SHADOWMAN

Lurking in the dark shadows of a slum alleyway, I stealthily waited for my chance to strike an emancipating blow for justice. What had been in the planning for three months would unleash unsuspecting and vengeful hell on some deserving reprobates. I knew their patterns of behaviour and without detection, had followed these violent creatures of habit for the last several nights. Vengeance was about to take on a new form and I assigned myself the responsibility to execute it with severe intolerance. When done, the city would breathe a big sigh of relief and be forever grateful to me for ridding their neighbourhoods of murderous low-lifes.

I always fancied myself as a crime fighter. Like Batman, I wanted to walk among the criminals; unseen, striking from every angle before they knew what hit them. I even created social media pages for ‘ShadowMan - the Night Vigilante.’ My intention was to wear a bodycam positioned on my chest, over my black, tactical clothing, so I could film my avenging acts and post them on every social media outlet possible. I would become an instant social media hit because I was on the side of righteousness. When news reported how crime had been reduced due to ShadowMan’s actions, I would be an overnight hero breaking the vicious cycle of attacks on the innocent residents trying to go about their daily lives without the fear of the roaming gangs of inner-city youths.

“ShadowMan rids the streets of terror,” the news headlines would read. “Druggies and Gangbangers watch out. The ShadowMan is watching over our city.”

I would need an identifiable costume to help strike fear into the villains that feed on the weak. Perhaps a dark grey cape and hoodie to create a contrasting look would work. What if the cape got in the way of my movement and accidently wrapped itself around my face? That wouldn’t be helpful in a fight. No, I think it will have to be black combat fatigues and boots – the shirt, skin-tight with no loose material available to grab. It should also have a head-hugging hoodie with mask sewn in to hide my identity. Yes, that will be my signature. A grey hoodie and a black mask. ShadowMan is a creature of the night, so he has to blend into the shadows.

I was never one to look for trouble in school – although, I did have my fair share of run-ins with the school bullies. It was common for me to get my ass kicked and seeing my bloodied and shredded face and clothes, my mother would cry and fuss, then clean my face, before making sure I ate something for my strength. My father would just repeat the same old line, time again.

“Stand up to the bullies,” he would stress. “You keep fighting. Sooner or later, they’ll get tired of you and move on to the next poor sap too weak to resist them.”

“Pop, I’m tired of fighting them,” I would confess.

“Then find a way to avoid them,” he would angrily demand, but there was no way of escaping them, waiting at the same alleyway at the same time each day to mete out their insecure frustrations at the current flavour of the month… me. It was a vicious cycle of terror, but I found a way to break it.

Soon after I got my driver’s licence, Pop bought me a car. It was twelve years old, but in good shape and running order. Being a mechanic, Pop was able to keep it pristinely maintained and added a few accessories that most young men like on their first car. Pinstriping, alloy wheels, and a booming sound system. It was going to be my babe magnet. However, that never panned out because most of the girls at my school saw me as weak – allowing myself to be bullied all the time. In fact, most Friday night’s cruising the local streets was a lonely event for me. Finding a buddy or anyone to ride along with me was a lost cause. Being the smartest in class didn’t help either. Too many preconceptions about me made it hard to make friends with those not wanting to.

With only one week to go before graduation, the school principal called all the students to an impromptu assembly in the gymnasium. There, he informed students and faculty alike of the tragic death of three of the school’s students. Purportedly, they had been killed by a drunk driver who had mounted the kerb where they regularly hung out, before fleeing the scene. Witnesses were encouraged to come forward; however, the incident happened on a misty evening at a dimly lit intersection, so police expectations of solving the crime were low. The drunk driver accusation was purely speculative as no-one really saw what had happened. Only one person reported hearing the squeal of wheels spinning furiously on the damp road, then a car engine revving to maximum, like it was in a hurry to get somewhere else. It was a regular occurrence in the neighbourhood - for youth-induced adrenalin to burn rubber in their new car, so nothing out of the ordinary.

Upon hearing the principle’s announcement, several girls broke down in tears, while some others hung their heads and hugged each other.

“I guess you’ll feel that’s karma for you, hey James?”

I looked at my sneering classmate and just shrugged my shoulders.

“Karma my ass,” I thought. “I fucking mowed them down like bowling pins. Those assholes won’t be making anyone’s lives a misery anymore.”

It was worth the broken headlight. My dad had a replacement in his auto shop, so it was swapped out that very night. I found myself grinning as I recalled the event in my mind’s eye. Those morons were stood in single file playing a game of piggy-in-the-middle with a football. I had staked them out for several nights waiting for the right opportunity, and as it presented itself to me, I reactively put pedal to the metal and raced towards them. They never heard nor saw me coming. The impact knocked them to the sidewalk, stunning them. That’s when the fun began. I rolled over them like they were human speed bumps, then I reversed over them, then I rolled forward over them again. I repeated this exercise five times until finally – to the sound of a skull cracking, I sped over them and away before anyone saw. It was perfect. No-one suspected me. After all, I was just a top of my class weakling, who couldn’t hurt a fly.

