, trying to
catch a scent of the death that was certain to have occurred. There seemed to
be voices above, but it was high enough that nothing could really be made out.
“Seems
fine boss. Probably a mugging. Happens all the time in ‘dis part of town. If
they were gonna’ fuck wit us I think they’da made their move.”
“You’re
probably right, but you five keep your eyes open and make sure you’re not
wrong. We should probably waste our mate here back at the warehouse anyway,
just so no one gets involved that shouldn’t. Alright, hands to your head!” he
ordered Valentine.
Then
a whoosh was heard over head. Each head in the alley snapped to attention in
the direction of the noise like a fascist brigade. A man was falling from the
roof above, or was he flying? His trench coat spread out and almost looked like
wings, the beam of wood in his hand might as well have been an angel’s sword.
Gabriel Saint. His name described him perfectly…at least how he was now. The
past was another story.
Like a megaton anvil he slammed down
onto one of the hired goons who was sent sprawling, unconscious, gun sailing
into the alley way and firing off two rounds as it hit the ground in front of a
dumpster, two more bullet holes in the wall adding to the collage of them that
were already there. Immediately Gabriel
swung the beam of wood around in a cross-hit that caught another hired gun in
the jaw, making him officially out for the count. In the commotion Nathaniel
Valentine crouched down and put all his energy from his thighs into a backwards
jump, dodging just under the 12 gauge slug fired from the Bouncer’s gun.
Simultaneously he extended his arms, P-22s now exposed, and then flicked his
wrists outwards slinging the guns into ready position. He landed on his back
which triggered his frantically fast but carefully aimed hail of bullets
blasted at the Bouncer’s brain, lungs, and heart.
The
gunshots drowned out the thick smacking of wood on bursting, bruised flesh
caused by Gabriel. Blood flew none-the-less painting a Jackson Pollack tribute
on the oily ground and deteriorating brick walls. The first bullet made contact
in the Bouncer’s skull just above the left eye, which was sent flying along
with pieces of brain and shards of skull. The next shots penetrated the
rib-cage and heart. The pumping of lead ceased the pumping of blood. A goon had
just placed a solid punch in the back of Gabriel’s head, making Saint stagger
forward. Before the goon knew it a bullet had come knocking and let himself in
to keep his cerebellum company. The dinner party ended when the man fell on his
face atop his fallen comrades.
Silence
again…that silence that only comes when death is around—the silence killers
keep in respect, or contempt, or their slain. The kill count was tallied, the
unconscious lay trapped in nightmares, the warriors surveyed their conquered
field. Valentine got to his feet, smoking guns in hand.
“Did
you have to shoot up the place…?” asked Gabriel. “It’s such a waste…”
“It
was them or you, pal. You couldn’t have taken ‘em all down with that stick of
yours. And I would have been fucked for sure had I not shot down Goliath over
here.”
He knelt down
and turned over the Bouncer, straining to push his weight over, then he
searched the man and looked into his wallet, removing a large sum of
money.
“A life is a
life, just like a poker chip. Have to bet some to win more. Assuming you’re a
noble man I think I can cut my losses.” Saint walked among the bodies, picked
up a cell phone, and dialed and ambulance.
“The EMTs will
be here soon, so you’ll probably want to go. I have a wounded girl upstairs
that needs attention, as well as these men. By the looks of you, you have
business elsewhere.”
“How do you know
I’m not one of them?” asked Valentine.
“I can tell. You
would have killed me, for one. You were hunting these men, they’re not this
deliberate in trying to kill someone who’s just crossed them…no…you were on the
offensive, until you got yourself into whatever jam you were in. Hello? Yes, I
need several ambulances at the Cabaret quickly, gunshot wounds and concussions.
Yes, thanks.” He hung up the phone.
“Thanks for
bailing me out.” Valentine extended his hand to Saint, who shook it.
“I’ll be
watching you. If you end up on the other side, I won’t be saving you next
time.”
“Thanks
Superman. I have business now.”
With long
strides Nathan vanished into the night. Gabriel Saint stood in graveyard
silence until awoken from his trance by the melancholy hum of ambulance and
police car sirens. He remembered the gorgeous dame bleeding from a gut wound on
the roof of the building, and remembered what he was doing before the brawl.
Within a minute he was on the roof again, just breaking a sweat from the climb
up. The girl was unconscious, but beautiful, despite the gutters running with
blood several floors down, she looked peaceful.
“I’m here now,
and I took care of our problem. I’m getting you out of here. It’s gonna be fine
now, I promise.”
She gave
out a moan that could have been a sound
of acknowledgement or just another wince in pain. With care from killer’s
hands, he gingerly picked her up, cradling her head in his left arm like a
child, and descended to the alley below. The battered ambulances had just
pulled up when he reached the street.
“Shit Gabe, you
gave ‘em hell this bright and early morning, didn’t you?”
“That’s what we
fallen angels are for, my friend. A little slice of hell on earth.” Hell was
the exact opposite of what Gabriel wanted though. He played the part with an
Oscar winning performance.
“Who’s the
broad? She looks bad…”
“Real bad, and
she’s not a broad. This is a lady. Take her first. The other deserve to die if
you can’t get ‘em out…but she deserves a shot at living. Try to get them all
though.”
Next thing
Gabriel knew he was inside an ambulance holding the hand of a complete
stranger, listening to her wheeze through the oxygen mask in rhythm to the
beeps of her vital indicator.
*
* * * *
It
was two a.m. Gabriel was sitting at his table, smoking a cigarette and drinking
a mug of home brewed espresso. Fighting the nightmares, fighting the demons
that had a playground in his mind. They began to drag him under, when he was
startled into reality by the phone ringing. Who calls at two a.m.? It was
Doctor Schmidt, the Doc that had taken in the girl that Saint had found all
shot up on the roof of a building a couple weeks ago.
“Saint?
This is Doctor Schmidt. Angelina Baker needs a place to stay. Says she has no
family, and I figured you could put her up for a while.” His voice was kind…a
rarity in the city. He actually would help people, not just fuck them out of
their money. That money he earned, however, was often spent on hookers or
bookies.
“Angelina
Baker? Who are you talking about Doc? It’s two in the morning!”
“Angelina
Baker is the gut wound case you found for me couple weeks ago. She’s well
enough to leave the hospital and needs a place to stay.”
It
all came back to him.
“Oh!
The girl! Yeah, I’ll pick her up now, be there in five.”
Saint
pulled on his coat and opened the door. He cranked up his seldom used, beat up
truck and headed towards the Hospital.
Before long he
was walking out of the recovery ward with Angelina Baker, bandaged and silent,
towards his truck. It had begun to drizzle. Saint unlocked the passenger side
door first and opened it for the injured woman. With a click he closed the door
and then went around and got in the drivers seat. The key went into the
ignition and the vehicle reluctantly came to life.
