ManInTheLoft
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Apr 25, 2018
- Posts
- 170
"Night Justice"
CLOSED
to Perplexia
CLOSED
to Perplexia
The neighborhood had been very appropriately called Black End for almost a century and a half. It had gotten its name originally from the dust and smoke of the coal fired power plants that sprung up on its upwind outskirts during the mid to late 19th century. A hundred years later, after World War II, White Flight to the suburbs and northern migration of Blacks gave a new meaning behind the community's moniker.
It was the mood of the residents that was black in the last half of the 20th century. The green movement and the environmental regulations that followed saw the shut down and removal of the dirty plants; revitalization and gentrification attracted more affluent Whites and Asians; and the poorer residents -- of all races, not just the minorities -- found themselves being pushed out to even poorer neighborhoods.
But new paint and neo-classical designs couldn't overcome Black End's past. The most recent rebirth failed. Incomes dropped; poverty exploded; drugs flooded the neighborhood; crime rates soared, with rape, assault, murder, and other forms of physical abuse or attack touching nearly every person in Black End, often more than once. The police were overwhelmed; moral plummeted; radio calls were often ignored; and swaths of blocks fell to the control of street gangs or organized crime families.
There just didn't seem to be a solution to Black End's problems.
Enter Marcus Hamilton.
Black End's problems were perfect cover for a vampire. With the 330 murders and thousands of other acts of violence annually in the neighborhood, the chances that the Authorities were going to spend more than a few minutes investigating the death of a gang banger or crack addict or rapist or wife beater were pretty small.
And those were the types of blood donors Marcus targeted. The police assigned entire squads to the deaths or disappearances of such people as cutie pie college girls or Grandmothers who spend their evenings at the soup kitchen or reading books to kindergartners at the public library. But no one really gave a rats ass about some guy with needle tracks up his arms or a long list of violations against children in his police record.
Marcus had been feeding better and more often in Black End than he had in decades. You couldn't walk a block in this neighborhood without coming across some low life that needed his body drained of blood. And with the number of bodies left in the streets, alleys, and parks by run-of-the-mill violent criminals, the extra body or two left behind by Marcus were barely noticed.
Marcus didn't spend all of his time running about the city biting people in the neck, though. He attended the opera or dined at five star restaurants; he sailed his 39 foot ketch which he kept at the City Docks; he visited the zoo every 2nd and 4th Thursday when it was open until 11pm with jazz concerts in the plaza; and he played in both a darts and billiards league at a pub called Hennessey's.
Tonight was one of those nights when Marcus enjoyed himself like a regular sort of guy. He'd had dinner at Parker's, an upscale steak house downtown just outside Black End's unofficial western border; spent two hours watching the zoo's Big Cats, who were far more active in the evenings; and caught the second half of the game down at MacAfee's.
He caught the last train from downtown to Black End, the 12:11 to Creighton Street, and was flirting with a pair of leggy college girls coming home from clubbing when a trio of hoods entered at Cormer Street and almost immediately began hassling the dozen or so people in the car. At the next stop, some of the riders got off, despite seeming as though they'd had farther to go yet. When the thugs reached the women Marcus had been talking to, he'd had enough of their behavior.
"I think it would be a very good idea," he told them after attracting their attention with a slight whistle, "if you were all to take a seat and be good little boys."
The trio almost immediately erupted into laughter. They mocked him and asked one another such things as Can you believe this guy? As they continued, they casually moved about so that they were surrounding Marcus. The subway came to its next stop and the rest of the riders hurried out, knowing there was going to be trouble.
The thugs waited until the train was moving again before they began challenging Marcus directly. Again he said, "I think it would be good for you to sit and be good."
They stepped up their confrontation, and yet Marcus continued to just sit there, turning his attention from one man to the next to the next. One of the men had had his hand in his jacket pocket the entire time. He finally pulled it out, immediately clicking open the switchblade in his grasp.
In a flash, Marcus snatched his wrist and twisted his arm. With a punch to back of it, Marcus bent the man's elbow the direction it had never been intended to bend. The thug screamed in agony, then dropped to the deck as Marcus slammed the bottom of his foot into the man's knee, doing pretty much to it as he'd already done to the arm.
The other two stepped back a bit, surprised by the lightning fast attack. One of them reached for a small caliber revolver in his waist band, but even before he could turn the barrel toward his intended victim, Marcus was on his feet and grabbing at the weapon. The vampire forced the gun up and away, then pulled the trigger himself. A round fired, and the third would-be attacker's head jerked to one side. He was dead before he hit the ground, the bullet having entered his eye socket and splintered to cut sharp little path's through his brain matter.
Still moving rapidly, Marcus pulled the gunman tight to him and leaned forward to sink his fangs into the man's neck. The man opened his mouth to scream but all that came out was a gurgle. Marcus held his torso tightly as he began sucking the gangbanger's blood in big gulps. The man's struggle began to wane, and then he went still in Marcus's arms. Eventually his weight was fully in the vampire's arms, dangling like an oversized rag doll.
Still grasping the man's hand that was still grasping the gun, Marcus withdrew his fangs, lifted the gun to the thug's neck, and let the weapon fire a second time. The round ripped a large chunk of muscle away, concealing the puncture marks Marcus's fangs had left. Then he simply dropped the man and walked to the door, just in time to get off at the Creighton Street station and complete his transit with a leisurely, 3 block stroll.