Several years later, after graduating from college, Pop and I were reminiscing about growing up and he surprisingly brought up the topic of my being bullied.

“Did you ever stand up to them, like I told you?”

“I did, Pop.”

“Who were they – by the way? Did I know them or their parents?”

“They were no-one Pop. As soon as I stood up to them, they rolled over like sleeping policemen.”

My dad laughed loudly at that comical analogy. He was Jamaican and, in his country, a sleeping policeman is what they called a speed bump in the road. He never caught on to my moment of confessional slip-up. He just patted me on the back and told me how proud he was of me and that I was the first lawyer in the family. In fact, I was the first college graduate in a family of two brothers and one sister. Thirty-four months later, after I joined one of the top law firms in the city, Pop was gunned down in an attempted robbery of his auto shop. He had decided to work late that evening as a favour to a regular customer that needed their car ready by the next morning. The police said there was no sign of forced entry, so I can only presume Pop left the door unlocked but turned most of the lights off. He was always trying to save electricity. An eyewitness reported that he heard Pop arguing with several people, then after Pop yelled at them to go home to their mommas, a flurry of gunshots rang out. Pop was found riddled with over twenty bullets in him.

I lobbied for a private prosecution and won the right to do so; however, my bosses warned me that the case should be worked by someone else who would not be compromised by emotions, and that it should be treated like any other murder trial. However, I was unyielding and stubbornly insisted that I should continue with the case. I should have listened to them. They were justified in their trepidations, as I incompetently argued the killers’ guilt to an unsuccessful conclusion. The key eyewitness proved unreliable, as previous dealings with the killers came to light. His corrupted testimony threw my only argument out of court. Had I not been so blinkered in my anger towards the suspects, my peripheral senses would have dug deeper into investigating the eyewitness and his testimony. The actual slaughter had not been seen by anyone. I ignored that, thinking all I needed to do was place them at the exact time of death at the location. The eyewitness testified he heard a heated vocal exchange between Pop and the suspects, then shots fired. He saw the suspects leaving the building but did not see them carrying any guns. The defence attorney argued that their clients were only passing by the premises when they heard cries for help and went to check out the sound. Seeing my dad’s dead body, they panicked and ran – as they all had previous convictions and didn’t want to be blamed. The rest of the evidence was merely circumstantial in nature. It took the jury thirty minutes to return a not guilty vote on all accounts – including failure to report a felony.

The pain and rage I felt watching those four smug hoodlums walking free from my tainted and failed prosecution, sowed the seeds of retribution in my grieving mind. Initially, I angrily blamed myself for the lack of adequate preparation in the case, resulting in further lacking performances during subsequent cases. Blame turned to anger and my inability to move on from an injustice I could have grown from, eventually led to self-torture and an undetermined leave of absence from the law firm I so wanted to impress. I had developed grand visions on the eventuality of being made partner, but I was consumed with fiery rage.

As I leaned back into the cold, dark shadow of the alleyway, that dream was just a shattered remnant of the boy who once wanted to be admired, but who now demanded to be feared. The evening had turned chilly, and a fine mist had descended into the alleyway between neighbourhoods. My clothing began to get a little damp, forcing a shiver to reverberate through my upper torso. In the attempt to generate some warmth, I began to shuffle my feet in a way that one might do waiting in a line to pee at a concert. Unsuccessful, I began to twist my upper torso by swinging my arms like a pendulum then running in place. As I huffed and puffed, I didn’t hear the footsteps approaching or the boisterous chatter that carefree young men use as banter. I just saw four male figures – their faces concealed by hoodies, keeping their heads warm in the cool of the night, before four gunshots rang out, echoing through the alleyway. Their arrival had taken me by surprise.

“Stay alert, you idiot!” I berated myself. 

Looking around, I saw the four young men laying prone on the ground, partially shrouded by the lack of efficient lighting the alleyway had to offer. Three of them were dead, the glistening reflection of their own blood oozing into the centre drain of the alleyway’s lane. Then, a movement caught my immediate attention. The fourth one was crawling on hands and knees in a slow attempt to remove himself from the situation. Through glazed and confused eyes, I approached him. Painfully, he rolled onto his back as the sound of my shuffled footsteps approached.

“Please,” he begged. “Don’t kill me…”

Another gunshot rang out. This time louder than the previous blasts. A bullet-sized hole leaked a trickle of blood down the young man’s forehead. His eyes still open, they felt like they were penetrating my soul.