“My place isn’t
fancy, by any means,” said Saint. “But it should be fine for us both.”
Angelina stared
out the window. She seemed completely adrift in some distant ocean, staring
across the sea with hopes of finding some ship of familiarity, warmth, safety,
in the cold dark ocean. The rain went from a drizzle to a downpour, and Saint
gazed at her with amazement. She was beautiful, but, damaged. She had subtle
scars on her face, probably from an abusive lover, or maybe a father. She had
that reserved quality that people get when they’ve been neglected, left
outside, invitationless to the dinner party of life. Gabriel backed the truck up and got on the busy streets that
would lead him and this girl back to his house, if you could call it that.
When they
reached his house the rain was so thick one could almost swim through it. They
made their way to the front door. Gabriel fumbled with his key as the rain
belted the two on the face like a boxer beating his opponent. Finally the door
opened into the dripping cave inside. The lights flicked on and provided dim
illumination.
“Well here it
is. Home sweet home. Yeah, clichéd, I know, but its all I have, and I give it
to you.” He threw his dripping coat and his keys onto a table.
“Do you have any
dry clothing?” The girl remained silent. Gabriel went digging into his ‘closet’
and found an old flannel bathrobe.
“You can wear
this until your clothes dry. Just…the bathrooms over there, just leave your
clothes in it and I’ll hang ‘em up for you later. You can sleep in my bed, or,
on my mattress that I call a bed. I don’t sleep much, I usually sleep in my
chair. I cleaned the sheets at the Laundromats yesterday and haven’t slept on
‘em yet, so they should be suitable.”
Silence.
“Well, I’m going
to change and tuck myself in chair. Goodnight.”
‘What a grateful
guest,’ thought saint. ‘I save her life, I give her a place to stay, and the
dumb bitch can’t even speak to me. What a fucking wrap.’ Saint took off his
clothes revealing a built and bruised body, etched with scar tissue, carved
from stone. He pulled on a dry pair of boxer shorts, lit a cigarette, and sat
in his chair. ‘Damn. Tonight was a cold one. And the only blanket is on the
bed, and my coat is soaked. Maybe I’ll light the stove, make some coffee. Shit,
I’m tired. I could almost sleep tonight.’
Gabriel was in his
chair, shivering when the girl peeped around from the doorway, her big timid
brown eyes peering at and through him.
“Still up, are
we? Can I get you anything?” Saint exhaled smoke.
“Thanks.” Said
the girl. Her voice was raspy, but pretty. “No one’s ever done this much for me
in my life, and you’re the only one that hasn’t wanted something out of helping
me.” She seemed to recall bad memories of exploitation.
“You’re
welcome.” He replied.
“You don’t have
to sleep out here alone.” She said. “You shouldn’t have to be evicted from your
bed because some girl got herself in trouble.”
“Hey, hey, hey…”
said Saint. “It’s fine. I don’t sleep in the bed often anyway.”
“I watched you
shiver.” Replied the girl. “Come in to bed.” She said.
“I’m not
interested in that, so you don’t have to offer.”
“I’m not saying
you have to make love with me, I just don’t want the man who saved me to be
freezing his ass off in his own home.”
There was a
pause and a silence for about five minutes. Then Angelina Baker walked over to
Gabriel, took his hand, and led him to bed. Soon they were both warm. Angelina
found her way into her arms, as if she needed to feel safe above anything else,
despite an elbow
There was a pause and a silence for about five
minutes. Then Angelina Baker walked over to Gabriel, took his hand, and led him
to bed. Soon they were both warm. Angelina found her way into her arms, as if
she needed to feel safe above anything else, despite an elbow being in her ribs
or a stranger’s hand on her breast.
Gabriel felt safe as well, but knew that as soon
has he fell asleep he would be assailed, and he didn’t want to scare the girl.
He stayed awake as long has he could, focusing on the smell of her hair, and
the sound of her breathing…but as soon has he nodded off, he smelled Laura’s
blood, and heard her screams. However, he fought to stay in the nightmare, to
stay asleep, so he wouldn’t wake up in a frenzy and scare Angelina. Every
minute asleep was a nail in his cross, but for once, his cross was in some way,
bearable. Angelina slept safely in the arms of her tormented Christ, hoping in
her mind that she would never wake up, that she would always be with this man
that cared, that protected, that kept her safe and warm. Gabriel swallowed his
fear, faced his past, and hoped that morning would arrive soon. |
The sweat flew off the man’s face and hit the mat like
torrential rain. Each drop rang as a foreshadow of where the man would
be in the next few punches. Peter Eric Hart lay punch after punch into
the challenger’s torso and face. Every muscle in his arms bulged out,
hard and defined as steel cables. Sweat came off of his shaven head,
but he wasn’t frantic and fighting off the panic that comes from a
severe beating, he was focused. Each jab, each straight, was a planned
surgical strike against his foe. The crowd roared, the man grunted each
time the glove pounded into his body, but Eric heard nothing.
The challenger’s left hand went out for a jab, which
was all Eric needed. Eric blocked the jab, pushing it to his left
leaving the challenger with no defense or offense, the he brought his
other arm around for a hook right in the head. Dazed the man staggered
back, but Eric followed. A jab in the stomach had the challenger bent
double, just what Eric needed. He bent his knees and cocked his right
arm, he then rocketed upwards for the uppercut, first striking the
sternum with a loud crack, then following through into the challengers
jaw, sending him reeling an unconscious.
The bell rang. The fight in the ring was over, but
as soon as Eric stepped out of the ring, another fight continued. He
made his way out of the stadium, pushing past the press men and women
and the fans, whose arms were outreached in hopes of touching their
demigod. This god had no message for his followers. He remained silent
until he was in the back. There Eric commenced to remove his gloves, a
process that seemed like an amputation, since a part of him was
severed. Inside the ring was where Eric felt alive, vindicated,
justified.
As his gloves hit the dingy floor his agent came in.
“Five grand for the fight. Here’s your cut. I deducted the normal amount for my pay.”
Eric Hart didn’t reply. The only sound that
came from him was the scratching of flint on steel has he lit a large,
half smoked cigar. For a brief moment his face was illuminated as the
fire was cupped in his hands. There were deep scars on his cheeks from
the skin splitting against the bone just beneath the eye. There was a
scar on his lip from biting through it instead of his mouth guard. His
nose had ridge in it from being broken. His dark green eyes gleamed in
the flames for a few seconds, then he clicked the metal top over the
flame extinguishing the light that had shown.
“Lay it on the bench. Thanks for everything.”
