they're not taking me alive! (six shock suspenstories)
Watchmen.
King Mob, Moloch the Mystic, Captain Axis, The Screaming Skull, The Liquidator, and Buzzbomb. Beginnings, ends, in-betweens.
I've had a few of the sections finished for quite some time, but wanted to wait and post the whole mess together.
Most of the background given to these guys is canon, as far as the sourcebook goes. (I'm going by the '90s sourcebook instead of the 'Taking Out The Trash' one as far as Screaming Skull's background is concerned, because nerdy MIT student/comic book fan > Captain Axis clone. FACT.)
---
"Just tell me I'll live forever. That would do nicely."
-Ray Bradbury
---
i. white heat | king mob
"One more step and you'll be spittin' out teeth through your throat, kid."
-
It's like a scene out of a dime novel:
the sour reek of cigar smoke and whiskey haunting the air,
figures slumped over card tables, dealt hands splayed between cautious fingers,
fedoras slanted at low angles (long brims shadowing eyes), bathed in dim yellow light from pool table lanterns (and maybe one or twelve of 'em, the ones with the hard lines creasing their foreheads and the bitter sets to their mouths, could be dead ringers for Edward G. Robinson or Cagney or any of those guys),
and he strides forward without hesitation, observing it all with a broad grin, cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth, lifting his M1919s in almost a wave.
"Well, hello, boys."
-
There's little variation.
It's the clean rattle of gunfire; cold fury trickling down his spine when they crack wise about his weight (or the slight limp, obvious in his step, when he moves quickly), ruthless, fingers curled around both triggers; that deep hate melting to victory as gaping bullet holes remind them just who's in charge now.
Hard to sneer when you're missing half your jaw.
-
(A few more surprise visits, and soon half the city's eating outta his palm.)
-
Sure, the constant flashbulbs ain't much of a perk. (He's never been a fan of getting his picture taken, but it comes with the job, see.) Neither are the windows constantly shattering whenever the coppers decide they wanna come 'n play pattycake uninvited (and having to patch it all up the next morning, or worse, seek out new headquarters).
The headlines make up for it.
"KING MOB" RESPONSIBLE FOR NEW STRING OF POOL HALL MASSACRES?
It ain't exactly a bad name. Got a ring to it.
What few rivals he's got left never shut up amongst themselves (the buncha frightened little rats), but these reporters, they like to run their mouths off even more, going on about what kinda guy-- what kinda guy has the cojones to wear a snarling gorilla mask in public, but not enough to show his own ugly face?
(It's them goddamn boy scouts in masks who gave him the idea, incidentally.)
-
It starts with the brittle rain of bullets and the scream of sirens (the endless rat-a-tat-tat-tat echoing off the walls; smoke clearing to give way to a broad smirk hidden by mildewed fur and ivory fangs).
It ends in a white hot glare, partially obscured by a hood (and Jesus, Mary, and Joseph - there's a noose tied around the big goon's neck).
Probably ain't a coincidence that the guy looks like a goddamn executioner.
-
He's getting the chair.
They think he'll scream and thrash once they strap him down - that he'll beg, try for a last minute mercy plea, suddenly go yellow before they scorch his insides - and oh, he bets they'd love that.
But the joke's on them.
(He always said he'd make it into the papers one day.)
---
ii. the sky is the stage | moloch the mystic
(The roar of applause isn't enough, anymore.)
-
A fat, sweating man covered in sawdust and gorilla fur (wrists restrained by thick rope rather than handcuffs) lunges at the unseen photographer.
Although not ordinary, those bulging, close-set eyes reveal his face to be nothing more than pitifully ugly.
(He sets the newspaper aside, trying not to be too disappointed.)
He may have been first, but Jacobi - seventeen, restless, disturbingly clever (only too aware of this last fact) - vows that he won't only be second; he'll be the best.
(It's not narcissism when it's simple fact.)
-
Dust grazes his cheeks and bare knees as he sucks on a piece of hard lemon candy, leaning back on his elbows in the dirt.
The watercolors washing the sky (garish over slouching tents) are muted strokes of pink and orange, twisting through sparse clouds.
It's not a view he thinks he'll miss much.
-
The manager is drunk on gin and arrogance as he moves through the crowd, slapping each of his employees hard on the shoulder. It's less an affectionate gesture than it is the marking of one's prized pet, a show of ownership.
Jacobi smiles, distracted, calmly enduring the man's unwanted touch. He is wondering what his face will look like (painted with: shock? murderous fury? utter blankness?) when he wakes the next morning and realizes his star attraction has gone, along with his best truck and the entire carnival payroll.
