While no single faction or proponent of evil may be blamed for the entirety of darkness in our world, they each contribute their parts. While the Devil is fictitious and there is no single entity that supplies the world with hate and pain, we as humans do our part through neglect, prejudice, fear, perversion, and all the other traits we choose to deny and conceal. Some do more than others. These people, overly hateful in their own ways, form the web that restrains humanity from evolving on any type of a spiritual or intellectual level. They are the diseases that keep us too weak to help ourselves.
There are others who, like white blood cells, do what they can to counteract this infection. There are good people in our world who spend everyday trying to help others and to thwart evil through good deeds. They help those in need. They protect the innocent from the violent. They heal the sick and injured. They lay down their lives for good causes. Unfortunately, sometimes, good deeds are not enough to incite change. Sometimes, for the world to accept change, a declaration must be scrawled in blood. Too often we don’t notice the need for change until it is the blood of the innocent painted on the walls. Society slumbers until too many have been slaughtered, and then wakes only to fight back in an unorganized and hasty fashion, often still with one eye closed. This must change.
Murder is murder. There is no escaping this. Violence is meaningless without an intellect behind it. Once you have spilled blood, whether a righteous kill or self defense or accidentally in a moment of blinding rage, the blood is on your hands, and will be forever. This is the burden. This is the trick, the catch, the game, the fact, the shame that comes with being awake. Movies make it look so cool and easy. Soldiers will tell you a different story. Even soldiers have war and orders and adrenaline to shield them from some of the moral and emotional kickback of killing, and we should be grateful for the burdens they bear for our freedoms. Vigilantes are of a wholly different nature though. They are either singular, and most likely sociopaths, or part of a mob mentality lead by hate and revenge. The term vigilante comes from the word vigilant, which means watchful and protective. Very few are capable and committed enough to act as true vigilantes, fighting alone against the evil and corrupt. He is one of them. He perseveres against the thousands of arms holding him back from the fight, holding him down in his place amongst the blind mob. He is not blind. The struggle, the visions of reality, and the pressure to do what must be done are all taking their toll though, and slowly changing him, splintering him into the sharp pieces he uses to fight back.
Tonight he wears dark cargo pants, black boots, and a long sleeve black shirt with a couple buttons near the neck. In a cool way he almost looks military. He blends in perfectly in the dark basement atmosphere that houses the biggest night-scene in the city. As he purveys the room he makes sure that the usual suspects are present. The strung-out bartenders are pouring drinks as fast as their shaking hands can, spilling half as much as what makes it into the glass. Most of them got started here thinking they might make a couple extra bucks at night, but soon succumbed to the lack of sleep, the pressure to perform both here and at their day jobs, and the easy access to drugs that comes with tending bar. They are among the lost souls who can no longer fight the flow and simply drift with currents of darkness and despair.
The business men, in town for this meeting or that convention or just passing through on their way to a satellite office, sit in the darker corners with girls on their laps, drinks in their hands, and Cheshire grins on their faces. Tonight’s company will only cost them a pittance, and it is worth a little cash to have this kind of fun and not worry about their wives finding out. The young girls catering to these gentlemen are merely more of the “lost”. Whatever their varied sad stories may be, they all have the same climax and the same conclusion. The apex of their lives is here giving sweet passion to the undeserving men, whom they pray will see something worthwhile in them, or will at least leave them enough cash to get that next fix, to keep the heat turned on, or to buy the necessities for their babies.
The owner sits at low table surrounded by low overstuffed chairs and loveseats. He has done more than turn a blind eye to the parasites harbored here in his establishment. He actually caters to the stronger predators that frequent his bar, in the hopes that they will protect him, treat him as one of their own, maybe even like him. The truth he refuses to see is that they will only hold back from destroying him as long as they still have use for him. Still, he sits and shmoozes, giving them rounds on the house, and making sure his prettiest cocktail waitresses give them plenty of service. The predators find a sick humor in this, as they themselves own half the ass on the street outside. They themselves are ultimately responsible for the drugs that keep these lost souls down here, scrounging for more, and drinking away the sorrows that come with losing your job, your way, your kids, your life, all for the hot kiss of a good high.