Tommy Ramón set the brown enveloped with hundred
dollar bills sticking out on the bench where Eric’s towel and gym bag
were.
“We’re running short of options. You’ve fought
everyone in this city, and no one can take your beatings more than
once. Looks like we’re going to be out of business if we don’t lose a
few, for business’ sake.”
Eric turned around. Smoke erupted from his lungs as he spoke.
“Look kid, I don’t ever lose. We’re just going to have to find more people to fight.”
“Aint any more, Hart. There’s just no more fights to win.”
Hart rubbed his eyebrows with his hand, then brought
it over his head as if he were slicking hair back, then looked up at
the ceiling and exhaled.
“Alright. Thanks kid. Call me if you find anything out.”
“Will do boss.”
Tommy left the room. Eric was alone with his battles again.
He set his cigar on the bench so the burning part
was hanging off the edge, dropping ash onto the floor. He wet his towel
and wiped the sweat off his skin, then dried himself. After this he
changed into jeans and pulled a dark, charcoal gray shirt on that had
bleach stains spattered on it towards the bottom. All his belonging
then went into his bag which was in turn slung over his shoulder, and
he then exited out the back.
It was a good walk back to his apartment. He never
took cabs. You couldn’t think in a cab. You were always worried about
what language it was the cabbie was speaking as well as buts of
English, or what that strange smell was, or hoping that the mass on the
floor was moldy food instead of something much worse. Essentially one
paid to be uncomfortable, and impatient. Eric didn’t mind the walk. He
could think better, and the air was nice—what wasn’t saturated in
carbon monoxide.
Hart’s thoughts always wandered to the past. His
abusive father, whom he was helpless against. His alcoholic mother, his
despondent older brother who did nothing when his father beat his
younger brother. He thought of Diane, his first love when he was
sixteen, thought of her last words to him. “You never
stand up for your self, Eric. You never stand up for anything.”
“I pick my battles,” was what he had always said.
“You don’t have any battles, Eric, you never fight
for yourself, never fight for anyone. When you can learn to take your
stand, I’ll be waiting for you.”
Hart was just a few months away from being thirty
years old. Last he heard Diane had a couple of kids and was living in
some sunny state far away from the urban decay that he called home.
After her it was rejection after rejection. Failed relationships, false
loves, one or two night stands. A day, a week, a month maybe. He
couldn’t hold on to anything.
One night at a bar when he was just recently
nineteen a drunk punched Eric in the face so hard it felt like his fist
had been a locomotive. Blood streamed down his face as he sat on one
knee holding his broken nose. The man walked in closer, two buddies of
his just behind. Before anyone knew anything, something snapped inside
Eric, and he leaped from the ground and tackled the man onto the
gravel. The man flailed, punched, and grabbed Eric’s shirt, which’s
buttons could not hold and the shirt came off.
“Git off me, or I’ll kill you!” the man said.
Eric’s response was a full throttle punch right
between the eyes, followed by a volley of heavy punches. The man’s
buddies tried to pull him off, but they were sent reeling with sore
jaws.
When Eric got off the man he had blood spattered on
his chest and painting his knuckles a deep crimson. He was light-headed
from the adrenaline rush, and all he could think of was “Diane, I
fought! I won! I won for us!”
A crowd had gathered from inside the bar, the
morbidly curious coming out of their hive to see what the commotion had
been about. The public still craved the blood of gladiators. In that
crowd, was Diane. Her hands were to her mouth and tears were streaming
down her face.
“I did it Diane! I fought……I WON!” he said, breathing heavily and pointing behind him.
“Oh Jesus Eric,” she sobbed, “Not like this, not like this! This isn’t what I meant at all.”
She ran from the crowd, and Eric never saw her
again. The autopsy on the man proved that the man had died shortly into
the fight, and that there were bruised on him inflicted after time of
death.
From then on, Eric fought. He fought everyone, every
thing. In defense, in revenge, in anger. Enough time in jail for
assault made him realize that he couldn’t pick any fight he wanted, he
had to focus it. He became a boxer…the ring was the one place he could
let it out and fix it all, or so he thought. He was fighting his mom,
his dad, Diane, his brother, everyone who had ever picked on him,
humiliated him. Also, every time he fought he was beating the love, the
compassion, the humanity out of himself. He saw these things as
weaknesses. That’s how he won. He won his fights, but they were nothing
real. They were temporary satisfaction.
His attention was brought back to the present when
he heard the voice of young woman. It was a fragile sounding voice, but
self-assured, pretty, addictive. Fragile in the sense that it was
delicate, something you’d want to wrap up and lock in a drawer
somewhere, only take it out once in a while so it wouldn’t break, so it
would last.
“I saw your fight.” She said.
“Thanks. You and thousands others.”
“Yes. But no in the way I see it.”
Hart stopped walking. She was standing under a
streetlight, her head tiled down, voice coming from the shadows. She
wore a hat that was tilted down over her face, and had a very short
skirt on, fishnet stockings, and stiletto healed shoes as dangerous as
a switchblade. She was the real knockout.
“Something you need, miss?” he inquired.
“Felicity. And it’s not about what I need, it’s about what you need.”
“Cut the shit. I don’t need your services.”
She shifted her weight to the other hip in a smooth, seamless motion.
“Come on, someone who spends all his time fighting has got to need loving some time or another.”
“And what would you know about love? You’re a hooker
on a street corner, and what you sell isn’t real. You just want a buck.”
She went from sensuous suggestion to irritation.
“What would you know about fighting? Your fights
aren’t real. I’ve seen your face when you fight, there’s something deep
down inside you that you can never beat. You just carry it back to your
corner when the bell rings.”
Hart took two steps towards her, finger pointed.
“Just who the hell do you think you are talking that sort of shit?”
“It’s not shit, it’s true. Peter, I’ve seen every
one of your stupid fights. I’ve been watching them since I was twelve.
My dad owns the ring, I grew up watching you. I grew up ugly and alone,
and the only thing I ever focused on was the look in your eyes when
you’d be throwing your punches and taking you’re chances. I needed
something strong! Jesus Pete, you look like a god when you’re in the
ring. I needed something to look up to. Other kids had dolls, or boys,
I had a boxer! I had a hero!”
Felicity was in tears now, mascara streaking down her face like oil on a white highway.
“How the hell do you know my name?” Hart asked.
“Christ, you’re all ice and snow inside that chest
of yours, aren’t you? I’ve been waiting to talk to you for years, and
this is how it goes. I guess I’m still that stupid little girl I was.”
Hart couldn’t believe how ridiculous it all seemed.
‘Just a crazy fan’ he thought. He took a deep breath and considered
walking home, but something in him wouldn’t let him. Felicity was
sitting on the curb now, weeping. What had this girl been through in
her life? Did he really want to know? He walked towards her, as calm as
he’d been in years.
