0 comments/ 23037 views/ 0 favorites The Man in Black By: Maldoror The night hung to the Man in Black like a blanket of solitude and emptiness. No matter how fast he rode there was no way he could throw it off. The road, like those he traveled before, was black and solemn and giving of the illusion that it was the same patch of road ever one hundred yards or so that was added to the road ahead seamlessly by some mad design. Even the trees echoed this hypothesis, repeating in size and shape like part of some Atari game. The Man in Black’s features were obscured by the darkness and the shadows that hung to his face. He had eyes that always seemed in shadow and hair that blended into the night like a magical imp. In light or dark his features never changed. His eyes bore no laugh lines nor did his mouth bare effect of even one frown. It was like he was not real, not flesh and bone but rather a false thing, a creature of myth. His muscles were defined, rough. His skin dark and chiseled. More than one person who saw him thought of Michelangelo or some other sculptor. He shut off the light and drove by whatever light diffused through the clouds. He drove this way for some time, enjoyed it and welcomed the sensation of heightened senses that animals feel who hunt at night. It was not during this time that he fell off the bike. That was later when he turned the light back on. When he did, the loop of trees, road, trees road was finally broken by a deer that stood broadside on the road. His last thought was a curse to the light that froze the deer to the road. When you are the only source of light besides the moon, he thought, nothing good can come from it. Nothing that mesmerizes a creature like this can be good. What was given to him now was a sensation of motion without any sense of where or when. This confused him because, if nothing else, he always knew motion. Knew it at birth. Knew it like a breath because that was the only other constant beside the organ that pumped blood under his skin. He had realized the sensation of motion at birth and mastered it. It was how he was able to operate his bike without light. It was how he knew there was no way to pass the deer at his current velocity and was able to ascertain the exact tree that would stop his flight. But now the sensation of motion stayed with him after he stopped, after his helmet cracked in two, after his mind told him he had stopped. It was not his motion that confused him, or not all him motion. Now it seemed night itself moved. The night that once covered now hung over his body which was now by the side of the road. Like a lover the blackness, the night, mounted him, and like any decent man he acquiesced to her demands. He was adaptable that way. He adapted to the road, to the solitude of darkness and would adapt to the night as a lover. After all what little was known to him, he could take what was given with little complaint. Debra Henning was a nurse for St. Mary’s Hospital, in Lubbeux, Texas. She was a nurse now for a few months, straight out of Texas State U, out of the arms of the predictable yet loving pitcher for the Texas State WildCats Aaron Busings, into the arms of the Second Floor. It was the floor for the people who were for the most part a little stiff as she said to her friends. Coma patients or those who just didn’t want to move much were those she watched over. She was not there when the Man in Black moved into room 312. She did hear of him though. His name was unknown. No id, no one yet to come calling for him and for the past two days in ER his fingerprints came up without a match. This was why he was now known throughout the hospital. That, and all the nurses wanted to see him, see the man who came in all in black: black leather, black jeans, black hat. All of that was off now (he now wore a white hospital gown), but everyone still called him the Man in Black. At least the women did. The men called him John Doe. Those who felt threatened called him by other names. He was unable to tell anyone his real name because he was on the third floor, now under Debra’s care, which meant he was in a coma. It was not a bad coma, as comas go. Not that he could tell anyone that. In fact, if you were to wake him up and ask him how the coma was going, he would say “fine”. But then it was a blow to his head that put him there and it was up to him to figure out when it was time to wake up, pull up his boots, and get back on the bike. Till then, it was up to Deb to make sure he was fine during the graveyard shift. Deborah was very willing to do whatever it took to make him happy during his stay. Told him so the first night she met him as she checked his vitals. Everything’s ok here she told him as if he was intent on his recovery. What she didn’t tell him that night or the next couple of nights as she went in and out of his room was how often she found an excuse, any excuse, to visit him. His face was ok, the helmet took a lot of the damage, and the only real damage was superficial. The doctors told the nurses who asked (her included) that he suffered no real damage and should wake up from the coma anytime now. John Doe was lucky enough not to brake anything but was unlucky enough to hit his head the right way to put him to sleep for the better part of a week. It was the sixth day he was in the hospital. Deborah came in to check the equipment and talk to him as usual. It was a few months since the breakup, and since then she was like a desert, high and dry. And this man with no name, no history, looked like he was made of granite. She looked him over again as she did everyday, and felt the usual ache below her stomach that resulted from the Man in Black. His sleep was deep, deeper than any other. Yet she knew it was not painful, at least not for him. A dull ache, long and low, almost feral in its camouflage made its existence known to her. It crept toward her unknown until it made her wet between her thighs. It was months since a man touched her, and now this need was directed toward the Man in Black. She heard that he was well endowed from the nurses that fought to wash him during the afternoon shift. His skin, they say, is tightly drawn over his muscles. And his penis… She drew aside the cover and looked at his penis. It was long, yet was –like the man attached to it— without conscious thought, action. Limp and listless like a rope that hung over a docked boat. She knew it may not respond to her touch, and thought that this was one of the few times a penis wouldn’t. There was still the urge to touch it, to get tactile sensation from it, feel the ridges impressed on it like it was marbleized stone. She surprised herself as her hand dipped below and held it, weighed it like it was fruit. In fact she wanted to smell it as well. She wanted the penis to impress all her senses if not the hole that ached for it. She caught her need, held it like his penis, and checked it. It was late, after midnight, most everyone was gone, which meant the world was open to all possibilities. Logic reined her in, but decided to let her touch him as a form of diplomatic compromise. She traced him. She felt every curve, ran over the vein that felt like a small mountain, long and winding. Her vagina expanded, swelled as if in preparation. The man in black showed no movement besides the deep and regular breaths. She thought he was a lifeless machine. All she needed to do was find the right switch and bring him to life. Her other