Disappearing is what he always did best.
-
The sprawling streets of New York are not much different from the Chicago slums that were his home until he left at fourteen, but when he's under the hot glare of the spotlight, tattooed palms held skyward, it's easy to imagine he's somewhere else entirely.
He catches sight of his own face on promotional fliers around the city, fluttering on persistent wind. They remind him of old Western posters of wanted outlaws, like in the Tom Mix pictures he saw as a boy.
(He was never fond of those cowboy films.)
-
He doesn't break limbs or wound with bullets; he twists hearts, slow and sure, words vague enough with hope to be true.
The papers are rewarding to him.
LUCIFER OF CRIME STRIKES FEAR IN UNDERWORLD!
(Like Dante before him had discovered: it doesn't take much.)
-
These people are like wooden carousel horses - easily startled, jumpy, mouths open in silent fright. Crass, stupid animals.
It's not difficult, taking their money.
-
His grin is too wide when the radio announcer's voice wavers, tremulous, about the "situation" at the Empire State Building; a certain strength returns to it when he goes on to add, oh, heavens, the Minutemen are on their way, cooperating with the NYPD to bring down this brutal menace!
("Brutal menace" is a bit much, he thinks; then again, he's not one to argue with free publicity.)
The mirror gleams with cold potential under his fingers.
---
iii. i will always be your soldier | captain axis
Dunkirk was a mistake.
-
(They fled like vicious ants from the beaches, triumph shadowing their once-miserable faces. Blood dripped slow from gaping wounds, shoulder-deep in cold water, mixing with sand and the spray of waves. But not in defeat.)
He will not hesitate to act quickly next time.
-
The Third Reich would love nothing better than to take a knife to his throat (dispatch of him cleanly, swiftly) - but only because it has not yet accepted what he can do for the cause.
He misses Germany; the stiff, fiercely proud shoulders of soldiers at attention, rifles and chins raised high. The scrape of boots marching on gravel, the smell of burnt wax and sulfur, the shouts resulting from bullets not missing their targets. Clear consciences. Unwavering loyalty, acknowledging the worth of the battle which they continue to fight.
He'll bring honor to them again.
-
(His hands shake, still, when a mournful foghorn sounds in the distance.)
They stunk of cowardice.
-
He holds nothing but contempt for this country, this city, foul with greed and overexcess. Its brazen women. Its polluted way of thinking.
The enemy walks its filthy streets each day without fear.
He is merely putting a stop to that.
-
GERMAN VICTORY IMMINENT! has not yet sunk into the headlines.
(It is, however, printed neatly on a single frame of film.)
-
He wears his bruises like badges of honor - mere reminders of his struggle, the overwhelming forces that must be overcome.
(His comrades cannot know the true source of them. It would be no good for morale.)
He tells them, smiling bravely, that he was outnumbered. (This is not a lie.)
They were savage Jew-lovers, who swarmed him at a bar where he was singing the praises of the Führer. (This is.)
The projector sputtered to a defeated halt. (The plot to splice that single frame did not go as planned.)
-
Once the initial battle is won: he, personally, will arrange the nimble demise of every single woman at that theater.
(Clark Gable is overrated.)
-
Hans is charmed, almost against his will, by this man.
By the smooth curve of his mouth, the shock of wavy hair above his blood red mask. By the way he carries himself with both confidence and uncertainty. By his earnestness. Even by the flat, American vowels which color his words.
He is strong, blond, noble-looking: a poster child of Aryan perfection.
(Nervously, he struggles against his rope bonds, clearly awaiting some kind of torture. But Hans has no wish to harm him.)
He rests a hand - comforting, fatherly - on his shoulder. Traces a warm finger over his lips, soothing.
(The blond man understands.)
-
Doors slam open, sweeping and dramatic, and he imagines he can hear the triumphant swell of a symphony, somewhere.
Ah-- the long-awaited rescue mission.
No sooner has he arranged a look of carefully orchestrated surprise upon his features before he is hiccuping blood, the sour taste blooming on his tongue.
He staggers back, heel of his hand rubbing his cheek, looking appealingly up: and there is apprehension (and worry, and barbarity) on this other man's face, emotions deplorably clear behind that domino mask.
Hans laughs at this weakness.
(He can be quite charming, himself, when the situation calls for it.)
-
Cool knuckles scrape his jaw in another satisfying hit.
(It feels like a reward.)
-
Years later, now:
He sprawls, backward, over the railing of that groaning submarine.
(He swallows defeat like poison.)
The sea swallows him without mercy.
---
iv. i sing the body electric | the screaming skull
(He's probably the only one in his graduating class who wrote "Become world-feared supervillain!" as a New Year's resolution.)
