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***
Justice. It's a difficult word to shout out in the heat of a fight, to throw it to the rescued, or just to convince yourself, helping you set yourself up for a tough fight.
Whenever I step out of the window of my room, to feel the stench of the city at night permeating under my mask, I say the same thing in my head to just keep going.
Best job in the world. The irony of what's being said, or the insanity of yet another mask-wearing freak? Probably a mixture of both, because if I were a normal person, would I be jumping on rooftops with a hook, climbing into sewers, or scouring old, crumbling warehouses? Of course I wouldn't.
As much as fans would like it to be, a hero's job isn't just about epic fights, chases and rescuing "princesses from castles". Most of my time was spent searching. Reading small traces, a veritable breadcrumb collection, by which I found the bastards, descending on them like a kite.
And every time, digging in the mud, looking for car tyres, or interviewing witnesses, extracting information with threats and a frightening atmosphere, I feared only one thing - to be late. Not to be on time, to be stuck in one place or simply to take the wrong path, which would eventually give the criminals a head start.It didn't happen to me often, but there were bad nights when, instead of raiding the brothel, I'd just walk around the dilapidated buildings, writhing under my mask in a foul stench.
Today was no exception. Matt Murdoch handed me the request, giving me fair warning not to even hope for a successful outcome, but I took the job anyway. A couple of questions here, a little follow-up there, a tenner to a bum to show me the way, and I was on my way to rescue Mitchell Durk, a young lad whose father had got mixed up with the dealers and now owed them big money.
I'm holding a photograph of the boy. Handsome, I'd say handsome. If you met him on the street, you'd never believe he was real.
A drop rolled down from the brim of my hat, smearing on Mitchell's smiling picture.
As luck would have it, or the strains of tabloid novels, a torrent of water fell from the sky, washing away some of the stench and filth from the streets of New York. Grey clouds collided with each other now and then, shaking windows and frightening children, forcing them to get under a blanket with their heads.
Slippery roofs, heavy coats and a hat that kept flying away.... I didn't like it anymore. My senses were chiming in, warning me that today was going to be one of my least favourite days.
Brooklyn, a social housing neighbourhood. There's no place worse for any white person who happens to wander in here. Although non-native blacks will suffer much the same fate if the ghetto dwellers get wind of their foreignness.
It's a scary place, with reports for the police every day, but only a few brave men venture into Marcy House, eager to impose law and order.
A few burning rubbish cans light up the entrance to the courtyards. The scum are gathered around them, warming their hands over the flames.
A couple of dead dogs lie next to the road. I'm sure they'd have been butchered long ago, but the car that hit them is standing right next to them, right in front of the entrance to one of the high-rise buildings, music blaring from the bass.
"I hate rap music."
The mere sight of this place made my fists start to itch.... But it was too soon. I certainly wouldn't have the strength to take down an entire neighbourhood at once.
A shot rang out from somewhere in the back of the buildings. Bang, bang, bang. But he wasn't alone for long.
A woman's scream. A death scream. Cut off too abruptly, and the string of gunshots continued.
A cursed place full of rotting meat on the body of our glorious city. It's at times like this that questions begin to arise in my mind, whether it's worth fighting the consequences if it's better to cut away all the diseased flesh. Tear down the whole neighbourhood, forcing the blacks to spread out to different parts of the city. Break their gangs into small groups, forcing them to adapt and survive where the white mob runs everything. That's a good plan. If the amount of bodies didn't make my eyes black.
-I'm a hero.
I tell myself that a lot. The stronger I get, the more of New York's terrible secrets I learn.
The cat hook works perfectly. There can be no mistakes this time. No nonsense and no jokes, it's too dangerous at Marcy House to let myself relax.
Sneaking into the nearest attic, I make my way to the other side of the house to peer into the courtyard.
A dead body, and more than one. Too much rain washes away the gushing blood and it seems as if the grief blackened earth is moving beneath their bodies. A gruesome sight, filled with some mythical overtones.
Nearby a car, colourful and painted, a body half out of its open door. The guy's hands clutched the steering wheel, keeping it from falling face-first into the mud. The hand of the hooker sitting next to him is stuck in his trousers. She's got three new holes in her head, died quickly, without fear or pain.
All around, the lights in the windows burn quietly. You can see people getting ready for bed, an old lady stirring soup, and teenagers scoring joints. Intertwined bodies flicker from behind some poorly drawn curtains.
"Why not get laid while bullets whistle outside the window."