hand ran up his leg deftly, over smooth, bulged skin, and began to trace the man’s testicles. He was full, had been for a week now, without release. He was unconscious –been so since they found him- yet she knew that as long as a man was still alive, still breathing, a man’s balls still did their jobs. Coma or no Coma She felt a new emotion: Pity. He needed release. She needed release. In helping herself, she would be helping him. This is what being a nurse all was about, right? Easing pain, easing all kinds of… She trailed off. She bent over and –aiming the limp flesh that caused all this— ran her tongue over the head. Then she withdrew and, making sure no one was around, shut off the overhead night. The Man in Black smelled of the inexpensive hospital soap, yet had that unmistakable odor of masculinity that can creep up and overcome anything else. She brought it up with her tongue, massaged it out of him in slow, long strokes. It went to her brain, welcomed and washed over all inhibitions. She unhooked her belt and eased her hand underneath the fabric, into the source. This time she walked to the foot of the bed and gingerly crawled on it till her head was directly over his cock. This position enabled both to get what they needed. She held him again. This time she took him all the way in her mouth, sucking and lapping, drawing, forcing the blood toward the head. By now her attitude was brazen; caution was a hair width from defeat. The need was insatiable and demanded no quarter. Still she did everything slowly, deliberately as not to jar the Man in Black awake or to jostle him about. Suddenly her manipulation drew attention from The Man in Black. His penis grew in her mouth. She pulled back, stopped playing with herself too and stayed motionless like a cat, eyes locked on his face. --Don’t wake up, don’t wake up-- Her mouth still watered, and saliva dropped onto the head. His face was without change. The odor of masculinity increased in strength, drawing her back toward his cock. She went back down without looking away from his features and licked up her saliva from his half-revived manhood. She returned to easing his pain and easing her own. Soon it was apparent this wasn’t enough for her. She could keep this up till The Man in Black exploded in her mouth, but her pity, her need to help him and his full balls, would only go as far as she got something out of it as well. Her fingers – normally suitable for those cold nights – would not fill her tonight. She quickly removed herself from the bed and lowered the bed quickly (she was not sure how long a man in his condition could keep an erection without continual sensation and she didn’t want to start again from scratch) The bed was now set at its sturdiest and could now hold the both of them even if he was awake. She mounted him. It initially hurt; not from his size but rather from the extreme care and length she went to go as slow and controlled as possible. She was able to set herself on her hands and knees to move as her urge demanded without moving him, jostling him no more than taking his temperature or changing his bandages. After a few minutes of this slow agony, she gained greater control over him and the situation. She watched the monitor, making sure to keep his heart rate below a rate that would sound the alarms at the front desk and end this momentary tryst. She flushed and perspired. The realization that she controlled the whole act, from his erection, to his heart rate to his ultimate release, made her insides quake. Usually it was the man who controlled the act. The man who started, then stopped, then fell asleep or smoked or left. Aaron, after every winning game, would fuck her like that. The Man in Black was like a captive audience, and she knew just what to sell him, make him buy as much as she wanted, when she wanted. Her nipples hardened. She was wetter than she thought possible. When she discovered she was in complete control, her lips contracted a couple of times and she felt it run down his shaft. --God, I wish he could suck my nipples-- She closed her eyes, licked her fingers and brought them to her nipple. She had large nipples that were very sensitive. She imagined his lips and tongue probing her, sending her to higher, wetter heights. He sucked on them, twisted them, bit them. More of her juices escaped the grip she had on his hard cock. She would have to find a way to change his sheets when she was done. She never felt as horny as this. She looked again at the monitor and brought his heart rate to the limit before sounding the alarm. Her urge was at its crescendo, and she brought him to his own. She felt his cock stiffen more and his load build up to the breaking point. She came first and her resulting spasms pulled his cum out of him, into her. It was all she could do not to scream. She leaned forward and instead moaned into his mouth. She no longer cared if he were to wake up, knew in the back of his mind that if he didn’t before, he wouldn’t now. She pushed into his mouth and gave it to him as if breathing life back into him. He didn’t move. A few days later he did awake and soon afterwards disappeared in the middle of the night on her day off, somehow evading the nurses and the security guard stationed on that floor. He somehow was able to get his bike too, which was only slightly damaged and was parked in the lot. Management was angry since there was no record of who he was found anywhere, and him gone there was no way, besides the Man in Black himself they would ever get paid. The nurse, however, was fine with his disappearance. It was better that way. She only wanted to help, and there other men that needed her help just as much. The Man in Black Somehow he knew the phone was about to ring. He wasn't certain how he developed the sense, if it could even be called that. Sometimes he chalked it up to being a creature of habit or being predictable himself, but despite that he couldn't deny the peculiar sense he felt, one of a heightened awareness or keen acuity when he knew the phone was about to ring. There were times when he found himself locked in a demented tug-of-war with the device knowing that it was about to ring, but then there would be many long minutes of silence. Just as he resigned himself to being mistaken, it would ring as if mocking him. Some nights he would be wrenched from a peaceful rest to reach over and hold his hand over the phone, hovering just inches away. As if on cue the damned thing would start making its one and only cry and he would answer it. But not this night. It was as if the phone had already started ringing in his mind, he had only to answer it. He opened his eyes, torn from a rare deep sleep and sat upright. He shook the cobwebs from his mind and reached over, picking up the phone. It immediately started to ring. He answered it, still bleary-eyed from sleep. "Hello?" He answered groggily. For a few moments there was nothing but dead space over the phone, with a hiss and crackle of static at random. He decided it was an automated call or someone dialing the wrong number and was about to press the red button to terminate the call when a man's voice came through. "Chef?" The voice said. There were only a spare few people who called him by that name, and most people who would have called him that were long gone. He knew it could only be one of a very small lot of people, and almost instantly he realized that he recognized the voice, just by the