“Cigarette?” he offered. At least he could smoke a cigarette with this girl, his self proclaimed biggest fan.
“Yeah, thanks,” she said in her Brooklyn accent as
she took the cigarette and put it to her lips. He ignited his lighter
and lit her cigarette.
“I’m sorry things haven’t gone how you had wanted,”
said Hart, “but I can’t solve your problems. I have too many of my own.
I have to keep fighting so I can figure myself out.”
She inhaled deeply on the cigarette, the smoldering
ash making her tear-stained face glow orange and soft, just like an
angel in the dollar store prints.
“We’re just the same,” she said in a weak nervous
voice. Hart didn’t say anything; the way he looked at her was answer
enough.
“You don’t think I like my ‘profession,’ do you? I
do this to figure myself out. I’ve never had someone love me, never had
someone to love. That’s all I really wanted…someone to love. Mom and
dad never got me a pet, and a doll isn’t something you can really feel
for. I loved you, Pete. Every night I’m with some new guy, I just
pretend it’s you, and that we’re gonna’ be together happy.”
“Love is something I will never be able to do.” Said
Peter in a distant voice. “Each time I knock out a guy, I try to knock
out a piece of that part of me. I loved once, and the pain that cost me
was worse then every blow, every broken bone I ever took or ever will.
It’s not worth it to me.”
“Jesus, Peter! You can’t give up on something like
that! You fight to figure out your problems? Bullshit, that’s just
plain bullshit! You fight to AVOID your problems and pretend you’re
doing something about it. You’re such a fighter, but you can’t fight
for something like love? Can’t fight to be happy? I’ll never understand
men.”
This blow was below the belt, and all Peter could was just sit there and be stunned.
“How could we be so fake………” he said.
It seemed like days passed on that dirty little curb beneath the
street light. How was it possible that a hooker could know so much
about love, something she was paid to fake, and that a fighter was
really running from real confrontation. Never had the world seemed so
backwards to either of the street-corner souls, statuesque on the
asphalt. They just sat. Felicity’s cigarette went out. The light above
them flickered.
It was Felicity who looked over to Hart first, then
he met her in the middle. Quietly her hand slipped into his. The
shattered edges of two lives somehow fit together, just like their
hands. For one moment in one hundred million, both of them felt
complete.
The next morning a hooker and a boxer woke up next
to each other, the fragile prostitute’s arm around the bruised and
muscular chest of the fighter, the chest that had been empty for so
long. A hooker who loved more than anyone ever knew, a fighter who
could never really face a real fight. Outside lay the world they would
both have to face. Peter would still take punches, Felicity will keep
swallowing her pride and self-value, The City was waiting to devour
them both…but right now they were immortal. |
Worst
of Sinners, Best of Saints.
<> Every night the dream was the same... the cavernous
mouth letting go a horrible shriek, the guttural sound of blood gurgling deep
within her throat, the eyes…her eyes full of fear, horror, panic. The gunshots
were like thunder, the muzzle flash like lightning. Every night Gabriel awoke
in a cold sweat, like icy fingers raking the skin on his back. Such a contrast
from the loving touch he once felt, the loving touch he made cold with his
father’s Army issue Colt .45. It
haunted him every night. Every other
memory of any other happiness was just a shadow, the blood of the past shone
bright on a black and white monochrome that was everything else.
Gabriel
Saint was now thirty-three years old. Seventeen years ago Gabriel was exhibit A
for what pressure and rage can do to a teenager. His girlfriend had left him for no reason, her friends made fun
of him, and his best friend lost interest in him after he met some girl.
Depression, anger, loneliness—the flavors of the week for Gabriel, eventually
got to be too much. </>
It was
October 15th the night that Gabriel Saint got his father’s pistol
down from the closet, filled his pockets with ammunition, and left the house in
his beat up car to commit a deed that would forever be with this man.
7:45.
Fifteen minutes before the store where Laura’s best friend worked closed. She
was folding up clothing that had been left out when Gabriel strolled in from
the cold, autumn air, packing heat in his right, pea coat pocket.
“Hey
dickless, mind stepping out, I’m about to close.” There were no other people in
the store. Just as well.
“Hannah,
you have no idea what you’re in for.”
“What’s the
matter? Still pissing and moaning that Laura would rather fuck a real man than
a child like you? Or are you just pissing and moaning as for the hell of it, as
usual. Get out of here you faggot.”
Gabriel’s
face turned red as his blood pounded and boiled.
“You
bitch.” He said. “You’re nothing. You’re just a closed minded slut who can’t do
anything but make other people feel like shit so you can elevate yourself. Well
guess what, babe. You lose.”
The Colt
.45 seemed to grab his hand and leap out his coat pocket. Hannah didn’t have
time to scream before three bullets entered her chest and she fell to the
ground.
“Who’s
pissing and moaning now?” said Gabriel with a sneer. He then emptied his
magazine into her upper torso. Knowing
that people might have seen him as he went in, he grabbed a coat and a new
shirt from one of the racks and left the store. He changed in his car. 8:07. Joe and Stacy had just gotten to the
pizzeria for an evening meal. They had just gotten out of the car when Gabriel
pulled in front of them.
“Oh….hey
man.” Said Joe, rather surprised to see his neglected friend.
Gabriel didn’t even reply. He fired
two shots, one for each forehead, and drove off.
8:55. His
ex girlfriend’s boyfriend’s apartment.
Her car was in the lot, and Gabriel knew that she was up in his room
fucking him. This would be the hard
one. He got out of his car, steam emanating from his quick, nervous breaths.
This was the end. He would never hurt again after tonight. The sound of his
shoes on the pavement seemed so loud he was afraid of alarming them. He go out
the Colt, and reloaded the magazine. Each bullet seemed to take an hour to
load—but it was only a matter of minute before he was pulling back the action
and taking the weapon off of safety.
He headed for the steps. One, two,
three…each time he took another step he felt like he was straining under a
massive burden. His burden was his heart…his burden was her. As he approached the apartment, room 169, it
seemed as though the door was actually hunting him down. Shadows from the
street light cast an eerie series of shadows, and the lamps on the inside were
a glow of evil warmth. The air just felt like hell, Gabriel was in the
unholiest place he could imagine. What had been a beautiful temple to him was
being defiled by a twenty-nine year old—but the defiling was accepted with pleasure
by the priestess.
There he was, standing before the
door to his salvation or damnation; it stood like a gateway to heaven or hell.