With the few exceptions of couples and friends who wander into this bar for music and dancing, everyone here is already dead, their bodies just haven’t stopped moving yet.
He walks a circuit around the barroom, and orders a club soda with extra limejuice. When the bartender looks at him with a raised eyebrow he says “I’m the D D tonight”.
She shrugs. Not only does she drive home drunk and high every night, she couldn’t really care less about this guy.
He takes his drink and does another lap around the room. This time he counts his steps from the entrance to the table where the owner sits with his fiendish company. He walks past nonchalantly and counts his steps to the men’s room. Inside the restroom he enters the last stall, latches the door, and pulls some toys from his cargo pockets. These toys are quite simple, and homemade. One is made from a condom, tampon, some quick setting concrete, and string. A couple inches up the string is another tiny ball, then several more feet of string. He flushes this down the toilette and feeds out the string until it comes to a knot he tied before to mark a certain distance. He ties the string around the toilet seat and flips the lid shut. The second toy looks a lot like an air freshener that you would plug into a wall outlet. It is in fact a handy device for turning on lamps and other appliances with a tiny one button remote. He bought it at a home improvement store for about ten dollars, and it was easy enough to modify for his needs. He plugs it into the outlet on the wall.
The simple fact is that it is very, very simple to cause panic and mayhem. Turn off the lights, fling a little poo, and all hell breaks loose. The blueprints to any bar, restaurant, or store are attainable, if you know how to go about it. While unclogging a troublesome bit of plumbing can be quite a difficult task, plugging a pipe is amazingly easy. Electricity holds a level of magic in the average mind, but any electrician knows how easy it can be to blow a fuse box, or other wise cripple a power source. These are the just the details of how he is going to play his game tonight. The why is hopefully already obvious. He has been planning this for weeks and now it is time to take action.
He pulls a mouth guard from his pocket and puts it in his teeth, wiggling his lips and baring his new plastic grin to get it set properly. Then he pulls the last two items from his pockets. They are heavy for their size. Two black leather gloves with padded knuckles and beanbags sewn to the palms. He stitched them together himself, filling the palms with lead shot. The added weight will increase his need for accuracy, but will also add to the impact hopefully meaning he will have to throw fewer punches. He is ready now, as straightens his shirt and picks up the tiny remote with his left hand, and his lime soda with the other. He walks out of the bathroom and sways a little, pretending to be drunk. He takes fumbling steps toward the VIP section where his targets await.
The couches are arranged in something of a horseshoe, with the Alpha dog sitting in the chair that is the bend. He is one of the meanest and most venomous of the lecherous committee, which is why they treat him as their leader until another takes the opportunity to stab him in the back. At his right the owner sits with a nervous smile, sharing a couch with a large well dressed thug (one of the cities better known pimps). On the ringleader’s left hand there is his bookie, responsible for taking not only bets, but “security” taxes, and cuts from all the other schemes and hustles. Next to the bookie is a younger man, lean, possibly protection or possibly the latest “horse” they plan on gambling with in some underground matches.
Our hero stumbles toward the table innocently until he bumps it with his leg, shaking the drinks resting on top and soliciting barks and groans from the men sitting there. He looks surprised and apologetic as he raises his hands, keeping up the guise of drunken innocence. Just as the men check their tempers, he smiles. They don’t immediately realize what is happening, because his mouth guard is white and black and made to look like a grin missing a couple teeth. At first they smile and almost begin to laugh, but he doesn’t give them time. He splashes his limejuice in the young fighter’s face, and throws his empty tumbler at the owner’s face. Just as the large pimp shoots up from the low couch he puts him back down in it with one heavy blow directly to the nose. He hears scuffling behind him, and as he had expected, the table at his back was full of young thugs who were also in league with these devils. This was what he had the remote for. Only, when he clicked it, nothing happened.
“Shit.”
