Shadowboxing

What happens in the shadows, stays in the shadows.

Insomnia is a harsh mistress. Don't get me wrong; I'm not complaining, she suits my lifestyle. Vigilante work requires a certain amount of…anonymity, and not being able to sleep keeps me on my toes while I'm taking out the city's trash.

Brent is my partner in crime. Brent Cassidy, Attorney at Law, according to his business card. What people don't realize is that he's just the charismatic face of our discreet operation. I do the heavy lifting; I get all the real action; I prefer to remain nameless, and he gets the spotlight. Win-win.

Last week, Brent took a real scumbag to trial who ended up being acquitted of all charges brought against him. It wasn't due to Brent's lack of fervor in the courtroom, it was for lack of evidence. Eddie the scumbag went on a car-jacking spree that put some bystanders in the hospital. Serious injuries—I heard they might not make it. Real piece of work, that sleaze-ball.

At one point during the trial, through the tall courtroom windows, the sun illuminated the back of Brent's six-foot frame, limning his silhouette in golden flame. His shadow extended from the tips of his Oxfords, across the courtroom floor and up the wall behind the witness stand. Eddie sat there on the stand, enshrouded within Brent's dark veil of justice. I had a front row seat as my senses took in his ruddy features, while my partner roasted him on the witness stand. There was a glorious moment of anguish on ol' Eddie's face as he pondered the possibility of being behind bars. However, the mood eventually shifted in his favor as he walked out of the courthouse a free man.

Brent has contacts, and without them, I wouldn't be able to finish the jobs that my partner can't handle by himself. I call what I do shadowboxing. Only others like me are able do it. But just because we can shadowbox doesn't mean that all of us choose to. Some of us are content to be their partner's permanent silent supporter. Early on, I chose the path to shadowboxing, back when Brent was just a boy. Now, my job requires a unique set of skills, one that I'm damn good at. Tonight, I aim to employ that skill set with great vigor.

Later That Night

When Brent retires for the night and his head hits the pillow, I clock in for the graveyard shift. Before bed, he turned off all the apartment lights and unscrewed the porch bulb—the one that's on a timer—per his usual routine. I slide from under his sleeping form and spread myself along the darkened bedroom floor, then press underneath the front door to mingle with the midnight gloom. Wafting through the cracks between the bricks in the alleyway behind our high-rise, I repeat to myself the address to O'Malley's Pub, the local haunt that my quarry has been known to frequent. Brent was tipped off after the trial by one of his contacts who informed him where he might find the car-jacker named Eddie. And being that I'm with my partner every day, I know what he knows.

As I slink along a path of darkened sidewalk cast by a streetlamp, a wayward beam from a car's headlight abruptly severs the dark narrow line, and me along with it. No problem; I gather myself together as quickly as the flash disappears and I continue my pursuit. The way I'm using the connecting arteries of shadows spread across the city like nocturnal circuitry reminds me of the child's game, Hot Lava. As a boy, Brent would hop from one piece of furniture to another, across the living room, collecting shoes, books and other items along the way to use for connecting paths.

The front of O'Malley's is a dazzling beacon to the city's thirsty denizens, with patrons filtering in and out through its doorway like minnows in a narrow creek. The shifting patterns of painted light around the front of the pub create a barrier I'm unable to navigate so I meander to the rear of the building. Tucked between the rear wall and a dumpster is a man lying prone, apparently sleeping off his poor nightly choices. If I'm lucky, he's a local—a hub of information gathering. I approach slowly until I'm within sense-range of the man's shadow that remains motionless beneath him. It's invisible as it melds with the surrounding darkness, but I sense it; this is a thing we do—an aspect of shadowboxing.

As soon as I feel it sensing me, I extend a thin, inky tendril toward the other. It extends likewise, and we mesh at the tip like two strange, blackened anemones. Silent invisible energies transfer in the dark—information exchange. I describe Eddie to it and it confirms that others like us have seen him hanging around the pub tonight. The energy from the shadow is sluggish and bereft of vitality. Shadowboxing—some of us are more skilled at it than others. This one seems like a novice at best and has most likely never ventured away from its partner. Not much real-world experience, if any.

Crisp lines of demarcation separate the light from the darkness on either side of the building, drawing out from the front corners at obtuse angles into the parking lot and beyond. I flatten into the murky crease of a curb near the light's edge and play the waiting game. It doesn't take long until my ruddy-faced target steps from around the corner of the building, the sharp knife edge of neon light seeming to slice him in two as he pauses between worlds to light a cigarette. He stumbles through the parking lot to a quiet area of gloom near the back of the building. It's just scumbag Eddie, dumpster guy, and me. I watch scumbag Eddie scan the surroundings then produce a small pouch from somewhere inside his jacket. He pops some pills from the pouch, chases them with a beer, then resumes smoking.