He put his hand on the knob, and his ear to the door. He could hear moans from
the inside, along with grunts, gasps, and the creaking of the bed. Suddenly,
all doubt, all apprehension dripped away. Hate flowed over like a blanket, and
the hesitation was cast into the flames. Gabriel tried the door—it was
unlocked. He walked in. The groans got louder, the moans became wails. The
bedroom door was ajar. Each step was silent, the tiger was hunting his prey.
“Oh God, baby! Give it to me, oh
my GOD….” It was Laura’s voice.
“You like that? Huh?” It was Tad.
“Oooh, keep fucking me honey…”
It was all he could take.
Gabriel’s foot hit the door like a .50 caliber slug hitting a glass window. The
top hinge broke and the door fell away to reveal his ex-girlfriend on top of
Tad, with a shocked and horrified face, Tad looking just as stupid as ever, his
huge piece for which Laura had left Gabriel showing dumbly in the dim light.
For two seconds Gabriel focused on Laura’s angelic body, her dark hair, and her
seductive eyes. Both the “lovers” were in shock, especially Laura. The Colt .45
was the second gun she had been looking down that night, and she was not
expecting it.
“You broke my heart you whore.”
“Get the fuck out of my house
man!” Said Tad, who began to get up and reach for the Louisville slugger that
was by his bed.
“You took her from me you
shithead!” Gabriel screamed. The dimly lit room was bright orange as all seven
bullets shredded into Tad body, rupturing his spleen, esophagus, and lungs, in
no specific order. A piercing scream followed the shots, but it was not from
Tad, it was from Laura.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God….no
don’t do it Gabe, I’m sorry, I didn’t know how it would affect you, oh shit,
I’m sorry, I just wanted to have fun, I’m sorry, don’t kill me, don’t kill me,
DON’T KILL ME!” She was sobbing and yelling now.
Gabriel was reloading the pistol
as Laura cowered on the blood soaked bed. Gabriel then bent over to her and
whispered in her ear,
“It’s too late, my darling. You
broke my heart, and now I’m stopping yours. I hope you’ve enjoyed spending the
rest of your life with him, and with me for that matter.”
He put his hand behind her head
and kissed her deeply. She stopped sobbing.
“I still love you…” she said.
“The fuck you do.” Gabriel
replied, and pulled the trigger. The following image was forever imprinted in
his mind. He stood there for an hour
after the one bullet had been fired. Laura screamed, gurgled, gasped, and died
saying his name. Gabriel’s hand stayed outstretched as all the smoke wisped
away, his arm was like a stone, in the same place it had been when he fired it.
There were no movements or sounds in the room until Allyce, another friend of Laura and Tad, walked in.
“Jesus Christ! What the hell Gabe!
I’m calling the cops!”
She began her turn from the
doorway and took three shots to the back. It was finished. Gabriel ran out the
door and jumped over the railing, falling one story down onto the parking lot.
The pavement rushed towards him as he sprinted towards his car. All of the
surroundings seemed to be after his soul. Not until he was driving 85 miles per
hour in a 35 zone out of town did he calm down. What he had done then hit him. One hand was on the wheel, and the
other held the Colt to his head, when he pulled the trigger, the gun jammed. It
wouldn’t fire for all he tried. Fate was keeping him alive to suffer what he
had done. The gun fell from his hands and under the seat, and Gabriel’s foot
fell hard on the gas pedal. He would
spend the next decade of his life running, until he finally settled down in a
place where he would fit in, a place where what he had done was commonplace. He
had found The City.
* * * * *
<> Gabriel awoke at four thirty in the morning, awakened by the surreal
nightmare of events that happened long ago, and stayed with him as though they
were yesterday’s news. The shadows in his room danced to the sirens outside. A
dim ray of light shone right on his bed. Gabriel rubbed his eyes, and ran his
hands through his chin length, dirty blonde hair. The walls in his room were adorned with newspaper clippings. One
side had reports of murders, child abductions, robberies; the other had reports
of found victims, apprehended criminals, and recoveries of stolen goods.
This
man, whose soul felt as inky black as the night prevailing outside, spent his
time as an informant, trying to stop as many crimes as he could. He had saved
several dozen lives by disabling gunmen, and had stopped several street
muggings. All this was done successfully with out any permanent injury. The
scars of the past had born in this man an obsession of preventing the crimes he
had done as a youth. Although he had
committed heinous crimes in his early life, one thing separated him from the
City, made him holy…remorse. </>
The bed
creaked as he got out of bed, throwing the covers aside like a read
newspaper. He walked into the dingy
kitchen and opened a cabinet, got out a dented can of cheap, corner-store
coffee, and poured a pot of cloudy tap water into the machine. After the coffee
began to brew he walked over to his couch and collapsed like a million tons of
bricks and iron falling from a building. Most of his life was spent tired
because he was afraid to sleep. One five minute doze could mean blood seeping
up from the dirt of history’s floor. Caffeine. It helped him go. Occasionally
stimulants, for those long nights.
The
police departments didn’t officially employ him, but he had the connections and
was a sort of private investigator. He never carried a weapon beyond his fists
and a cellular phone for calling the cavalry. Many cases had be closed due to
his work, and he never asked for any pay, any compensation. The money that he did get he got from
working odd jobs during the day, since his real work was mostly at night. Two
hours out of twenty-four were spent in rapid eye movement, and those two hours
were always to much, and never enough.
Coffee
smell found it’s way into Gabriel’s nostrils, which was the stimulus for the
response of pulling himself off the bed and making his way back to the
kitchen. He poured cream straight into
the pot, and drank straight from it. Was he lazy? Was he a slob? Could he not
afford mugs, or did he just not care. He poured a bowl of cold cereal,
completely devoid of real nutrition, and decorated with cartoons and offers for
toys, the kind of thing you read when you’re a child. The cereal was stale, at
least the milk was good. When he lived at home all those years ago his mother
only purchased low fat milk, now he had the freedom to buy whole milk all he
wanted. Strange the liberties you gain when you commit murder and run away from
home.
When the
cereal was gone as well as half the pot of coffee, he got up from the beaten up
table and walked to his bedroom. A
white undershirt was hanging off a dresser; he grabbed it and pulled it over
his head and broad shoulders, hiding the tattoos of angel wings, one on each
shoulder blade. He also pulled on a
pair of blue jeans, heavy black boots, a white button up shirt, a black tie,
and a white trench coat. He finished
the coffee and unlocked the door, each bold snapping open, each snap meaning he
was one inch closer to the outside, where the screams of innocence and laughs
of the wicked echoed down the muddy alleys and dripping gutters. What would he find out there today… it was
always a search. Saving other was how he saved himself. He hoped and prayed
that with each life he helped to preserve, to better, to change, that a little
shard of his soul was regained, and in the back of his cluttered mind, he
always felt that nothing could heal what he had done.