single word it spoke. "Goddamn Dalton, is that you?" He replied, still with a little doubt. "Yeah, it's me." Came the man's voice again. "I'm sorry to call you so late. I really am. But I can't rest any more Chef, it's been at me for weeks, I need your help." "You name it Dalton." He answered. "You tell me what it is and I'll make it done." There were several long moments of dead silence, and when the man's voice came again. He could tell that he was fighting back tears, his voice hitching and stuttering as he spoke. "He killed her." The man said between muffled sobs. "She's gone. That sumbitch got away with it. Got away clean. The Sheriff covered for him and the Judge let him walk. " He sat there baffled for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. As he remembered, the man he was speaking to was a widower, his wife dying from an aggressive ovarian cancer a few years before. It had to be that he was remarried, or maybe had found a girlfriend, as he had no children that he knew of. "Dalton, Brother you say the word and I'll be on it." He said. "Just tell me everything, and take your time to make sure I get it right." Days later He was sitting at his kitchen table, as he often did before leaving on a job. Laid out in front of him were various items and effects he would be taking with him. As always, he had picked through them inspecting each one carefully to make sure they were 'on the ready' as he would have said. Some of the items had been with him for many years, some so long that he had forgotten when and where he got them. Some were so familiar to him that they had developed a very storied history. One was an old Solingen straight razor, the blade gray and dull with minute flecks of surface rust here and there. When he picked it up and slid the blade open with a practiced turn of his thumb, a myriad of memories came to him, as if they were fighting to be recognized first. It was given to him a long time ago, by someone who was now gone. She had given it to him because she knew he collected old razors. 'If only she had known what my life would become, and the things I would do with this old thing. What would she think of me?' He pondered to himself, closing the razor and gingerly sitting it down. Next to the razor sat a pair of forty-caliber revolvers nestled snugly in pancake holsters, his 'forties' as he called them. The term revolver wasn't entirely fair, as by all practical means they were hand-held cannons. The guns themselves weren't entirely spectacular though they were expensive and well-made, but the ammunition he used was in itself quite menacing. He would spend hours loading shell after shell using a table mounted reloader, carefully measuring off the powder for each round. Once he had several long neat rows of the squat, shiny bullets lined up, he would place them in a padded vice and painstakingly knurl each projectile, a delicate process that involved scoring the surface in a left-to-right spiral pattern starting from the top of the lead to the bottom. Once this was done he would repeat the process in the opposite direction. The effect of knurling the shot was immediate and obvious; a forty caliber slug that was cross-hatched properly would make an entry wound typical in size for the caliber, but it would leave an exit wound roughly big enough to drive a Westfalia camper through. He took great care with each step of the process. Accidents occur when they conditions are right, so to prevent anything unexpected to happen he didn't take any chances. He often remembered some sage advice his Scoutmaster had given him when he was a kid, standing with the rest of his pack in a circle around a roaring campfire. 'All a fire needs is three things, boys. Air, fuel and a spark. You take away one of those three and the fire ain't gonna happen.' Later on in life he discovered that this particular philosophy applied to many things, and remembering it had saved his hide more than once. Sitting on the floor next to him was a pair of old run-down black leather harness boots. They had many a story to tell as well; traveling with the man on many jobs and carrying him through countless dark days and nights. Those boots and his feet were like old lovers, always wanting to feel the other's presence, even if they had just parted ways. The soles had been replaced a number of times. There were a few items on the table in front of him that he might or might not need, but he always had them, purely as reassurance; an old-fashioned pair of brass knuckles (they're called paperweights now, he often reminded himself), a cigarette lighter, two ink pens and two sharpened pencils, and small variety of other random items he might need. When he was content that he had checked and double-checked everything and was ready to go, he pushed his chair back from the table and sat there, exhaling aloud. His cat was circling his feet, purring. She knew he was about to go. "This is it." He said. "The last job. Let's get this done." Many, many years before The bicycle's tires kicked up small puffs and plumes of dust as he meandered down the empty dirt road, casually peddling along as he made his way home. His skin was dirty and torn in various places from blackberry brambles and an occasional brush against barbed wire, and his hands were a calloused, ruined mess. An angry red sunburn covered most of his exposed skin, his back and shoulders in particular were a painful shade of crimson. The kid didn't seem to notice, though, strolling along the newly-cut dirt road on his old beaten bicycle. The bike was an unimpressive thing with spots of rust showing through the blue enamel paint here and there. The chain gave a minute squeak of protest every time he turned the pedals, despite the thick layers of axel grease he slathered on it to keep it quiet. The old vinyl seat was split and ragged, the stuffing peeking through between the cracks. As he pedaled along the new stretch of road he felt a mild sense of exhilaration that he didn't quite understand. The area was familiar to him, the only thing different about it was that instead of being surrounded by endless fields of corn and cotton, there was now a ruler-straight line dividing the fields in two. Something about exploring enlivened his senses, even if he was revisiting something that was known to him. It gave him a sense of hope, and made his mind race and wander. The kid lived for the sense of escapism, in one form of another. He had spent all morning and the better part of the afternoon cleaning brush and old growth away from a fence row, almost two miles of it. He was dead tired and dehydrated, and every time he moved his muscles ached in protest. His skin was seeping blood from a few dozen small scratches and he was dirty from head to toe. But despite what could fairly be considered a hellish day for anyone, the kid was perfectly content. He had a small knot of five dollar bills in his pocket and he was thoroughly enjoying the peaceful ride home. He found himself lost in the cool evening air, the smell of freshly turned Earth and the thrumming staccato of crickets and cicadas floating through the air. He was making a concerted effort to enjoy the trip home as much as he could, pacing himself so that he would arrive home just after dark. The old man would be in bed by then, and that was a driving force in the kid's life. The old man was three times his size and quick with his fists, and his propensity to crawl inside of a bottle