In an instant, he hops onto the table, barely dodging a chair that swung crashing into the floor where he had been standing. He takes the two steps to the back end of the table and, in true footballer fashion, kicks the Big Dog’s teeth into the back of his throat. He clicks the remote furiously. Nothing. Swinging his leg around backward he catches the accountant’s chin with his heal and spins his head to the side with a sickly crunch. More clicking. More nothing. Only an instant has passed since he hit the owner with the glass, and the man is holding his forehead dazed with pain. A swift kick to his dome puts him out of his pain, at least until he wakes up.
Facing the startled room and cluster of goons scrambling toward his table, he smacks the remote into the palm of his other hand, and clicks it again. The lights flicker and go out, and the music dies. The room is nearly pitch black and filled with protests and yells and the rumbling sound as angry men start to flip the table he is standing on. He lunges at them and takes two down in his fall. Quickly he punches one in the face and wonders if the impact between his weighted fist and the concrete floor has killed the bastard. The other manages to land a solid punch to the side of his jaw, but our vigilante has the high ground so the punch is not as devastating as it could have been. He puts that kid to sleep with two fists, one to either eye. By now the other goons are doing the math and figuring out where he is on the floor amidst their comrades. He brings one down to his level with a swift punch to delicates. While the poor shmuck wheezes and tries to find the breath to cry, our gladiator uses his shoulders as leverage to stand and then knees him square in the face. Confusion is setting in and people who would not otherwise get involved are stumbling into the battleground. It is time to exit. He quickly finds the table and orients himself in the dark. He begins quickly walking toward the bathroom, counting the steps in his head. Just as he starts though, he hears the fighter behind him. No longer debilitated by the limejuice, he is groping in the dark searching for vengeance. The room takes on an eerie blue-white glow as people start using their cell phones as flashlights. Why is it that people who can barely afford a roof, utilities, and food, always have the latest and greatest cell phones?
The fighter sees him and pursues him through the crowd to the bathroom. Both smash unapologetically through the throngs of drunks who are using the blackout as an excuse to grope each other. He makes it to the bathroom first, with just enough time to crash into the stall, stand on the closed toilet lid, and yank the string. The plug has set by now, and while it is not solid, it is good enough. Pulling the string sets off a small charge in the other ball, creating back blast and blowing septic water out of every toilet and sink in the bar. Immediately he hears screams of disgust from the ladies room and the two men standing at the urinals. The blast from his toilet is deflected by the lid he is standing on. Just as he smirks at the thought of what he has done, the fighter steps in front of his stall, illuminated only by the green light of the emergency exit sign. He hadn’t expected this. Fair fights are not really as cool as everyone thinks.
He tries to swing the stall door shut but the fighter kicks it in against him, throwing him off balance for a second. Putting one foot on the wall behind him, he lunges from the top of the toilet to tackle his opponent. The fighter dodges, but not by enough, as they both crash to the wet tile floor side by side. They both scramble to their feet, our hero hurrying to get into any kind of position to throw one of his devastating punches. He tries too soon and lands a fist on the fighter’s ribs. It is a glancing blow that hardly slows the professional. On their feet, the boxer lands a solid blow to his side and follows it quickly with a fist to the ear. That punch to the ear never lands though, as our underdog puts his arms up in protection and the fighter finds out why he is wearing long sleeves. The long sleeves of his black shirt conceal stiff bracers fashioned from Kevlar and metal strips. Our friend fells the boxer with a combination to the gut and a hook under his chin. As the boxer slumps against the wall and slides to the wet floor, our hero pulls a long narrow spike from his bracer and slides it through the fighter’s hand, pinning it to his chest. It isn’t deep enough to puncture a lung or otherwise kill the mercenary, only to cause excruciating pain.
He leaves him there, unconscious, with his hand over his heart, pledging in his coma to be a better person. Or maybe not. Either way, a ribbon hangs from the spike with a message. “Villains… Leave while you can”. When he wrote that, he thought it might be a bit dramatic, but so was everything else he had done tonight. If the scum of this town believed he was insane, that should only give them more reason to fear and flee.
He blends into the waves of people flowing toward the exit, and once he is out in the night he escapes unnoticed, hailing a cab, and riding off into the night. His work for now has been done, and when he wakes in the morning it will be an entirely different part of him that dresses up for a day a of shopping, people watching, and quiet, peaceful vigilance.
