Walking

Shall we take a walk?

  This city has always been more beautiful when the sun sets. Shadows linger just beyond the reach of the incandescent streetlamps as they vainly spew their gaudy light outward onto the sidewalks and avenues. The buildings rise on every side, grasping upward into the darkened sky, made all the more opaque by the near-lethal smog layer. At least at night it wasn’t as noticeable.
        I don’t know why I walk anymore. It isn’t safe. The availability of firearms and lack of economic opportunity in our “fair” city make for a relatively unsafe environment for the seemingly affluent. Any punk looking to better his situation can wrap his fingers around the handle of a forty-five and grease some yuppie for a handful of cash.
        I reach up a hand to brush a stray strand of hair from my eyes as a sudden breath of wind displaces it. My fingers rake through the long brown tresses. My calf-length leather duster creaks as my arm moves. My pace doesn’t slacken.
        I remember when this was a nice part of town. There were nice apartments here once, a couple of independent stores. Families once walked these streets. Women didn’t have to look over their shoulders nearly so often. But now this place is a hive.
        She walked these streets with me. We had passed this way on our way to our favorite little diner. We were young and struggling then, and in love. Maybe that’s why I still walk, though my chauffer would be more than willing to drive me. Men worth over a billion dollars should not be walking alone after midnight in the slums.
        I do my best to remain inconspicuous. After all, it isn’t safe. Although nothing really is anymore. Not when you can get all of your minerals in one breath of the fetid atmosphere. Or when you can find hit men in the yellow pages. It always pays to be careful.
        My sturdy black boots thud softly on the aging pavement. The tails of my duster fan behind me as I walk with a purpose. As I look down, I can remember her feet next to mine as we walked hand in hand here. I remember the things we used to talk about on this walk, silly little things like the weather and how we hated our professors. I can hear her laugh echoing along the cracked and worn pavement.
        I don’t know why I still feel the need to walk. She won’t walk with me anymore.
        This place is a hive. I see the hooker on the corner eye me with expectancy, hoping that I’ll ask her back to my place, give her a good tip. Her pimp watches from the shadow of the alley across the street. I shoot him a warning glare, he backs up a little further into the shadows. He knows my face from the holo-vids. He knows who I am.
        He’s heard a couple of the stories….
        I turn the corner onto a dark and lonely street I’ve walked a thousand times. I pass the same buildings that I knew fifteen years ago. Boarded up windows instead of plate glass, caution tape criss-crossing more than one doorway.
        It used to be such a nice neighborhood. I’ll never know what went wrong. Drugs, lack of education, a system that hasn’t worked for years, corruption among the elite. I fund several rescue missions around this area. Few people visit them, but they remain open. I figure she’d want me to do more. She’d want me to save these people.
        I see the first man step out of the alleyway, holding a hand out like a cop directing traffic. I see his two buddies in the dark.
        “Whoa, there man. Where you goin’ in such a hurry?”
        I look up for a second and smile.
        “Hey man, I don’t know if you’re from around here, but this is Eye-Fiver territory.”
        I pull to a stop, my left hand on my hip. I look impatiently into the eyes of the burly youth. He’s maybe nineteen, bullnecked, muscular. His nose has been broken a few times. The faintest traces of a moustache show above his lips. His eyes are sharp and focused.
        I make no effort to respond to his statement, I merely do my best to appear intrigued. I figured I’d be stopped.
        “Do you up-towners know the Eye-Fivers?” He points to a crude patch of an eye with five radiating spikes sewn onto his oversized jacket.
        I smile the most cynical of my smiles. My adrenal glands are poised upon the brink. His jacket is lumpy enough to suggest that he’s packing heat.
        “Yes.” I say.
        “Good. Then you know that we charge a small fee for slick little rich boys to pass through our turf, right?” His voice holds a little air of menace behind a greasy false-amiability.
        “Yes, I do.” I do my best to keep my tone neutral.
        “Wonderful. I think the contents of your wallet will do nicely…or maybe one of daddy’s credit cards?” His voice is lilting and triumphant. His buddies giggle in the shadows.
        “No. I give through other channels.” My voice remains flat.
        “Hey w—“
        “Thanks anyway.”
        “No man, you don’t understand. This isn’t an offer.” He reaches into his baggy pants as his buddies move out from the shadows. One with greasy black hair and a weasely face brandishes a chain, a short, fat one holds a switchblade.
My right hand finds the familiar basket-hilt of my rapier before he has even gotten his hand to his waistband. The sickening scrape of the thin blade leaving the scabbard echoes through the night. With a faint whistle, I trace the point of my blade across the young punks throat. A crimson river washes down the upstart’s neck. He falls, a hand pressed to his throat, dying as he impacts.
        I square off with the next punk, the chain lashing out for me as he maneuvers to keep away from the lethal slashing of my blade. With a clumsy over-hand whip, something out of an action movie no doubt, he overextends himself. His death is clean as my blade finds an opening between ribs, snakes between them to still his heart.
        The last punk drops his switchblade and holds his hands up. I watch him intently, and motion him to kick me his weapon. He does so, shaking.
        Without emotion, I wipe my blade on the shirt of the greasy-haired, chain-slinging thug. I return it to the scabbard as I stride over to the short, pudgy upstart. I grab him by the collar and pull him close. He’s probably seventeen.
        “Run along home, boy. Here there be monsters.” My teeth flash in a vicious predatory grin. I shove him roughly away and leave him behind with the bleeding bodies of his former comrades.
        I keep walking. I don’t feel pity for the thugs I just butchered. They felt no pity for her, didn’t care a bit as they raped and murdered her. They didn’t care that she had a future, didn’t care that she had barely begun to live. Because of them, I don’t feel anything anymore. Because of them…I am a monster.
        Not a monster. Justified.
God, this used to be a nice neighborhood.
The road turns again, hard to the right. I’m only a few blocks away from that diner that hasn’t had opened its doors in years. I feel the tears start to well up in my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. The sword at my side feels like an old friend, familiar weight in a clenched fist as I walk from the scene of slaughter. The blood pools on my right hand. But I keep walking.