“Stop looking at me,” I angrily commanded.

Three more shots rang out. Two of them instantly darkened those piercing lifeless eyes and the third thudded into chesty flesh. The surreal sensation of me watching from afar, flooded my consciousness. I was mentally detached from my actions. My physical senses were numb to the feel of the smoking gun in my right hand. Like a frightening dream, I saw myself turn and run as fast as my legs could move, down the alley in the direction the four now lifeless beings had come from, then disappear rapidly from view. However, the image remained burned into my mind’s eye. In a visceral move, I had fled the scene, but this was a dream, I convinced myself. I can stay and watch, survey the scene, and look for any clues that would place me there to stamp a guilty tattoo over my brow. Later that night - as I wearily laid my head onto my pillow in the warmth of my apartment, I painstakingly retraced every step and action in that alley. Satisfied there was no connection to my earlier presence at the scene, I fell deeply into the safety of welcoming sleep.

It was a new day when my phone alarm beeped its daily ritual of nagging me to rise from bed. Grabbing a cup of coffee from my onyx marble stone kitchen, I turned on my magnificent 82-inch Smart TV - that hung suspended over my panelled Jarrah wood fireplace – all paid for by high profile trials. The morning news immediately confronted me with the breaking news report about four local honour students mercilessly gunned down on their way home from basketball practice. Social media photos of their faces filled the screen.

“That’s not right,” I deniably exclaimed. “You idiots have got the wrong photos.”

The newscaster named each one of the victims and their ages. Seventeen, Eighteen, Seventeen, Seventeen.

“That’s not them,” I shouted. “Where’s the cold-blooded murderers that I rid the world of? Who are these young boys?”

The news reporter’s voice faded into the background while my thoughts spun in circles, not accepting what I was hearing.

“An eyewitness has come forward,” announced a muffled voice on the TV. “…and although police have not released the name of the suspect, sources close to our reporter on-scene, have attained an exclusive interview with an eyewitness who claims to have seen the perpetrator fleeing the scene.”

As my cognisant awareness registered the newscaster’s words, the wide-eyed stare of the fourth boy flooded my brain. For several moments, I studied every contour of his face, trying to avoid his regenerated eyeballs intensely searing my conscience like Superman’s x-ray vision. Coffee splattered over my marble-tiled floor as my mug slipped from my trembling grasp and shattered upon contact with the hard surface.

“That’s not him,” I cried. “That’s not them!”

In detached perspective, I watched the exclusive interview with the witness, then my heart started to heavily pound as if trying to break through my rib cage. The eyewitness was the same eyewitness to my father’s murder. Quick, replay your escape. What did you see? Think!...

“Oh my god!... When I removed my hood, he was standing outside the liquor store… He saw my face!”

Within seconds, my law schooling kicked in. It won’t stand up in court, I told myself. He’s unreliable as a witness. They’ll remember him from before. I’ll say he has a vendetta against me. I calmed my state of panic by reminding myself that facts were the conclusive evidence, not conjecture. Comfortingly nodding my head in reflective thought, my consciousness returned to the current moment. To my surprise, I found myself surrounded by a room full of city cops, all but one pointing their weapons at me. The exception, holding up a pair of muddied sneakers.

“Footprints were left at the scene,” informed the news reporter in the background.

A room full of uniformed gawkers patiently waited for me to speak. They’re here to honour me, I determined. My escorts for my hero’s parade to congratulate ShadowMan, the night vigilante for saving them. I am ready for your praise. I am ready for my next assignment. Fame had arrived and I met it with aplomb. I was born for the spotlight.

The kind doctor that examined me, said I wouldn’t suffer. What that meant both amused and confused me. Laying on my back, I could just make out a large window looking out to a viewing room. The size of its rectangular shape reminded me of my very expensive 82-inch Smart TV. The room appeared to be filled with onlookers – obviously wanting to get a close look at ShadowMan and perhaps get an autograph.

“My mask,” I cried out. “They can’t know my identity.”

“Relax,” came the comforting voice of the kind doctor. “Not long to go now… Just take some deep breaths.”

“Is the city safe?”

“Yes,” he replied. “The city is safe… now…”

I began to feel sleepy, but smiled to the onlookers, letting them know that I would once again be watching over their safety very soon. Some were sullen in their expressions, some just stared, and some it appeared were overtaken by tears of happiness. A rush of pride began to fill the blood coursing through my veins. ShadowMan will protect you, I tried to mutter, but my lips felt too numb to move. Embarrassingly, I started to drool. ‘Don’t worry,’ I telepathically broadcast through my onrushing dreamy state. ‘The cycle of fear has been broken…’