The Harmless Man

It took months before his television debut. Sure, there were rumors about a mugger in the Park being beaten senseless by a white faced thing. No one was taking it seriously. His debut was only one blurred photo, his head cocked back over his shoulder, skull grinning with holes for eyes. The witness quoted him as saying Don’t worry. He was followed by a report on violent crime.

After that, he had to be careful. He planned out his photo ops and did the real vigil work far from the cameras. He fed the legend and watched the crime rate drop. He saw it in copycats and spin-offs.

It had been slow in the beginning. He was six foot four inches of trembling meat in an alley that first night. It took him an hour to pack up and walk the four blocks back to his apartment. He drank bourbon until his brain melted. The next day he went to the office and shuffled papers until the sent him home. He did not look good, they said. He laughed. He didn’t feel good either, he told them. Rough night. The news was interesting. More gang violence. Three bangers dead. The announcer said it was part of a gang initiation.

The next time was two weeks later. He didn’t tremble at all that night. He went home and did laundry. He washed all of his clothes twice and watched the news. The streets were not safe, the announcer said. Gang activity was spreading. The police were questioning witnesses. There were no leads.

Three days later, it was more of the same. This time he walked home in his mask, hat and trench coat. Big city people don’t see you. A few young girls laughed at him. More laundry to do, he said to them. The news made no mention of a six foot four skeleton covered in blood walking the streets.

Now, he was the news. He’d sent a letter to the three newspapers. He’d outlined his plan and how people could help. He’d cleared up some misconceptions. He’d listed his deeds. He’d explained his psychology. He was just another concerned citizen.

On the television, he looked larger than life. A six foot four Baron Samadhi covered in blood. Spiderman with no skin. Even when the camera added ten pounds, he was wiry-thin. Some news agencies called him Mardi Gras. Some called him The Voodoo Vigilante. Some called him Secret Skull. It was all code for redemption. The angel of death had come at last.

He sent quotes from Revelations and Isaiah to the major news market. Ezekiel and Daniel were broadcast for the entire western world to hear. This was the time, the Reckoning, he told them. He would trade death for death all the way back to Cain. The innocent need not fear Him.



Buzz Baldwin

Somewhere across town a man cleaned an A-K 47. He’d seen the Tall Skeleton Dude beat a man senseless outside the Blue Line inbound near Park Plaza. A single flash from a camera and he was on the news. There. Just there in the background was Barney Aldren with his jaw wide open. The Skeleton knew some form of martial arts. Barney didn’t. But he was inspired. Barney knew eBay. Barney was hip to Craig’s list.

Barney had an A-K.

His costume had come special order this morning. He didn’t dare put it on yet. He reviewed his technical manuals. He reread the Anarchist’s Cookbook and his survival guides. He’d never fired a gun before, but he’d learn. He was sure of it the moment he disassembled the assault rifle. It came apart easily. He cleaned it and reassembled it. The little clicks and soft hisses of metal on metal made him sweat. He knew that gun.

The suit was slick. It was a red and blue, high quality athletic suit. He’d ironed on a saw blade logo, printed from his computer. It even zipped up the side to the armpit. Stick the legs in first, over the head, arms in, zipped up and snug. He would buy a cape later.

Clean. Everything had to be clean. Gloves. Sh… he was going to need gloves. Not tonight. Again, it was not tonight. He slapped his shaved head. Gloves were absolutely necessary. Tear gas canisters, 5 minute epoxy, home made dynamite, even the A-K, all were worthless without gloves.

Fine. One night with no gloves. One criminal down without the gloves. He needed to see the flash of the camera and his face on TV again. He hustled to the bathroom and applied his face paint. Nothing too drastic. Just a classic horizontal double diamond mask that matched the blue of his suit.

Blue painter’s tape. He’d use that for his hands tonight. He’d burn the tape when he was done. No loose ends. Just like Skeleton Dude. Nice and clean. He’d stop one drug deal and come home. He taped his hands. He put his suit on. He hooked the canisters to his belt. He slipped the epoxy into the small pants pocket. No dynamite needed yet.

He put the clip in the gun and left his apartment.

He walked the fifteen blocks to South Side, smoking a cigar as he went. He stopped only once. He made five phone calls. They’d be expecting Skeleton.

They’d get Buzz Baldwin instead.




Mercy

The sewing needle went in and out, in and out. Her hands moved with the rhythm of the antique clock. She worked quickly and efficiently. The lights were dim. There was no sound except the clock, the rubbing of skin and the low moaning.

Her patient was not a well man. More and more of these damned building hoppers in funny suits. She wasn’t sure where they got their money from. She wasn’t sure how they found her. She wasn’t sure what in God’s name drove them to this extreme. Someone had saved her. She’d know the voice. This patient was not her man.

She slipped and her patient twitched. She gave him another hit of ether. He quieted. “Don’t worry,” she said.

The news showed a firefight. Not men fighting fires, but a gun fight. Some gang business gone wrong. They flashed a picture of her man. Mardi Gras, they called him. They played a phone call that came in to the network from a pay phone. It wasn’t his voice. They had it wrong. The camera jerked around and settled on a man taking cover in a doorway, a bright blue and red man with a big two handed gun spitting fire. He had a frozen scream on his face as he fired and backed away into the building.

They’ll be looking for him. She would find him first. Maybe he already knew where she was. There was a whole network of amateur building jumpers and they had her name and address. Luckily, no one got in without the password.

Finished with her sewing, she eased the man down to the couch. She scrubbed the table with 100 proof vodka. She took off her gloves and washed up. In the medicine cabinet there were pain killers. There were better pain killers in here than in any local pharmacy. Wealth had its privileges. She’d quit all that. They were better used on the young men that came to see her.

All men.

All men.

That didn’t seem right.

She brought the current patient some medication. He was mumbling. They always mumbled. She crushed the pills and used an eye dropper and some water to get them down his throat. “Go see Mercy,” he said. She touched his lips. It wasn’t right.

She opened her phone and selected a name. “Hello,” she said. “It’s me. Yeah. I know. I’ve a favor. I want to buy an ambulance.”