I skulk silently toward him until I'm within sense-range of his shadowy counterpart—his partner in crime. It acknowledges my presence, but I'm not concerned. I doubt it can do the things that I'm about to to its partner. It's show time.

From beneath me issue crackles of electrical static as dark energy separates from the black pavement, and my form peels up from the paved surface near Eddie's feet. His eyes begin to bulge from his ruddy face as I rise to my full six-foot height. The shadowy blob above my shoulders labors to form two small holes and a wide slit below them. I attempt to smile but something gets lost in the translation. Eddie makes a terrible gasping sound and stiffens in place. His mouth moves as if he's having a conversation, but there's no sound except for his beer bottle dropping to the ground.

My form sways like the ghost of a king cobra haunting its prey. Now for the newest trick in my toolbox—my pièce de résistance: I test the night air, converse with it, and ask it to breathe. Our silent exchange is heard by only those others who can sense it too—others like me—other shadowboxers. I'm persuasive enough that the air cooperates. It bends to my will and lets me begin shaping its molecules into vibrating ripples. Tiny bursts of constrained currents waft in front of me until I feel in control. Puff…puff…puff. I learn its rhythm. Puff…puff…puff. Like I’m breathing.

With an effort that nearly breaks my focus, I direct a wavering pattern of air currents at the man still frozen in front of me. The result is the equivalent of a thin, sandpapery murmur, "Eddiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeee…"

A slow buildup of panic sets in, starting with Eddie's feet. They seem to have minds of their own as they inch backward in a strange spasmodic shuffle. His eyes flutter and he finally remembers to breathe; a restricted intake of air fills the bellows in his chest. The sound that leaks from between his clenched teeth begins as a rattle in his throat, increasing in volume and pitch until it becomes the wail of a banshee. He takes a second breath, a long inhale and then nothing but high-pitched babble. His legs wake up and he tries to turn around and run. His feet don’t cooperate, and he goes down on all fours. Hands and feet scrape on the concrete as he scrambles away from me like a crazed animal. He's scared—terrified. My job description says to scare them straight when the law isn't able to. I might be due for a raise after tonight.

"Nooooo…escaaape for waaat…youuu did…Eddiiiiieeeee…" the air that becomes my voice sounds like two rocks being rubbed together. Like a phantom I float after him, trailing static sounds in my wake. He veers into the dark alley behind the pub and slams against a sturdy chain link fence barring his escape. Fueled by desperation and whatever else he's jacked into his system tonight, Eddie manages to scramble to the top of the twelve foot high fence just below the loops of barbed wire. He glances back with wide saucer-eyes. His shadow—his partner—obediently sticks to him; clearly not a threat to my goal.

I decide that Eddie has had enough, so I withdraw and melt down onto the black asphalt. I disappear, no longer a threat. I always make sure to bring them close to the edge but then I back off; it's usually enough to pull them back onto the straight-and-narrow, or at least get them to rethink their poor life choices.

But Eddie keeps climbing. What is he doing! He swings his left foot up through the jagged metal wire. Please don't do this. The laces of his shoe hook into the barbs and he's hanging nearly upside down. Don't do it, Eddie. His hands let go of the fence and grope up toward his entangled foot, as he performs an inverted sit up twelve feet from the ground. I can only watch as…

He screams on the way down to the pavement.

The sound of neck bones splintering under a hundred-sixty pounds of flesh will haunt me for eternity. A crumpled body deflates as its tendons and muscles relax. The toe of a solitary shoe, suspended in twisted wire, points down to a dead man, in a mockery of memoriam. I don't sense Eddie's shadow, but I assume it's just lying there under his mass. I stay where I am to avoid its sense-range, out of concern, and out of respect.

I realize that I took things too far again. It's never supposed to end this way. The dirtbags I deal with are just people, ones who happen to drive on the wrong side of Moral Street, sometimes by no fault of their own; but they're still just people. I should always clock out sooner than I intend to. Shadowboxing is a knife edge that requires sharpening, otherwise, the shadow is likely to get cut.

As I trace my path back home, I rehearse the language I'll use to break the news to Brent. The clock hands on top of the city bank read 1:14 am as I pass. It's still several hours before my partner wakes; time to myself. Brent and I both realize that our little endeavor lacks long-term sustainability. What is the allowable number of scumbags who can turn up missing or drop dead before the finger-pointing starts? Sooner or later people will begin to connect the dots. We both agree that, for now, the risks are worth the rewards.

Presently, what happens in the shadows, stays in the shadows.