-
Students move like trapped ghosts behind the expanse of wide, fogged windows in the library.
Issues of the latest from Bill Gaines and the boys are fanned open inside his texts; the illustrations are technicolor grotesqueries of gasping women, bruised and beaten men, sharp murder weapons looming over (and inside) them. Nasty hands curled around weak necks. Blades tearing flesh.
Cruel, grinning skulls.
Although he can't quite match that macabre glee, he doesn't have to.
He lets the mask do it for him.
-
Electric current shudders down spines, gripping every vertabrae (tensely, tenderly) and holding them close with terror.
(Everyone needs a gimmick.)
-
She is screaming, pressed against the rough brick wall, arms only partially shielding her face. Her legs are dirty, bruised (stockings torn, ruined) beneath her.
As he menaces closer, he wonders how this scene would play out on the cover of a pulp comic.
He would be drawn taller, wider; more threatening, muscles straining beneath his hooded robe (frayed and patched from wear), spattered artfully with blood. He'd likely be wielding a giant axe instead of the long shuddering steel pole that took months to create (one phallic symbol for another, though he wouldn't say he's, you know, overcompensating, or anything).
Her face would be drawn younger, more generically beautiful (hair not in disarray, still in perfect rolls), no dark eye make-up streaming down her cheeks. Lips red, gaping, a perfect 'O' of surprise.
The monster would not speak to her, either.
-
("Hi," says the skull-faced man. His voice is thin and reedy.)
With one hand, he slowly raises the metal rod, crackling with white electricity; the way a child brandishes a favorite toy.
("This--" an embarrassed cough. "This'll only take a minute.")
-
ANOTHER SHOCKING DEATH BY THE SCREAMING SKULL'S ELECTRO-VIBE!--
--only he hasn't actually killed anyone. Bodies are found unconscious (arranged into more artistic poses of despair, most times; it's boring as hell when they just sort of slump over), hair standing comically on end, but always still breathing - he's not a psychopath, for God's sake.
He just likes playing one.
-
When the mask is ripped away for the first time, they find thick, dark eyebrows slanted over a nervous stare; glasses sloping down the bridge of a too-long beak of a nose.
They find uncertainty, dread; hints of acne not yet erased by the end of adolescence.
They find meek little Walter Zileski, the apple of every professor's eye.
-
Fingers are pointed at the ten cent brigade as the cause of corruption and delinquency in the country's youth. He's being used as a prime example, his grades (and appearance) and connections painting him as a mere victim.
They misunderstand. He's not influenced by those comics and pulp stories. Not anymore.
(He aims to influence them.)
-
He knows he's not seen as much of a threat.
(This holds an advantage, for once.)
It's like mapping an elaborate science project: gathering data, taking notes, surveying strangers, and it's not long before he's found forty different faces, forty different motives, all interested in taking down the collective force of the Minutemen.
Wouldn't hurt to start with their headquarters.
After just three months, a lovely composition of sulfur and charcoal circles the brownstone like the work of a voodoo priestess (eyes sewn shut, vengeful hands hovering), made even more beautiful when it creates those exquisite afternoon fireworks. This time, they're blaming no one but him when he's slapped with ten years, black-eyed and grinning in the mugshots.
It doesn't matter. None of it matters.
He succeeded.
-
(Shame he toppled the wrong damned building, though.)
---
v. shadow play | the liquidator
The first time, it was an accident.
-
(The second--)
It would be a lie if he said he didn't savor the rabbit-quick pulse of the boy's neck, frantic under soft flesh as his hands closed around his throat.
Geoffrey Dean's never been much of a liar.
-
(The constant rattle of wood crashing against wood sounds like screaming if you listen to it long enough.)
-
He doesn't hear voices whispering from beneath floorboards, sprouting from gnarled dreams, telling him what he must and mustn't do.
He isn't seeking to shift the blame.
(No, the voices he hears - they all sound too much like his own.)
-
The only thing he has going for him - other than size and peculiar strength - is the fact that he hasn't quite lost the genetic lottery.
Long, straight nose. Chiseled jaw. Thick blond hair that curls under the right amount of humidity.
A clear, green gaze.
His presence at these alleys (seen, accounted for, the night of every single death) concerns no one. No one even considers that the person scrawling the messy red 'L's could be the quiet young man always nursing a beer by the lane farthest to the left.
But not because it doesn't make sense.
(A safer guess would be that they don't want to.)
-
The damage goes unnoticed until the ball fails to roll back down the lane.
-
Tonight's target is tall, beaming, broad-shouldered. Curiously older than the others.