Accumulated water rolled off the brim of his hat, splashing against his coat. The mask was soaked through, clinging tightly to my face. I had a bad feeling, a very bad feeling.
I orientated myself by the graffiti and found a separate house, belonging to yet another tawdry Black Tigers, a drug dealing and prostitution ring.
From roof to roof, over slippery tiles, I make my way to the right place, entering the abode of vice and despair. Everything in here breathed these emotions, along with the cloyingly sweet flavouring of spring woods.
Muffled music to create atmosphere, quiet bickering of bandits, so as not to disturb their own customers.
Ordinary gangsters, who wouldn't have been reached any time soon, given the freaks and mutant subversives that crawl out into the light.
But they'd recently crossed the line, and now I had to deal with them.
From various floors come the feigned moans or frightened screams of women driven to work in brothels. They beg for help and forgiveness, but their masters have no pity, especially for those of a different skin colour.The red twilight blurs tones and shadows, making it difficult to navigate properly. The huge high-rise is connected by a network of corridors and staircases, but sometimes entire floors are littered with junk, blocking passageways and forcing you to go back and start over.
-Hey, mate, don't wander round the floors. If you want more meat, you'd better...
He couldn't finish, and he never would again. I break his jaw with a sharp blow, turning the lower part into splinters. The bastard's mouth must have been full of teeth.
Spitting blood, he can't even scream for help. With a sluggish howl, one of the gang squirms on the floor, holding his face with trembling hands.
-Tell me something...
And so I'm on my way again. The other side of the house, the furthest part of the house, closed off to the others. You can't get there through the attic, it's so full of rubbish in that part that it's easier to get through the crowd below than to clear the metres of rubble.
My new friend told me not much, probably I should have interrogated him first and then beat him, but, as practice shows, such scum understands only one language and until you talk to them in it, they will wiggle, lie and twist.
We had to catch a couple more of these "animals", crippling and permanently depriving them of the opportunity to continue their bandit life.
And a thunderstorm was unfolding in the sky. Glittering lightning illuminated my silhouette, sometimes frightening the residents of Marcy House looking out the window.
The thud of soles leaving wet footprints. The den of the Tigers' bandit leader was filthy. Garish paintings, carpet burnt in many places, vomit in corridor corners, and sometimes someone's faeces. Walls painted in the classic ghetto style, with bright colours and huge nonsensical letters.
And tiger faces everywhere, all different sizes.
-It's annoying.
The stench was getting worse. The closer I got to the end of my journey, the more the smell hit my brain. The moisture in the air only added to the effect, making it harder to breathe. The handkerchief rubbed against my neck, which was the first time I'd felt that way since I'd bought it. It wasn't like that.
The "scent" was definitely coming from the door. I felt that the moment I opened the door, a real ambergris would hit me in the face. A light smoke, with a pungent odour of marijuana, was escaping through the cracks and jambs. It was so quiet in here... Even the voices coming from the other floors I could hear better than the only occupant in the room in front of me.
-Silently or...
I didn't want to make any noise. I'd have to do it carefully, I'd already made too much of a mess, and if I started making noise now, everyone would come here, regardless of gang conflicts.
It's a simple lock, like a Finnish disc lock, the kind I learned to open as a kid in a previous life. A small screwdriver made from a penknife easily enters the hole under the influence of Qi, squeezing out all the fasteners and discs on the other side. The iron creaks and bends, the nasty sounds hitting my ears sharply, but the door is still as quiet as ever, which only makes me fear for the fate of the missing man.
The door gave way with difficulty, and I had to work hard just to push it open and peer inside the flat.
-Shit, it stinks," I couldn't even keep from crying out. I wanted to pull off my mask and throw up, but as soon as I bent down, I saw the reason why the door was so hard to open, -Bitch....
A corpse. A huge negro with his head bashed in. The blood had long since dried around it, and the body itself reeked of stench. White T-shirt was covered with blood, even in places where it couldn't drain from his head. Dead about a day, maybe more.
-Oh, shit...
Tearing my gaze away from the back of the dead man's head, I looked around the room, struggling to keep the urge at bay.
Four more Tigers lay in various poses across the room, glistening with a variety of wounds.
Crouching down beside the couple, I slowly and carefully raise my hands with the murder weapons clutched in them.
-They killed each other. The wounds converge with the weapons in their hands... Some of them.
Checking nostrils, gums. It's only when I get to the elbows that I find the first answer to what happened.