every chance he got only made it worse. The kid had plenty of bruises and scars thanks to him, so he played a tactical game of avoiding the old drunk at every turn. The old man never thought anything of it, since the kid was always finding work every chance he got. He couldn't stand the kid, but he had to admire how dogged and determined he was when it came to work; the kid wasn't afraid of manual labor. He was lost in the placid stroll home, inhaling deeply and relishing in the clean, warm summer air when suddenly the front tire of his bike jerked sideways and he was pitched forward over the handlebars, landing in a big powdery cloud of dry brown dirt. He choked and coughed, slapping at the dust hanging thick in the air around him, wiping the worst of it from around his eyes. "Well she-yit." He remarked with a cough. A big rock lay half buried in the loose dirt just in front of his bike. He was unhurt, except for maybe a few more scratches to add to the dozens he already carried. His bike, however, did not fare so well. The chain had jumped free of the big geared cog behind the pedals, and the kid knew it would be a bear to get it back on. The chain had come from the carcass of another bike he found at the town dump, and it was a bit too small for his bike, although with a little elbow grease and some ingenuity he had managed to make it work. Without something to pull it tight and guide it onto the cog as the turned the pedals, though, it would be very hard to get the chain to seat on the cog so he could turn the pedal and feed the chain onto the cog one link at a time. He shook his head, shaking the dust and dirt from his hair. He sat there cross-legged for several moments, studying the rock that upended him. It looked like a great big stone toad burrowed into the loose dirt. "Hey Chef, you alright?" He heard a voice call from behind him. 'Chef' was a nickname the kid earned early on, working in his uncle's restaurant. While most other kids were enjoying carefree summer days filled with trips to the lake and chasing each other around on a football field, the kid was sweating away over a big Vulcan double grill. This was back in the days before child labor laws were strictly enforced, so no one gave a moment's thought to a kid working in the kitchen so long as their food was cooked right. He had a definite talent for the work, too, churning away with deft and precision right along with his adult counterparts. Quite often the adults would tell him 'Y'er too smart to be doin' this kinda work Kid but damn if you ain't good at it.' By the time he was thirteen the kid was a seasoned veteran and the fastest kitchen hand in the restaurant. On busy Friday nights the various stations would be manned with two cooks each, all except for the big Vulcan. Many times his uncle would bring new employees in, and upon seeing the kid standing there they would almost always scoff at his presence. When the dining room began to fill and the orders came pouring in like a ticker tape parade, the kid would grind away and pull the kitchen crew through the busiest of shifts with relative ease. While the other line cooks were dashing out through the back to catch a quick draw on a smoke before the next rush came in, the kid was cleaning and reorganizing his work station, making certain that everything was in its proper place. Often times people would ask his uncle, 'Damn Truman how'd you teach that boy to work like that?' His response was always the same. 'He ain't working, he's playing.' He would say with a wrinkled grin. The kid never minded the work or the time missed that could have been spent playing grabass or horsing around with other kids his age, his mind was always firmly set on the money he was earning. His uncle was a gruff old fellow who recognized the kid's willingness to work, and he always had some kind of odd job for him to do. Their working relationship had developed from the most unexpected of circumstances. The kid liked to walk to school since the buses tended to be full of rowdy hellions, and the school house was less than a mile from home. There were two ways to and from school, and the kid often preferred to take the longer route, mostly because taking that route meant he would have to invest less time in avoiding the old man once he got home. The long way home took him past his uncle's restaurant, and one day after school let out the kid stopped by to get a bite to eat. As it so happened the dishwasher was out with a bad case of the flu. His uncle was on the phone trying to run down someone who could help him, as business was brisk and he was running shorthanded. He sat the phone down cursing, resigned himself to the duty and stalked into the dish pit to get a handle on the growing mountain of dishes he knew would be waiting for him. Instead he found the kid standing on a milk crate in front of the big stainless triple sink, neat stacks up clean white plates and saucers to his right. Rows upon rows of plastic dividers full of clean silverware were lined up in perfect rank and file. The kid looked over his shoulder to see his Uncle standing there. "Hey Uncle Truman." Was all the kid said as he continued washing dishes, like someone without a care in the world. His uncle stood there a bit dumbfounded, not certain of what to say. The kid whistled merrily as he washed and scrubbed away, so his uncle just went back to the front and let the kid do his thing. The servers looked at him with a smile. 'That's Opal's boy for you.' They said. 'He don't mind helping.' When the worst of the dishes were out of the way the kid got down from his stoop and went back to the counter, put down five dollars and change and waved goodbye to the gal behind the counter. As he was leaving to head home his uncle followed him out onto the sidewalk. 'Kiddo you ain't gotta pay for your food. You done earn't it.' He looked up at his uncle with a big smile. "I know, but I'd prefer to." That was just the kind of kid he was. The kid would work with his uncle for many years, and over time the nickname 'Chef' became as common to him as his own given name. With time he would earn another name, one that would eventually be the one he identified himself by; the one that came to define his life. Matter of fact, many people in town had already gotten into the habit of calling him Nails. The kid's childhood was not a carefree one, and one of the many reasons he enjoyed hard work so much was that it gave him peace and peace of mind, and quite often some solitude that he badly needed. The nickname was one that he both resented and understood, and often times he wondered what it might mean for him in the future. "Chef... are you alright?" The voice repeated. He shook his head, not realizing he had been caught up in his thoughts, and looked up to see a lanky silver-haired kid standing there, a pair of pliers at the ready in his hand. "Yeah Dalton I'm alright." The kid huffed as he stood up, dusting himself off. "Nothin' hurt but my pride." "Well I can't help you with your pride but I can fix your bike." Dalton replied with a smile. "But we gotta find a stick or something. Something thin and hard, rigid-like." The two boys scouted along the side of the road for several minutes before they found what they needed; a slender stick of wood about a foot long. They turned the bike upside down so it sat resting on the handlebars, and Dalton looped the chain over the top of the gear so that the chain seated onto the top