(His smile is full of deceit, just like the rest of them.)
He doesn't cower when Geoffrey finds him in the dark hallway behind the lanes.
Inexplicably-- he grins.
(The man with trembling wings and the woman in black step out, behind him, from the shadows.)
-
(He falls from a bridge, screaming.)
It doesn't end here.
(He surfaces - gasping, furious - hours later.)
-
At the hospital - they don't keep him long.
Remarkable how feigning a lack of sobriety halts the questions.
-
He doesn't move far from the city. He chooses a modest brownstone three blocks from his old one.
The dead have no reason to hide.
-
The latest was sixteen. Short. Thin. Sunburn peeling the bridge of his nose.
Wide, frightened eyes.
He cuts off the thumbs and first two fingers of the boy's hands (fingernails removed, cleanly, like peeling an orange), collects them in a cigar box with the others, kept neat and proud on the corner of his nightstand.
He considers hollowing them out and leaving nothing but the outer flesh, store them inside one another (an homage to Russian stacking dolls), before becoming distracted by the headline of the evening Times, tossed carelessly on his porch and unrolled from the thin string:
EX-MASKED ADVENTURER'S DEVIANT LIFESTYLE COMES TO LIGHT!
His throat constricts.
-
(The pad of his thumb - sweating, steady - smudges the ink of the accompanying photograph.)
---
vi. nervous man in a four dollar room | buzzbomb
They'll throw the "hood" label at just about anybody, these days.
-
His schedule goes, roughly, like this:
9:00 AM; punch in, fix time card to read 8:00 (still hungover, more often than not),
9:20 AM; stand around on outside docks, smoking, checking to see if that rat Thurman isn't doing rounds to make sure he's doing his goddamned job,
11:00 AM; seize mop, bucket, cart, start making his way around the empty cafeteria,
12:00 PM; wisps of conversations drift over (quiet disdain on their faces, observing someone so clearly in a class below them that he may as well be on another fucking planet), whispers of past offenses wiped clean by the corrupt local cops he happens to be drinking buddies with, while he stands not far away, wiping grime from windows, glad he slicks his hair back from his eyes just so they can see the look on his face - make them nervous, just a little, although that doesn't halt those discreet conversations--
--and he listens, cigarette clenched between jittery teeth.
He listens.
-
(It was only one time.)
Like they've never had an argument at the poker table before.
(It was only one time, because Marcusson was fool enough to pocket all his winnings and light up for a victory cigarette in that dark, quiet alley behind the bar.)
LOCAL MAN FOUND STRANGLED, KILLER STILL AT LARGE, the headlines accused.
(It was practically an invitation.)
-
They think he can't hear the muttered insults, but maybe - hell, maybe it's more accurate that they just don't care. Hey. That's fine with him.
Perfectly fine.
His fists shift and clench around the mop handle, tempted to snap it in half and drive it through their necks, quick and dirty-like, and we'll see who's laughing then, won't we, but instead he dunks the mop back in the bucket and smiles at them so wide that his cheeks hurt.
He can wait a little longer.
-
It's the ugliest and most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
Twisted metal tubes and alien dials cover the suit, silver surface winking bright and clean under the flourescent lights hanging in the lab, and as Greensback goes on and on about stratosphere and flight conditions and atmospheric pressure and some other bullshit, all Bob can think is finally, finally.
He doesn't have to wonder long as to why Greensback is showing his newest invention to him. The man wastes no time muttering about who his scientific effort is currently being wasted on, but God, he needs to show someone, and soon he'll be rich, the whole world will know, and Einstein, ha!, that little German piece of shit will be pushed to the margins of the textbooks once people realize who the real scientific genius of their time is.
(Neglecting to realize this: if he'd been a true genius, he'd hardly be showing a piece of priceless scientific effort to a desperate, two-bit hood in a building empty save for them.)
The revolver is snatched from the sagging back pocket of Bob's dull grey uniform before he even has time to think. He aims coolly between Greensback's eyes, only hesitating so he can see the fear bloom - heady, intoxicating - on the other man's face before he dies.
His fingers tremble with excitement over the trigger.
(The shot fires cleanly.)
"This'll be useful, pal," he says. The words are rough from his wool-dry mouth. "Thanks."
Bob smiles and means it, this time.
-
In the sleepy motel room just off the highway (Chevy parked outside, loaded with cash and enough clothes to last him a week), his fingers move in fidgety, hesitant darts over his new prize. Itching to touch. Almost afraid to, yet.
(He should've waited to kill Greensback until he demonstrated how to use the fucking thing.)