As he
opened the door a humid and chilly breeze kissed his face. His hair blew in
front of his eyes as he surveyed the area. With an almost forced motion he
moved his first leg forward, then the second. It took time to gain momentum,
but within minutes he was walking with a quick pace through the alleys and
backstreets of the City. Something uncanny crept up his spine…a feeling of
loathing, a feeling like he was being watched. He shook it off and continued
his walk. Paranoia was a natural thing in the city, and an even more natural
thing for an ex serial killer.
Just
then, he heard a gunshot and the scream of a young woman. Every gear in his
body was thrown into action; he listened while running for any further clue to
where the shot had come from. With a gentle pause among his confusion, he
stopped running for a moment, not to catch his breath, but to hear for
another’s. He heard a moan coming from the top of a five-story building.
“Oh
Jesus,” whispered Gabriel. “Time for acrobatics.”
With
that he took six bounding steps forward, tie flowing behind, right leg pouncing
forward and finding solid footing on the top of a trashcan. His thighs absorbed
the shocks like hydraulics and immediately recoiled at a leftward angle sending
him flying for the fire escape above him. Knuckles clenched white as snow
around the dingy metal, and his upper body applied all his strength to heave
his torso up to the landing. The hard part was out of the way, now he had five
flights of stairs to climb up to the top. It took less than a minute for his
trained legs to sprint up three stairs at a time to the top of the structure.
Lying on
her back was a girl who could not have been much older than twenty or twenty
five, and bleeding profusely from the stomach. She seemed to realize his
presence and gave out a whimper. Gabriel was by her side immediately cradling
the girl’s head in his arms.
“Oh
God.”
She was
breathing in gasps, but her heartbeat was normal, though each beat was a threat
as it pumped out blood with each contraction of the heart. Gabriel tore his
jacket off of him and ripped his shirt off, sending the buttons flying on an
unknown trajectory. His tie came off next. With care that one would not think
existent from a man who had murdered six people in cold blood, he un buttoned
her shirt and pulled it up, and placed his own garment on her stomach. Next he
took his pocket knife and cut her bra in the middle so she could breathe
uninhibited.
“This is
going to hurt like hell, but it will stop the bleeding.” He took off his
leather belt.
“Bite
down on this so you don’t sever your tongue.”
The belt
was in her mouth, and tears were streaming down her face.
“On the
count of three, I need you, if you can, to flex your abdominal muscles so I can
put pressure on the wound and slow the bleeding. One, two…”
His
hands pressed down and so did her teeth. She writhed in the pain, but she was a
fighter. After an indeterminable amount of time, the bleeding slowed, and he
tied the shirt around her.
“We’re
getting you out of here. You’re going to live, do you hear me? You are going to
live.” In a few moments she was slung over his shoulder and
he was just about to climb down the fire escape when he heard some commotion
coming from below. When he peered into the alley he observed that a man in
black had just burst out of a door and had been confronted by several armed men.
One of the man was massive and of African descent. There was no way Gabriel
could get this woman to a hospital amidst a fire fight, and no way that he
could let these men rip each other to pieces with their bullets. Mind racing,
he slowly set down the woman. In a hushed and gentle tone he spoke to the lady.
“Okay,
there are men with guns down there, and if they are the ones who shot you,
there’s no way we’re getting you past. Stay here. I’ll take care of it, and
you’ll be in a hospital in no time. Just focus on breathing slowly, you’re
going to be fine, trust me.”
Gabriel rose to his feet and
looked around him. He spotted a two by four, roughly a yard in length that was
setting amongst a pile of debris that had been left by repairmen. It was soon
in his hand and so armed he stepped to the edge. A man spoke.
“Alright
you feck. You’re going to die for that spectacle. The pain you’re going to feel
when we get you upstairs will feel like playtime compared to what its about to
feel like when I blow your kneecaps off.”
With
a calm that was inhuman to possess given the current event, Gabriel look over
his shoulder to the woman and said four words.
“I’ll
be right back.”
He
disappeared over the ledge, and havoc ensued.
|
Rain fell like bodies
on the midnight tinted glass of the jet-black car. It was one thirty in
the morning, but that didn’t seem to bother the driver. No, it didn’t
bother him at all. Night was this man’s home, his place to breath, to
be alive. It was February 13th, a Friday this year, and Nathan
Valentine was getting ready for his anniversary- the anniversary of his
creation.
He was twenty-six, and ten years ago on Saint Valentines Day his lover
was shot to death by her own father because he didn’t like the young
man she had chosen to be her boyfriend. Valentine was the son of a cop,
one of the few who had any success against the mobs, and Kelly Franco’s
father was the boss of one of the top mafia’s in the City, and a
cold-hearted bastard. He had found out who she loved and expressed his
discontent, at first with strikes across Kelly’s velvet-soft face, but
when she screamed to him from the ground that he would never control
who she loved he expressed his discontent with a 7mm bullet through the
forehead. His men left Nathan lying in an alley with twenty something
small caliber bullet wounds, none fatal, though Nathan wished every
night that they had been. Every day spent without Kelly hurt even more
than the parabellum rounds that had ripped into his flesh.
Valentine
parked his car a few blocks away from the Cabaret, a low life joint
where Franco’s men got their kicks—kicks with the local hookers and
hits of X. As he stepped out of the car he entered a world of rain and
darkness. The wind blew his deep red tie in a motion that resembled a
serpent’s tongue flicking in and out, smelling the surroundings. He
wore an all black suit, subtle goatee and mustache, and a Taxi Driver
style Mohawk. He gazed into the night through sunglasses to the
glaringly bright lights of the Cabaret. The wind kept blowing, the rain
falling on his stony face. He took his first long stride forward.
As he neared
the building he could feel the pulse of the music and activity inside.
He came up to the bouncer.
“Let’s have
your name, mate?” asked the black bouncer with a British accent.
“Moretti.” It
was the name he found on the ID of someone who was on the list that was
now unconscious in the parking garage, lucky to have an intact spine.
“Right then. Step inside please.”
Valentine
followed instructions and was frisked for weapons. He had none on
him……yet. There would be enough of Franco’s goons inside to procure an
arsenal. Nathan knew Franco would never be found in a joint with his
goons, he was just here to extract some information. With smooth
composure he walked over to the bar, slipping between people like oil
on wet pavement. When he got to the bar he took a seat and extracted
from his interior coat pocket a tin of tobacco and a sheet of wrapping
paper. He proceeded to roll himself a cigarette and then light it with
a match from a box bearing the Crazy Deuces saloon logo. He took in his
surroundings as the smoke swirled towards the ceiling. He noticed three
armed men, Franco’s men, at the bar alone. The place must have been
overrun with his hired guns. But Valentine wasn’t after hired
guns, not tonight. Today he was after Franco’s right hand man, the
field commander for the boss’ dirty work, the man with the small, black
Tarantula tattooed just below his right eye.