teeth on the gear. Then he pulled the chain down tight with the pliers and guided him to slide the stick in between two of the teeth on the cog at about three o'clock, and then he turned the pedal to advance the cog forward. Using the pliers he pulled down on the chain hard until it was as tight as he could manage it. "The stick is gonna get caught between the cog and the chain and hold it in place tight..." Dalton directed him. "And once we get the chain lined up right with the teeth on the cog we just turn it a bit, and..." As he turned the pedal the chain slowly gained one tooth at a time on the cog, and just as it reached the last few teeth it appeared as if it were too tense to slip over the teeth. Dalton grabbed the end of the stick and pulled it toward him, angling the chain inward ever so slightly and gave the pedal another slight bump, and the chain slipped onto the last few teeth effortlessly. He rolled the pedals forward until the stick was clear of the chain and pulled it from between the teeth of the cog like a dentist removing a stubborn tooth. "Damn Dalton." The kid marveled. "You should be an engineer or somethin'." "Nah." Dalton said with a smile. "I'm just a tinkerer." As the sun set behind them, the two boys became silhouettes walking side by side down the dusty dirt road. The kid walked his bike and Dalton walked with him. They both grew up in the same small town, worked in the same fields and farms, and they shared many of the same troubles. Dalton Forehand was an only child, a bright and genuine kid who loved nothing more than to find something to tinker on and fix, even if was only to disassemble it only to fix it again. He carried that old set of pliers with him everywhere he went, tucked away into a pocket of his faded denim carpenter's pants. They were a gift from his father, but it was unlikely they were meant to be some profound gesture of fatherly love; chances are his dad gave them to him just to give him something to tinker on and keep him out of his hair for a while. Dalton took to them, though, and through them he cultivated a love of building, creating and finding ways to repair damn near anything. The old folks in town often joked that he could fix anything with those damned old pliers. He had saved many a farmer a pretty penny in repairs by mending all manner of equipment, whether it was the linkage on a combine thresher or the tackle on a plowhorse's yoke, and every time he would pull off some minor feat of engineering genius he did so with those old pliers in one hand. They were his talisman, his mantra. They came natural to him somehow, and he never questioned it or doubted it. He had put them to such great use, in fact, that he had replaced the rivet that held the two handles together several times. When he walked into the hardware store downtown, the old men behind the counter didn't cast a wary eye at him like they would any other kid; they all knew Dalton was a tinkerer extraordinaire. He knew exactly what he would be needing, navigating the aisles like a master mariner. When he came to the counter to pay, he knew the price of each nut and bolt and various hardware he had gathered, and he even knew what he should be paying with tax included. He was a damned sharp kid, and he made the most of his intelligence and skill by finding ways to help other people out. The Man in Black As the two boys grew into teenagers, life took one hard turn after another for the both of them. They saw less and less of each other, and as time always does it got away from them both. The kid often wondered if he would find something in life that he would take to as naturally as Dalton had taken to those old pliers. As fate would have it, one day he did. Many years into the future, and very far away He sat there at the counter, grunting and snorting under his breath as he ate. He was an ungainly, overweight red-skinned hoggish bastard who was out of breath pretty much all the time. In front of him sat a half-eaten pile of scrambled eggs, dusted with a heavy spray of salt and pepper. Sausage patties and links sat on top of strips of thick-cut slab bacon and in the middle of the whole mess was a big kitchen spoonful of grits; a puddle of butter melted into a runny yellow pocket that resembled a volcanic crater full of cholesterol. To one side was the remainder of a huge blueberry pancake, a lake of liquefied butter and syrup surrounding it. To his other side sat a saucer with a small stack of toasted white bread; several bite marks on the pieces apparently at random. He heaved and panted as he shoveled the food into his mouth, a spray of crumbs ejecting here and there as he stuffed himself, heedless of manners. His hat sat on the bar stool next to him, a habit the proprietor hated from day one. When the café got busy that damned hat always cost the owner one seat at the bar, and asking the fat bastard to please move his hat so someone else could sit down didn't seem to do the trick. Every now and then the café's owner would send one of his kids over to 'accidentally' sit on the hat, just to get a reaction from the rude jackass. He was tolerated, though. After all, he was the Sheriff. In the back corner of the little sun-dappled café sat a man, dressed in black head to toe. He was enjoying a second cup of coffee (which he found to be particularly good, by the way. For some reason he seemed to be enjoying a great many things more in recent days) The man in black had been studying the sheriff as he sat there raking his food in, and after several minutes he had only one initial impression; 'This is one fat disgusting son-of-a-bitch.' He thought to himself. He knew he couldn't be the only one making the same observation, as everyone who passed by the counter gave the man the same look of disgust or exasperation. Once the She Sheriff had his fill he fished a bill out his wallet and dropped it on the counter. Several dirty plates with all manner of partially eaten food were strewn in front of him. He pushed his chair back, the tortured seat creaking in agony. He stood up slowly, wincing as if in pain. No doubt he was, the man in black thought as he watched him. The sheriff was morbidly obese; the front of his tan uniform shirt bloated obscenely outward at the belly, the buttons straining for dear life to hold on. The yellowed white of his undershirt showed through the distorted button holes. The man looked as if he would fall over dead if he had to run ten feet. His slacks were the same color tan as his shirt, although they were in obvious disarray. Wrinkles and creases were visible everywhere and there was no neat, crisp seam at the front like you would expect to see on any self-respecting lawman's uniform pants. It was obvious that he didn't care for maintaining his appearance, professional or otherwise. His hat and badge, however, were impeccable. The brim of the hat was razor-straight and his badge was polished to a high shine. It was a big silver star, like the ones you would see the small-town sheriffs wear in the old Western movies. The man in black found it odd that this sloppy greasy son-of-a-bitch would let his health and appearance slide so bad, but he kept his hat and badge looking downright sterling. 