No worries; no worries. He'll figure it out.
He always does.
King Mob, Moloch the Mystic, Captain Axis, The Screaming Skull, The Liquidator, and Buzzbomb. Beginnings, ends, in-betweens.
I've had a few of the sections finished for quite some time, but wanted to wait and post the whole mess together.
Most of the background given to these guys is canon, as far as the sourcebook goes. (I'm going by the '90s sourcebook instead of the 'Taking Out The Trash' one as far as Screaming Skull's background is concerned, because nerdy MIT student/comic book fan > Captain Axis clone. FACT.)
---
"Just tell me I'll live forever. That would do nicely."
-Ray Bradbury
---
i. white heat | king mob
"One more step and you'll be spittin' out teeth through your throat, kid."
-
It's like a scene out of a dime novel:
the sour reek of cigar smoke and whiskey haunting the air,
figures slumped over card tables, dealt hands splayed between cautious fingers,
fedoras slanted at low angles (long brims shadowing eyes), bathed in dim yellow light from pool table lanterns (and maybe one or twelve of 'em, the ones with the hard lines creasing their foreheads and the bitter sets to their mouths, could be dead ringers for Edward G. Robinson or Cagney or any of those guys),
and he strides forward without hesitation, observing it all with a broad grin, cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth, lifting his M1919s in almost a wave.
"Well, hello, boys."
-
There's little variation.
It's the clean rattle of gunfire; cold fury trickling down his spine when they crack wise about his weight (or the slight limp, obvious in his step, when he moves quickly), ruthless, fingers curled around both triggers; that deep hate melting to victory as gaping bullet holes remind them just who's in charge now.
Hard to sneer when you're missing half your jaw.
-
(A few more surprise visits, and soon half the city's eating outta his palm.)
-
Sure, the constant flashbulbs ain't much of a perk. (He's never been a fan of getting his picture taken, but it comes with the job, see.) Neither are the windows constantly shattering whenever the coppers decide they wanna come 'n play pattycake uninvited (and having to patch it all up the next morning, or worse, seek out new headquarters).
The headlines make up for it.
"KING MOB" RESPONSIBLE FOR NEW STRING OF POOL HALL MASSACRES?
It ain't exactly a bad name. Got a ring to it.
What few rivals he's got left never shut up amongst themselves (the buncha frightened little rats), but these reporters, they like to run their mouths off even more, going on about what kinda guy-- what kinda guy has the cojones to wear a snarling gorilla mask in public, but not enough to show his own ugly face?
(It's them goddamn boy scouts in masks who gave him the idea, incidentally.)
-
It starts with the brittle rain of bullets and the scream of sirens (the endless rat-a-tat-tat-tat echoing off the walls; smoke clearing to give way to a broad smirk hidden by mildewed fur and ivory fangs).
It ends in a white hot glare, partially obscured by a hood (and Jesus, Mary, and Joseph - there's a noose tied around the big goon's neck).
Probably ain't a coincidence that the guy looks like a goddamn executioner.
-
He's getting the chair.
They think he'll scream and thrash once they strap him down - that he'll beg, try for a last minute mercy plea, suddenly go yellow before they scorch his insides - and oh, he bets they'd love that.
But the joke's on them.
(He always said he'd make it into the papers one day.)
---
ii. the sky is the stage | moloch the mystic
(The roar of applause isn't enough, anymore.)
-
A fat, sweating man covered in sawdust and gorilla fur (wrists restrained by thick rope rather than handcuffs) lunges at the unseen photographer.
Although not ordinary, those bulging, close-set eyes reveal his face to be nothing more than pitifully ugly.
(He sets the newspaper aside, trying not to be too disappointed.)
He may have been first, but Jacobi - seventeen, restless, disturbingly clever (only too aware of this last fact) - vows that he won't only be second; he'll be the best.
(It's not narcissism when it's simple fact.)
-
Dust grazes his cheeks and bare knees as he sucks on a piece of hard lemon candy, leaning back on his elbows in the dirt.
The watercolors washing the sky (garish over slouching tents) are muted strokes of pink and orange, twisting through sparse clouds.
It's not a view he thinks he'll miss much.
-
The manager is drunk on gin and arrogance as he moves through the crowd, slapping each of his employees hard on the shoulder. It's less an affectionate gesture than it is the marking of one's prized pet, a show of ownership.
Jacobi smiles, distracted, calmly enduring the man's unwanted touch. He is wondering what his face will look like (painted with: shock? murderous fury? utter blankness?) when he wakes the next morning and realizes his star attraction has gone, along with his best truck and the entire carnival payroll.
Disappearing is what he always did best.