As Nathan
snuffed out his smoke, one of the hired guns left for the restroom. The
goon walked past Valentine as he exhaled the last breath of smoke
before getting up to follow the man to the last piss he’d ever take.
When Nathan pushed the door open to the bathroom the hired gun was
already at the urinal. With a seemingly rehearsed motion Nathan was
behind the man, one hand flashing over the man’s mouth the other to the
man’s gun, and in less than a minute the man was limp and bleeding
slumped against the urinal, 9mm bullet wedged into his spinal
column. No one would have heard the shot outside the restroom.
People were too involved with their own pleasure to care, and even if
they did hear it, odds were they wouldn’t have said a thing. Franco was
always having men offed in his joints, and this was probably another on
of his executions.
The man that
was taking a shit three stalls down, on the other hand, did hear the
shot. He stepped out of the stall, .38 revolver in hand just in time to
see Nathan Valentine searching the body for pass cards, extra
ammunition, and cigarettes.
“What the fuck do
you think you’re doing asshole?” screamed the man with the .38. Nathan
looked up and began to slowly stand to his feet.
“That’s right,
nice and easy, hand to your head, move ‘em!” said the man. His narrow
face with jutting cheek bones was poorly shaved and he was sweating
profusely. He had a receding hairline and his stringy, oily hair was
slicked straight back. He grasped his revolver with both hands, arms
stabbing straight toward Valentine.
Nathan began
raising his hands, but what the man didn’t know is that Valentine still
had the 9mm Beretta semi automatic in his right fist. The man with the
stringy hair did realize this one second prior to Valentine placing two
rounds in his sternum. The bullets shattered the bone like a child’s
baseball shattering a neighbor’s window. He staggered bag then sank to
his knees. Valentine walked up to him. The man stared down at his hands
which had instinctively found the wound and were now covered in blood
and dotted with fragments of sternum; and then he looked up to see
Valentine’s thighs, since he was standing directly in front of him.
“Thanks for
the gun,” said Valentine as he took the pistol from the man’s hand. He
turned around and was taking his first step away as he shot the man in
the head without looking back. After finishing the search of the first
man he killed, he put the bodies in the farthest stall and locked it,
washed his hands and the second man’s revolver, and walked out, now
dually armed.
With
collected, composed steps he walked onto the dance floor, met with a
rush of cool air—a welcome switch from the stagnant bathroom. The
music was loud and Franco’s men were all enjoying themselves—enjoying
the ecstasy hits and female escorts they were dancing with. They
were completely oblivious that in all the pulsing and grinding of the
dance that Nathan Valentine was not merely being shoved against them,
but he was extracting their weapons from their holsters as they danced
and moved in a drug induced stupor. Each weapon he took was placed in
between his undershirt and his button down, and would not be noticed
underneath his jacket, at least not by all the drunk and fried people
in the club. After an hour Valentine worked his way back to bar and
slid unnoticed into a back hallway and into a closet for the third or
so time. He emptied his clothing of the guns he had extracted, and had
now amassed quite a collection, but this was still only a fraction of
the firepower that was still in the club, but it would at least disarm
some of the men, and give him plenty of weapons. Most of the pistols
were the 9mm Berettas Franco issued to his men, so he extracted the
magazines, disassembled the guns and left them in garbage can. He
tucked the extra ammo into his belt. He now had two Berettas with
magazines to spare, a .38 revolver, a Desert Eagle with five magazines,
and two Walther P22s.
He used duct
tape and taped around the Walthers’ handles, then taped another flap of
tape to the handles of the guns to his forearms. He then folded the
flap back so the barrels were facing towards him. This way he could
flip them out of his shirt sleeves for swift use. He secured them with
pieces of rolled tape, then pulled his unbuttoned sleeves over them.
The .38 was in his left jacket pocket, and the Berettas were tucked
into the front of his pants, and the Desert Eagle was tucked in back.
All magazines were secured in his belt, which had slots specifically
tailored for this purpose.
Now he had to find the man with the Tarantula tattoo.
When he
reentered the main part of the club this time he was ready to deal
death like a pack of playing cards. Just like poker, life in the City
was a gamble. Everything seemed to slow down, the heartbeats in his
chest sounded like drums in his ears. The people became a blur, each
with a face of malice and hate, each a potential enemy, each a
potential body to be placed in the ground. He spotted the man with the
Tarantula tattoo. His hair was bleached white and slicked back, his
eyes serpentine and ever watchful. Valentine made his way towards him,
hand in his pocket holding the .38, ready to fire if the need arose.
The man in with the
Tarantula tattoo noticed him approaching and tensed up, sensing danger,
his fingers reaching into his jacket and light resting on the handle of
his Steyr 9mm Special Purpose machine Pistol. Valentine was now in
front of him and asked over the roar of the club,
“You can tell me
where Franco is now, or you can tell me in two seconds when you have a
ruptured abdominal cavity.”
Without
responding the man drew his weapon and fired four three-shot
bursts at Valentine, but the first two went over Nathan as he dodged
just under them and the second two went to the ceiling after he took 3
shots to the gut from the .38 which successfully skewed his accuracy.
The next think the Tattooed Man saw was Valentine hovering over him as
he took a knee to talk to him. His goons had noticed the shot but
didn’t notice who had been hit.
“I’m not
telling you shit, you fucker.” Muttered the man through his last gasps.
“I know. I just
want your cell phone. Last time I saw you I was sixteen and bleeding in
an alley…” he paused to take the man’s Steyr SPP and his phone out of
his chest pocket.
“…bleeding
from twenty six bullet wounds, and twelve of them from this gun,” he
continued. “Considered the favor returned. Vio con dios, amigo, and
I’ll see you hell.”
The man didn’t
have time to scream before twenty three bullets entered his chest. One
bullet for every one that Valentine suffered: the rest of the magazine
from his own Steyr, and the count evened off by a Beretta. Every single
goon was in movement now, and so was Nathan. He leaped from the bloody
floor onto the bar, a Beretta in each hand.
Valentine was
able to pinpoint the goons amongst the women diving, heads covered with
Olympic athleticism, and other causal dancers due to the fact that
every goon on the dance floor was now reaching for his gun…and finding
out it wasn’t there. Shadows now danced like an afterimage of the
minutes before as the lights flashed in conflict with the muzzle fire.
One hired gun after the other fell dead as Valentine unrelentingly
opened fire, hitting with surgical accuracy every target he aimed for;
a product of ten years or marksmanship practice. The armed guards that
were at the bar earlier were now firing at Valentine from behind a
table, but the alcohol had impaired their aim just a bit to much.