 

Reviews

[Kaitlyn M.]

OMG, have I read this before too? It seems really familiar. In fact, I'm quite sure of it. Swordfights make me squee inside, and I'm glad there are still people in the world that can write them with a degree of finesse (although you do it with more than just a degree).

Short anecdote: The following line reminded me very much of Kill Bill -- �Run along home, boy. Here there be monsters.� -- when the Bride hits the kids and tells him to stop f**king with Yakuzas (sp?). Made me giggle a little. I'm sure it's not what you were going for (since the situation is a tad more dark), but the image was nice.

Uh, so to sum up this discertation of a review, good job, and I want to read the rest of this, damnit.

[Natasha Ashway]

Of course he'd be a predator! It all made sense - putting himself out there like bait.
A man with a mission - revenge.
A brilliant read. I enjoyed this.

[Reality]

awesome story, really powerful. It poses alot of questions for the reader that aren't neccesarily answered point blank. I felt like I was there with him, feeling his loss. Well done

[SPINNING ON that dizzy ..]

This is really a great story about an avenging dark angel of sorts. You feel the sadness in his loss that justifies him to move and even a score that was done to him and someone he loved. The descriptions of the place and the characters put me right in the alley with you - it was damp and I could hear the leather jacket - I could smell the blood and feel the pain - very, very effective. I would read more if there is/was more....

Awesome images.

Kath

[Nicole Hellene]

A rapier, oh gosh. I'm thinking of V for Vendetta, even though you're more of the grunge version of him in leather.

I love how throughout the entire story, you're constantly edgy and annoyed by the fact that it used to be such a good neighborhood. Aint it always the way, I guess. Great work.

[Creepy Swine Guy]

This chills me to the bone. From the deft description of the remnants of what was once his town, to the wardobe that you have chosen for what I envision as a dark comic book hero. I honestly think that you should find an illustrator to team up with and put this on the pages of Marvel (This coming from a non-comic book guy)

This was spectacular. There simply have to be more installments!!

[Beth Elaina]

A savoury mixture of wit, style, and depth, with just a pinch of salt. Fabulous work, as usual.

[Beth Holian]

I'm with Kate. Excellent job. You make writing seem so easy...