-
The sprawling streets of New York are not much different from the Chicago slums that were his home until he left at fourteen, but when he's under the hot glare of the spotlight, tattooed palms held skyward, it's easy to imagine he's somewhere else entirely.
He catches sight of his own face on promotional fliers around the city, fluttering on persistent wind. They remind him of old Western posters of wanted outlaws, like in the Tom Mix pictures he saw as a boy.
(He was never fond of those cowboy films.)
-
He doesn't break limbs or wound with bullets; he twists hearts, slow and sure, words vague enough with hope to be true.
The papers are rewarding to him.
LUCIFER OF CRIME STRIKES FEAR IN UNDERWORLD!
(Like Dante before him had discovered: it doesn't take much.)
-
These people are like wooden carousel horses - easily startled, jumpy, mouths open in silent fright. Crass, stupid animals.
It's not difficult, taking their money.
-
His grin is too wide when the radio announcer's voice wavers, tremulous, about the "situation" at the Empire State Building; a certain strength returns to it when he goes on to add, oh, heavens, the Minutemen are on their way, cooperating with the NYPD to bring down this brutal menace!
("Brutal menace" is a bit much, he thinks; then again, he's not one to argue with free publicity.)
The mirror gleams with cold potential under his fingers.
---
iii. i will always be your soldier | captain axis
Dunkirk was a mistake.
-
(They fled like vicious ants from the beaches, triumph shadowing their once-miserable faces. Blood dripped slow from gaping wounds, shoulder-deep in cold water, mixing with sand and the spray of waves. But not in defeat.)
He will not hesitate to act quickly next time.
-
The Third Reich would love nothing better than to take a knife to his throat (dispatch of him cleanly, swiftly) - but only because it has not yet accepted what he can do for the cause.
He misses Germany; the stiff, fiercely proud shoulders of soldiers at attention, rifles and chins raised high. The scrape of boots marching on gravel, the smell of burnt wax and sulfur, the shouts resulting from bullets not missing their targets. Clear consciences. Unwavering loyalty, acknowledging the worth of the battle which they continue to fight.
He'll bring honor to them again.
-
(His hands shake, still, when a mournful foghorn sounds in the distance.)
They stunk of cowardice.
-
He holds nothing but contempt for this country, this city, foul with greed and overexcess. Its brazen women. Its polluted way of thinking.
The enemy walks its filthy streets each day without fear.
He is merely putting a stop to that.
-
GERMAN VICTORY IMMINENT! has not yet sunk into the headlines.
(It is, however, printed neatly on a single frame of film.)
-
He wears his bruises like badges of honor - mere reminders of his struggle, the overwhelming forces that must be overcome.
(His comrades cannot know the true source of them. It would be no good for morale.)
He tells them, smiling bravely, that he was outnumbered. (This is not a lie.)
They were savage Jew-lovers, who swarmed him at a bar where he was singing the praises of the Führer. (This is.)
The projector sputtered to a defeated halt. (The plot to splice that single frame did not go as planned.)
-
Once the initial battle is won: he, personally, will arrange the nimble demise of every single woman at that theater.
(Clark Gable is overrated.)
-
Hans is charmed, almost against his will, by this man.
By the smooth curve of his mouth, the shock of wavy hair above his blood red mask. By the way he carries himself with both confidence and uncertainty. By his earnestness. Even by the flat, American vowels which color his words.
He is strong, blond, noble-looking: a poster child of Aryan perfection.
(Nervously, he struggles against his rope bonds, clearly awaiting some kind of torture. But Hans has no wish to harm him.)
He rests a hand - comforting, fatherly - on his shoulder. Traces a warm finger over his lips, soothing.
(The blond man understands.)
-
Doors slam open, sweeping and dramatic, and he imagines he can hear the triumphant swell of a symphony, somewhere.
Ah-- the long-awaited rescue mission.
No sooner has he arranged a look of carefully orchestrated surprise upon his features before he is hiccuping blood, the sour taste blooming on his tongue.
He staggers back, heel of his hand rubbing his cheek, looking appealingly up: and there is apprehension (and worry, and barbarity) on this other man's face, emotions deplorably clear behind that domino mask.
Hans laughs at this weakness.
(He can be quite charming, himself, when the situation calls for it.)
-
Cool knuckles scrape his jaw in another satisfying hit.
(It feels like a reward.)
-
Years later, now:
He sprawls, backward, over the railing of that groaning submarine.
(He swallows defeat like poison.)
The sea swallows him without mercy.
---
iv. i sing the body electric | the screaming skull
(He's probably the only one in his graduating class who wrote "Become world-feared supervillain!" as a New Year's resolution.)