'Probably because they're the easiest to maintain. That big bastard ain't gonna break a sweat unless he's eating.' A voice said in the back of his mind. The man in black chuckled to himself, in agreement with the thought. When the sheriff opened the door to leave, a little bell hanging overhead from an arm of bent brass chimed happily, as if even the inanimate objects in the little café were glad to see him leave. A warm ray of brilliant sunshine spilled into the café through the open door, framing the Sheriff's silhouette as he left. The ray of light dwindled down to a thin splinter of yellowish white as the door closed behind him, and then disappeared altogether. The sunlight seemed to have a particularly beautiful clarity to it, the man in black thought. Then again, almost everything seemed to be better or greater or somehow more these past few days, as if somehow he was regaining some use of his senses, or possibly recovering some senses that had become muted or altogether lost. He couldn't quite make sense of it, but the sensation was undeniable. Something was different; he simply couldn't quite grasp what it was. He had the strangest notion, however, that soon it would make sense to him. Hours later, in the dark The preacher man was stone drunk, passed out in his armchair with a half-empty bottle of hooch resting in his lap. The main black was tempted to finish him then and there, but he felt it would be a sloppy end to a job what was worth doing well. As the preacher snored away in his oblivious sleep, the man in black carefully searched until he found what he was looking for, hidden behind a stack of neatly folded shirts in a dresser drawer. It was an old revolver, what the old guard would have commonly called a Saturday Night Special. It was a cheap and simple thing. No chrome or blue steel finish, just a cheap old black iron revolver with a plastic checkered grip. He opened the drum with a practiced flip of the thumb, spun it and then snapped it back in place. When he left the preacher was still deep in his idiot sleep, dead to the world. Later on when he woke, the preacher man would find a half-empty bottle of liquor in his lap, but in his stupor he didn't realize that it was not the same bottle he was drinking from before he fell asleep. On a dark empty road, after midnight The sheriff had retired for the evening, his hat and badge resting safely on a bedside table. Although saying he had retired for the evening was somewhat of a misnomer; it suggested that at some point he had done something, which he had not. His afternoon was spent mostly idling down a few of the main thoroughfares in town, stopping at random to waddle into a convenience store and buy an obscenely large fountain drink and a double handful of anything covered in chocolate. He was a regular fixture on the streets in the early afternoon, always driving at a maddening pace of about ten miles below the posted speed limit. The townspeople mostly believed that he did it purely to be irritating, although the truth was that he simply didn't like to be rushed while doing anything. He was possessed of such a damning laziness that it permeated everything he did, and while the man in black stood there watching him, tucked away in a dark corner of the sheriff's home, he almost felt a tinge of guilt for what he was about to do. It wasn't because he felt any form of pity for the sheriff; it was simply for the fact that the sheriff was so helpless. The man in black had been watching him for the better part of a half hour, listening for any telltale sounds that might signal he should wait or retreat altogether. He had accepted that one day he might be caught and put away for the rest of his natural life for the career he chose to pursue, and during these past several days he had thought to himself more than once 'It's too late in the game to get caught, Kid. We gotta be extra careful on this one.' Luckily for him the sheriff lived at the dead end of a long dirt road, on property that had been in his family for years. The man in black was taken with the belief that the sheriff wasn't exactly a socialite, either, given the way the people in town reacted to him. He felt that this was going to be easy, almost easier than the job should ever be, and secretly it gave him a sense of relief. After all the messy jobs he had done and all of the damnable and damned people he had encountered, the man in black felt like he deserved an easy finish to a hard career. The sheriff, unaware that he was being watched, made it even easier so for him when he decided to go down into his basement and enjoy a little entertainment. In the dank, humid basement was an old sofa, stinking of mildewed fabric. Against the far wall was an enormous projection-type big screen television, surrounded by stacks of old VHS pornography. The Sheriff rifled through the stacks of cassettes and found one of his all-time favorites, studying the cardboard slipcover with a mildly lecherous grin, and then put the movie in to play. He was still dressed in his uniform shirt and slacks, as much an insult to the service as it was a testament to his laziness. He removed his belt (the man in black could practically here it sigh in relief) then pulled off his ill-fitting slacks and underwear, and then he plopped down onto the old sofa, which responded with a groan and a squeak of bent springs. The man in black always insisted on being overly cautious and taking his time, but when the tape started to play he felt a sudden urge to be done, and quickly. The screen flashed a brief blast of static then the image resolved into a grainy image of a tall, thin man dressed in a preacher's frock. Kneeling in front of him was another man, younger and dressed to look like an altar boy. The man in the altar boy costume was kneeling at the preacher man's feet, and the preacher had his hand on the back of his head. 'You've been a very naughty boy, kissing girls!' The preacher man barked at him. 'Yes I have.' The altar boy cried, his voice a bad falsetto of a child's. 'I've been very bad.' 'You should be punished!' The preacher man hissed at him, reaching inside of his frock at the crotch. 'Ah shit, that's enough of that.' The man in black thought to himself, and decided it was time to finish the job. He reached inside of his boot and retrieved his razor, instantly feeling comforted by its weight in his hand. It was a light and delicate thing, but it felt solid and reaffirming in his hand. Just as the sheriff's hand was making it way past the round expanse of his belly to his crotch, the blade suddenly kissed his neck. He froze instantly, not attempting to move or speak. The man in black waited several long seconds, waiting for him to say something or attempt to move. "Well." The man in black remarked. "You're smarter than I gave you credit for." The Sheriff didn't say a word, he just sat there motionless. The man in black was watching him closely, as sofa cushions provide a very convenient place for hiding a gun. The cool kiss of the razor disappeared and the Sheriff felt something hard and cold press against the back of his neck. "Up with your hands. And be slow about it." The man in black demanded. The Sheriff complied, slowly lifting his arms upward until they were over his head. His breath was a heavy, wet sounding pull and draw. The man in black was mildly surprised that he didn't just fall over dead. Something fell over the sheriff's shoulder and landed on his lap. He looked down to see his badge staring back up at him. "Put it on." The man in black ordered him. The Sheriff fumbled with the badge, his hands shaking badly. Once the badge was pinned onto his shirt the man in black ordered him to his