Nathan dove from the bar after dropping the spend Berettas and swung
his arm back to grab the Desert Eagle. He had fired three rounds by the
time he hit the floor, and then emptied the magazine at his assailants.
Each shot was deafening, and the table couldn’t prevent the .50 caliber
bullets from hitting every one of the men. The bullets had ripped
through the table flinging splinters just before hitting their targets.
The dance
floor was now empty of all life except for Valentine who now rose to
his feet, a black night in the middle of the chessboard where every
other piece had fallen. The music still blared, and the lights
illuminated glimpses of dead bodies and the smoke from Nathan’s guns
rising to the ceiling like a priest’s incense in a temple of
destruction. The ring of the bullet casings hitting the floor still
sounded in Valentines ears as he stood stoical and icy, surveying his
handiwork. The pistol dropped from his hands and he rolled and lit a
cigarette as he sat down at a table and poured himself a glass of
straight bourbon from a bottle that someone had bought. The cops would
be there in the next few minutes, but Nathan would be gone long before
they would be able to catch a trace from him, and no finger prints
would be found, because none existed for Nathan. They had been burned
off with acid weeks ago.
He finished
his glass of bourbon and headed out back, it was time for this black
knight to checkmate the king. Sirens could now be heard several miles
away. Nathan stepped in to the alley. One could smell the stale beer
smell of vomit, and all that could be heard was the dripping of rain
from the gutters to the sewer. The alley was still, and eerie, like the
eye of a storm. Valentine just realized that there had been more men in
the bar than he had killed, and now knew he had just walked out into an
ambush.
“Alright you
feck. You’re going to die for that spectacle. The pain you’re going to
feel when we get you upstairs will feel like playtime compared to what
its about to feel like when I blow your kneecaps off.”
It was the
bouncer, and he had a shotgun. Seven other men stood behind him, with
an array of weaponry. Valentine had the creeping sensation of panic,
the first he had felt all night. Was this panic, or was this………fear.
|
He couldn’t stop thinking about how ridiculous all the violence was as he loaded his gun. With each round that clicked into the magazine he got a vision of each body that would be clicked into the ground. The 9mm semi-automatic weapon, finished in chrome with an ebony handle appealed to him the way that Asian women seem to for a select group of undersexed men. Once the first pistol was loaded, he tucked it into his pants just above men’s main weapon, and loaded two more.
He was six foot one. Long dark hair. He would have looked like a Gentleman’s Quarterly model had he shaved the night before. He wore sunglasses, even at night, as he was now. It was a rare occurrence that someone would see his eyes, an occurrence only shared by a select few women that had found there way into what was left of his heart, and a select few victims he that he wanted to see the hate in eyes before he shot them between theirs. Sometimes they were one in the same. The lights in his house were always on. He kept 100-watt bulbs in every fixture. Every window had heavy blinds pulled in front of them, and the television was always on. The TV always seemed to be in an argument with the radio, the compact disc player, or a power tool.
The dilapidated state of his house was an amazing contrast to his appearance, well dressed in suits that cost more than most people in L.A.’s lives. It was his whole life. He was cool and collected, and his world was a shambles; a portrait in chaos. He had money, probably millions. He could have afforded a nice loft in New York, a large house in Malibu, or a ranch in Texas. Truth was, he didn’t care. To him, it wasn’t what was around him, but what was him.
The violence was ridiculous, but he couldn’t stop it. No one could once they were involved. Violence is something ethereal that exists in the air. It’s not an action, it’s elemental. History is a beast whose blood is violence. Evolution revolves around a violent struggle for survival; nations are made and broken through violence. There were those who embraced it, and those who wished they could. It seemed funny to him that even anti gun activists caused riots. Ironic. If violence was a river, this man was a piece of driftwood.
He looked in the mirror, slicked his hair back and tightened his tie. He had two pistols in shoulder holsters, two in hip holsters, and one tucked in his pants. The entire back of his suede belt was lined with extra magazines. None of this would be seen once his sport coat and trench coat were on. He shimmered, garbed in slick charcoal black. It was time to dance.
He opened up the trapdoor in the middle of his gunroom and jumped down, tails of his trench coat following close behind. He dropped about two meters and landed on his feet. He was now in his garage area. From there he took a door which opened up to an artificial dumpster and entered the World. It was raining and dank as it had been since the beginning of his memory. Water beaded up on his sunglasses as he stared down the cold of the night with his even colder stare.
Quickly and steadily he walked deeper into the night. What was his goal? The gangs and mafias of the City had been at war for a long time. While they were fighting each other, this man was fighting them both. Not as a hero, not as crime fighter, but more like a child whose big brothers had gone to play without him, and he just wanted a piece of the fun. Violence was his drug.
As he walked shouts and gunshots became audible, at first soft like the whisper of a lover beckoning you to the bedroom, then louder, and then a scream. Muzzle flashes were the only light offered aside from the dim streetlights. The lights may as well been lightning bugs attempting to illuminate the caverns of the earth. Pointless, but the effort was something. He stood and watched as men ran and fired their weapons. Slowly he drew his first two pistols. His fingers softly touched the triggers, as if making love to them. With a firm squeeze, the silence was ripped to pieces and a little slice of day was added to the night as the muzzle flash lit the world on fire casting shadows looking of demons and jagged castles.
Past experiences had turned this into an addiction. If he wasn’t killing, he couldn’t function.
* * * * * *
The bell rang as the man with sunglasses walked into a dingy tattoo parlor. The artist took his glance from the pornographic magazine he was reading and redirected it over his shoulder. One he realize who it was he returned to what he was doing, then got a out a needle and the black ink.
“How many tonight?” he asked the man in sunglasses.
“Seventeen.” Was the reply.
The man in sunglasses slowly and absent-mindedly removed his coat and tie. He took off the shoulder holsters and unbuttoned his shirt, starting at the top and working down, just how he killed. He removed his undershirt and revealed a myriad of black lines exactly three fourths of an inch in length clustered in fours, with a longer fifth mark through the middle, starting at the upper left corner and slicing diagonally downward. They were tally marks, and they were in the hundreds. He replaced the shoulder holsters onto his bare chest and sat in the artist’s chair.
“You’re running out of room,” said the artist. “We’ll have to draw them smaller after this.”
There was no response from the man. He just sat and focused as the needle worked its way through his skin placing the permanent kill count on his flesh. The war had made him, and now he made the war. |
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Welcome. Here you can view each new episode of the series "City of Dogs" as written by Michael Cameron. Enjoy.
Aug. 31st, 2005 @ 02:40 pm
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