-
Students move like trapped ghosts behind the expanse of wide, fogged windows in the library.
Issues of the latest from Bill Gaines and the boys are fanned open inside his texts; the illustrations are technicolor grotesqueries of gasping women, bruised and beaten men, sharp murder weapons looming over (and inside) them. Nasty hands curled around weak necks. Blades tearing flesh.
Cruel, grinning skulls.
Although he can't quite match that macabre glee, he doesn't have to.
He lets the mask do it for him.
-
Electric current shudders down spines, gripping every vertabrae (tensely, tenderly) and holding them close with terror.
(Everyone needs a gimmick.)
-
She is screaming, pressed against the rough brick wall, arms only partially shielding her face. Her legs are dirty, bruised (stockings torn, ruined) beneath her.
As he menaces closer, he wonders how this scene would play out on the cover of a pulp comic.
He would be drawn taller, wider; more threatening, muscles straining beneath his hooded robe (frayed and patched from wear), spattered artfully with blood. He'd likely be wielding a giant axe instead of the long shuddering steel pole that took months to create (one phallic symbol for another, though he wouldn't say he's, you know, overcompensating, or anything).
Her face would be drawn younger, more generically beautiful (hair not in disarray, still in perfect rolls), no dark eye make-up streaming down her cheeks. Lips red, gaping, a perfect 'O' of surprise.
The monster would not speak to her, either.
-
("Hi," says the skull-faced man. His voice is thin and reedy.)
With one hand, he slowly raises the metal rod, crackling with white electricity; the way a child brandishes a favorite toy.
("This--" an embarrassed cough. "This'll only take a minute.")
-
ANOTHER SHOCKING DEATH BY THE SCREAMING SKULL'S ELECTRO-VIBE!--
--only he hasn't actually killed anyone. Bodies are found unconscious (arranged into more artistic poses of despair, most times; it's boring as hell when they just sort of slump over), hair standing comically on end, but always still breathing - he's not a psychopath, for God's sake.
He just likes playing one.
-
When the mask is ripped away for the first time, they find thick, dark eyebrows slanted over a nervous stare; glasses sloping down the bridge of a too-long beak of a nose.
They find uncertainty, dread; hints of acne not yet erased by the end of adolescence.
They find meek little Walter Zileski, the apple of every professor's eye.
-
Fingers are pointed at the ten cent brigade as the cause of corruption and delinquency in the country's youth. He's being used as a prime example, his grades (and appearance) and connections painting him as a mere victim.
They misunderstand. He's not influenced by those comics and pulp stories. Not anymore.
(He aims to influence them.)
-
He knows he's not seen as much of a threat.
(This holds an advantage, for once.)
It's like mapping an elaborate science project: gathering data, taking notes, surveying strangers, and it's not long before he's found forty different faces, forty different motives, all interested in taking down the collective force of the Minutemen.
Wouldn't hurt to start with their headquarters.
After just three months, a lovely composition of sulfur and charcoal circles the brownstone like the work of a voodoo priestess (eyes sewn shut, vengeful hands hovering), made even more beautiful when it creates those exquisite afternoon fireworks. This time, they're blaming no one but him when he's slapped with ten years, black-eyed and grinning in the mugshots.
It doesn't matter. None of it matters.
He succeeded.
-
(Shame he toppled the wrong damned building, though.)
---
v. shadow play | the liquidator
The first time, it was an accident.
-
(The second--)
It would be a lie if he said he didn't savor the rabbit-quick pulse of the boy's neck, frantic under soft flesh as his hands closed around his throat.
Geoffrey Dean's never been much of a liar.
-
(The constant rattle of wood crashing against wood sounds like screaming if you listen to it long enough.)
-
He doesn't hear voices whispering from beneath floorboards, sprouting from gnarled dreams, telling him what he must and mustn't do.
He isn't seeking to shift the blame.
(No, the voices he hears - they all sound too much like his own.)
-
The only thing he has going for him - other than size and peculiar strength - is the fact that he hasn't quite lost the genetic lottery.
Long, straight nose. Chiseled jaw. Thick blond hair that curls under the right amount of humidity.
A clear, green gaze.
His presence at these alleys (seen, accounted for, the night of every single death) concerns no one. No one even considers that the person scrawling the messy red 'L's could be the quiet young man always nursing a beer by the lane farthest to the left.
But not because it doesn't make sense.
(A safer guess would be that they don't want to.)
-
The damage goes unnoticed until the ball fails to roll back down the lane.
-
Tonight's target is tall, beaming, broad-shouldered. Curiously older than the others.