feet. He stood up, painstakingly, his knees cracking and popping as he did so. "Keep 'em up and turn around." The sheriff turned around slowly to see a man dressed in black standing there, looking at him with a fierce intensity. He wore latex gloves and had a black revolver in his right hand. The gun was leveled at his head. He knew he would have to talk a seriously deep line of shit to get himself out of this mess. "Wh, wha, what can I do to fix this?" The sheriff stammered. The man in black arched an eyebrow and smiled a little, as if he were terribly amused. "I don't know." He said. "What you got?" The sheriff spoke up, without a moment's hesitation. "I've got a few Kilos from the evidence locker nobody else knows about. It's good stuff. Uncut." He stuttered. ""You can have it, all of it." "Hmm, must be good shit, huh?" Asked the man in black. "Oh yeah, it's good. It's good as it gets!" The sheriff blubbered, foolishly thinking he saw a glimmer of hope. The man in black looked away for a moment, seemingly staring off into space, although the gun stayed leveled at his head, unmoving. He shook his head a little and then looked into the sheriff's eyes, fixing him with a stare. "Is it so good that it can bring someone back from the dead?" He asked. The sheriff looked completely baffled, as though he were uncertain of what he heard. "Can it do what?!?" He asked. "Nevermind." The man in black sighed. "I figured as much." He said, lowering the gun a bit and pulling the trigger. Miles away, just before dawn The preacher man opened his eyes slowly, shaking his head. His hand instinctively found the neck of the bottle resting in his lap, and without thought he took a long draw from it. He sighed aloud as the warm burn of the liquor made its way down into his stomach. As much as he hurt for it, it always made him sad. He had indulged himself in his vices for so long that he felt numb to life, and the harsh warmth of hard liquor was the only thing he relished any more. His greatest joy had become a familiar pang of self-destruction. He cared not, though. He had a good thing going, you see. He had it 'whooped', as the old folk would say. He had plenty of money at hand, a roof over his head and a cabinet full of booze. His afternoons were spent nodding away in his armchair, his best and closest friend resting in his lap. He finished off the bottle in three more long pulls and set it aside, bracing the arms of his chair to stand up. Once he was on his feet he reeled a bit, swaying back and forth. "Bout time you woke up." Came a voice from behind him, startling him so bad he almost tripped over his own feet as he spun about to see a strange man standing there. "Who the hell are you?" the preacher man yelled, his words slurred. "And how the hell'd you get into my hou-" The stranger moved fast, reaching out with his right arm and pressing something cold and hard under his chin, cutting his words short. Even in his stupor the preacher knew it had to be a blade of some kind. "Who I am don't really matter." The man said, his voice heavy with a Southern accent so thick it was almost a caricature."What matters is why I'm here." "Wh, wh, why is that?" He stammered, flinching as the man came closer. This man was a stranger to him, a rough-hewn looking country salt with a gardener's tan and a face that looked like it had seen a lifetime's worth or hard travels. He was wearing black top to bottom, and he also looked to be righteously pissed off. "Say her name." The man in black growled. "What? Who?!?" The preacher man whimpered. The room seemed to be spinning around, everything frightening and surreal. Was he having a nightmare? "Listen to me you son of a bitch, I've done decided that you gonna die. Now you can just die or you can die bad. But you're gonna say her name or I'll take all day killin' you." He snarled back at the preacher. He stood there baffled for several moments, searching frantically for some clue or reason behind what this man was saying, and then it came to him. "Oh no." The preacher man sighed. "It's her." "She has a name." The man in black hissed, pressing the blade harder under his chin. "Say it." The preacher's shoulders slumped and he exhaled aloud. "Selena." He whispered, and immediately he felt the blade digging into his skin, harder. "Selena!" He repeated, much louder. The man in black just stood there watching for several moments, studying him with that macabre glare. "Why are you doing this for her? Was she really that important?" The preacher barked at him, the liquor getting the better of his senses. The stranger cocked an eyebrow. "You tell me." He said. The voice of common sense was screaming loud in the back of the preacher's mind, trying to overcome any stupid bravado the liquor might be causing. 'Are you trying to get killed man? This bastard's gonna skin you like a polecat if you don't shut up!' The man in black pulled the blade away from his chin, and he could see it was an old straight razor. The stranger reached into his jacket and retrieved something from an inside pocket, cupping it in his hand. "Hold your hand out." He growled at the preacher man. The preacher extended a hand, slowly and shakily. He hadn't the courage to argue, he just wanted the man to be gone. The man dropped the object in the palm of his open hand. The preacher looked into his hand, his eyes growing wide. His first instinct was to throw the item away; it felt angry and cold in his hand. He was holding a silver badge. It was not a pristine and polished star, though; instead it was bent and spotted with flecks of black. The arms of the star were bent outward and a ragged hole pierced the center and gave the badge an odd inward impression. The bottom two arms of the star were stained with a reddish brown substance that he knew could only be dried blood. He looked up at the man in black, horrified. "Oh my God." He stammered. "You killed him!" Calmly, almost casually, the man in black reached into the right pocket of his jacket and pulled out the preacher's gun. "No, actually I didn't." He remarked rather morosely, taking the badge from the preacher's palm with his left hand and forcing the revolver into his open hand with his right, squeezing his hand around the preacher's hand and turning the gun upright. "You did." He quipped. "And then you did this." "Wha?" the preacher man gasped, and the gun discharged in his hand. The bullet struck him just under the chin and a grisly spray of red bloomed from the back of his head. He let go of the preacher man's hand as he went down. The preacher man fell dead, his body landing with a flat thud. The gun was clutched tightly in his hand, so tight that his knuckles were white. A thin ribbon of smoke drifted up from the barrel of the cheap Saturday Night Special, the odor sharp and acrid. "And, yes." He finished. "She was that important. They all were." The man in black stood there over him, studying him for several long seconds. He closed his eyes and then inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly and then opened them again. He leaned over the preacher man's corpse and put the bloodied badge in the palm of his left hand and closed the fingers around it. Through the thin latex gloves he could feel the warmth of the man's fingers, and he knew they would soon grow cold. He was struck with a terrible irony at that moment; it was a great metaphor for his life, one he wished badly to change. What little warmth he had in life had