-Heroin? Or something stronger. So they were stoned. The flat was a mess. Under the body of one of the "tigers" I find a glass coffee table broken into shards, mixed with ampoules, spoons and syringes, - here is the dope. But where's the mastermind?
A gloomy twilight illuminated the flat, the lights were extinguished everywhere, and only in the corridor a light bulb hanging from a lone wire flickered, luring the few moths.
It was so quiet in here, but as I approached the second room I heard a familiar hissing. Peeking round the corner, I see a blasted television blinking with
the classic static that lit up the room and a man sitting on the sofa.
Going round the resting man in a circle, looking carefully at any movement, but it was worth only to go round the sofa, as I still could not stand it and, rushing to the window, opened it to the full.
-Shit... Bitch," I pulled back my mask, opening my mouth and nose, sucking in the humid night air, exposing my face to the drops dripping from the roof, "oh, I need a cigarette.Without closing the shutters, I jerkily crawled into my pocket, pulling out a crumpled pack under the light of the flickering screen. The flick of a lighter in the semi-darkness with a pile of corpses.....
- "Best job in the world..."
The first puff helps clear your head. The nasty taste of nicotine spreads down your throat and nose, blocking out all tastes and smells.
-God...
Returning to the body of the head of the Tigers, I pull the Negro's head up to the ceiling, opening his eyelids and shining the lighter in front of his face. There's no reaction, no breathing either... The pulse is so faint it feels more like a morass than reality.
There are a couple of syringes sticking out of the big guy's arm, as well as his thigh. Half-opened sachets, lighters, spoons and other junkie paraphernalia are scattered around. There are a couple of broken bongs, the shards of which are stained with blood, and at his feet, the gun that apparently ended the confrontation with the others, has fallen out of his hands.
He's completely naked. Covered in tattoos, his powerful body had languished and slowly shriveled, killed by drugs and an idle lifestyle. A packet of condoms was clutched in one hand and used ones lay at his feet.
-The filthy bastard....
I don't know if he was alive, but I wanted to finish him off. I wanted to open the hook and in one move, smash the thing's head in, ending its existence forever. I wanted to vent my anger, forever severing the connection to the word hero.
-No... No, no, no, no," the baton that had been brought in to strike disappeared under the coat, "let George deal with.... With all of this.
My gaze flicked to the second body in the room. The one I'd come for, but hadn't got there in time. A day or two late, so the poor bloke finished what the scum in the flat had led him to do.
Next to the dead junkie's body on the floor was Mitchell's body, or rather what was left of it.
Hair cut short and a mask of horror and despair on his face. His mutilated body was too much to bear, so they had to cover him with the nearest blanket they could find.
In the palm of the boy's hand was clutched the shard of bong that had torn his throat open on his way to a better world.
I wanted to say something, to do something. But words and emotions left me, leaving only indifference and coldness with which I set to work. Searching for clues, pictures and notes so that next time I'd be ready.... Next time.
-New York City Police Department Operator, speaking.
Standing around the corner near the pay phone, I watched as a cavalcade of police cars swarmed into Marcy House, scaring away the gangs and thugs, forcing the old owners of the place to lay low.
Just one call to George Stacey and the introduction of his own nickname, and the righteous lieutenant rises to the challenge of a huge crowd of people that goodness and justice should be spread.
But only it is too late. Already the criminals are dead, and the unfortunate victim has long since gone to the place she believed in when she was alive. The taste of decay and bitterness in my mouth, it makes me only sigh sorrowfully, saying that such a thing could have happened to anyone and no one is to blame for not being able to save the boy's life.
Another mistake, another failure and too high a price to pay for failure. If I were better, smarter and more experienced.... Could I have come before Mitchell Durk broke down under the events that had befallen him? Would I have been able to convince him to move on with his life after something like this?
Too many questions for one day. I urgently needed a drink, a bottle of my father's bourbon to drown out my emotions. Cigarettes didn't help, because I could no longer taste them, having smoked an entire pack in almost an hour.
-The best job in the world... New York, you'll never change, will you?
I hold my head up to the sky and let the last raindrops wash away the stink of this damn place. My whole body was soaking wet, and I felt like I wanted to cleanse myself, so I threw the cloak off my shoulders, letting the storm work its magic, taking away what was left of my memories of Marcy House along with the sweat and the stench.
(What do you say? Good doesn't always win out and shit happens. I'll get back to a more positive narrative key tomorrow)
***
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