(His smile is full of deceit, just like the rest of them.)
He doesn't cower when Geoffrey finds him in the dark hallway behind the lanes.
Inexplicably-- he grins.
(The man with trembling wings and the woman in black step out, behind him, from the shadows.)
-
(He falls from a bridge, screaming.)
It doesn't end here.
(He surfaces - gasping, furious - hours later.)
-
At the hospital - they don't keep him long.
Remarkable how feigning a lack of sobriety halts the questions.
-
He doesn't move far from the city. He chooses a modest brownstone three blocks from his old one.
The dead have no reason to hide.
-
The latest was sixteen. Short. Thin. Sunburn peeling the bridge of his nose.
Wide, frightened eyes.
He cuts off the thumbs and first two fingers of the boy's hands (fingernails removed, cleanly, like peeling an orange), collects them in a cigar box with the others, kept neat and proud on the corner of his nightstand.
He considers hollowing them out and leaving nothing but the outer flesh, store them inside one another (an homage to Russian stacking dolls), before becoming distracted by the headline of the evening Times, tossed carelessly on his porch and unrolled from the thin string:
EX-MASKED ADVENTURER'S DEVIANT LIFESTYLE COMES TO LIGHT!
His throat constricts.
-
(The pad of his thumb - sweating, steady - smudges the ink of the accompanying photograph.)
---
vi. nervous man in a four dollar room | buzzbomb
They'll throw the "hood" label at just about anybody, these days.
-
His schedule goes, roughly, like this:
9:00 AM; punch in, fix time card to read 8:00 (still hungover, more often than not),
9:20 AM; stand around on outside docks, smoking, checking to see if that rat Thurman isn't doing rounds to make sure he's doing his goddamned job,
11:00 AM; seize mop, bucket, cart, start making his way around the empty cafeteria,
12:00 PM; wisps of conversations drift over (quiet disdain on their faces, observing someone so clearly in a class below them that he may as well be on another fucking planet), whispers of past offenses wiped clean by the corrupt local cops he happens to be drinking buddies with, while he stands not far away, wiping grime from windows, glad he slicks his hair back from his eyes just so they can see the look on his face - make them nervous, just a little, although that doesn't halt those discreet conversations--
--and he listens, cigarette clenched between jittery teeth.
He listens.
-
(It was only one time.)
Like they've never had an argument at the poker table before.
(It was only one time, because Marcusson was fool enough to pocket all his winnings and light up for a victory cigarette in that dark, quiet alley behind the bar.)
LOCAL MAN FOUND STRANGLED, KILLER STILL AT LARGE, the headlines accused.
(It was practically an invitation.)
-
They think he can't hear the muttered insults, but maybe - hell, maybe it's more accurate that they just don't care. Hey. That's fine with him.
Perfectly fine.
His fists shift and clench around the mop handle, tempted to snap it in half and drive it through their necks, quick and dirty-like, and we'll see who's laughing then, won't we, but instead he dunks the mop back in the bucket and smiles at them so wide that his cheeks hurt.
He can wait a little longer.
-
It's the ugliest and most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
Twisted metal tubes and alien dials cover the suit, silver surface winking bright and clean under the flourescent lights hanging in the lab, and as Greensback goes on and on about stratosphere and flight conditions and atmospheric pressure and some other bullshit, all Bob can think is finally, finally.
He doesn't have to wonder long as to why Greensback is showing his newest invention to him. The man wastes no time muttering about who his scientific effort is currently being wasted on, but God, he needs to show someone, and soon he'll be rich, the whole world will know, and Einstein, ha!, that little German piece of shit will be pushed to the margins of the textbooks once people realize who the real scientific genius of their time is.
(Neglecting to realize this: if he'd been a true genius, he'd hardly be showing a piece of priceless scientific effort to a desperate, two-bit hood in a building empty save for them.)
The revolver is snatched from the sagging back pocket of Bob's dull grey uniform before he even has time to think. He aims coolly between Greensback's eyes, only hesitating so he can see the fear bloom - heady, intoxicating - on the other man's face before he dies.
His fingers tremble with excitement over the trigger.
(The shot fires cleanly.)
"This'll be useful, pal," he says. The words are rough from his wool-dry mouth. "Thanks."
Bob smiles and means it, this time.
-
In the sleepy motel room just off the highway (Chevy parked outside, loaded with cash and enough clothes to last him a week), his fingers move in fidgety, hesitant darts over his new prize. Itching to touch. Almost afraid to, yet.
(He should've waited to kill Greensback until he demonstrated how to use the fucking thing.)
No worries; no worries. He'll figure it out.
He always does.