been replaced with so much coldness, so much death. "I guess maybe this is a way of changing all that." He whispered to himself. "Now that I'm done." He turned to walk away, and then he stopped for a moment, slowly turning back around to look at the preacher man's dead body again. "Yeah." He said, his voice both elated and exhausted." Now that I'm done." Hours later and many miles away He was sitting in a small café, an unremarkable Mom and Pops type of joint with red vinyl checkered tablecloths and dime store curtains framing the windows. He was into his second cup of coffee, and as he sat there he closed his eyes, savoring the aroma of the roasted beans as the vapor wafted up from the cup. The scent was strong and heady, and he realized that he had never enjoyed a cup of coffee so much in his life, taking a long drag from the cup. He put the cup down and sat there staring at it, as if something was going to come from within the cup or something might reveal itself through it. Then it came to him, something occurred to him that made sense of it all. The Man in Black For the past several days everything tasted better, smelled stronger, felt softer and warmer than he could remember in all his time, because unconsciously he knew he was growing near the end. His last job was done. He was finished. The peace and calm he had longed for over so many countless years had snuck up on him like a tomcat slinking down a dark alley, creeping up on him one stealthy footstep at a time. And there he sat; knowing that he now had the rest of his life to enjoy his life. He suddenly felt more alive than he knew was possible. He sat there staring into the cup of coffee, trying to grasp what it was he was feeling. It came to him as much as an epiphany as it was a shock. "It's hope." He whispered to himself. "And... freedom." He wiped a tear from under one eye then flagged down his server for another cup of coffee. "That's pretty good coffee, huh?" The young freckled waitress asked with a smile. "Best damned coffee I've ever had in my life." He replied with a genuine smile. The End * *To the Reader -- this is the end. Maybe not for good, though, there might be other dark figures lurking in the shadows that have stories to tell, but for all practical purposes the Man in Black is done. There may be different and possibly even bigger things to come in the future, but the Man in Black has paid his dues and he's enjoying some much deserved peace and quiet. To drag it out would be to undermine the true nature of the character. Thank you for reading. The Man In Black Hits The Road The man in black hits the road It was a miserable night. Rain fell in dark sheets across the path cut by the Crown Vic's headlights. The big black sedan swept down the deserted highway while the wipers batted back and forth at the chilly rain. It wasn't cold enough for the roads to ice over, but it was damned close. Most people would avoid driving in weather like that at all costs. But the man behind the wheel, well he wasn't like most people. He was Hell bent to make it to the other side of the country. He had an appointment to keep, and the man in black never missed an appointment. In almost twenty years at a hard-handed and unforgiving job, the man in black had never missed an appointment. He could have flown or taken a charter bus of course, but that wouldn't suit his needs. He traveled alone, and let's just say that he had some luggage with him that wouldn't make him too popular at an airport. He wiped his eyes and then took his foot off of the gas pedal. The Crown Vic gradually slowed and he pulled over carefully onto the side of the road. Once the car was at a stop he stretched a bit and yawned. "Goddamned insomnia." He muttered. "When I want to sleep, I can't. And when I need to stay awake I can barely keep my eyes open." He looked at his face in the rear view mirror. "Dammit man." He grunted to himself. "You look a hundred years old." The truth was, he thought to himself, that he felt a hundred years old. He opened the glove box and pulled out a thick brown envelope with a metal clasp on the flap. He opened the envelope and pulled out a stack of papers and a picture. Without looking he reached up and turned on the overhead light. He studied the picture for a moment and then looked at himself in the mirror again. He shook his head and closed his eyes. "You know..." He said into the cold silence. "You could just turn around and go home. You could just go. No one would question it. You could tell them anything you want and they would buy it. You could tell them your man was already gone, you could tell them he wasn't where he was supposed to be. You could tell them anything. They won't doubt you. You can tell them to keep their money and everything will be fair. They will find somebody else to pick up where you left off. You've had a perfect record for too long. You could just let it go, turn around and go home and count this one as your first loss." A tear burned its way down his cheek, slowly. It felt like a cold finger touching his skin. "In less than eight hours I could be at home in my bed with Christine asleep on my feet." He told himself. The man in black opened his eyes and looked at the picture again. A pair of bright blue eyes stared back at him from the photograph. Those eyes are closed forever now. "Yeah, I could tell them to keep their money, but everything wouldn't be fair, would it?" He said, wiping the tears from his face with an angry swipe. He sat there in silence for several moments. The only sounds to be heard were the faint drone of the Crown Vic's engine and the rain tapping overhead. He sighed aloud, and then put the picture and papers back in the envelope and returned it to the glove box. "No Hell it wouldn't." He said angrily, and put the Crown Vic in gear. Moments later the big Ford disappeared into the gloom, and so did the man in black. The Kid The Mexican was losing a lot of blood. The bullet in his gut was a screaming hot agony. He couldn't stop running, though. He was running for his life. He clambered atop a tall mound of wood chips and fell face first and then slid down the other side. He grabbed and clawed to stop his decline, but to no avail. He kept on sliding through the dry mass of wood chips until he came to a rest at the bottom of the mound. The man spat and coughed, shaking his head to rid him of the wood chips that had clogged his hair, nose and mouth. The man was covered from head to toe in small cuts and scratches, and he itched something fierce. He managed to stand and gain his balance and then quickly looked around. His breath fogged in front of him in random little clouds of vapor as he heaved for breath. He was somewhere in a lumberyard, but other than that he had no idea where in Hell he was. It was dark out and bitter cold. He could see a faint perimeter of lights some distance away, and presumed they would be near a fence that surrounded the lumberyard. If only he could make it over that fence, he might be home free. He studied his surroundings for a moment longer and then started to run. He didn't make it very far, though. A single shot rang out and the Mexican fell to his knees. A bright red bloom of blood appeared on his dirtied work shirt, just below the small of his back. He fell onto his side with a ragged wail. He lie there motionless for several moments. He tried to sit up but his legs weren't cooperating. He palmed the ground with both hands and tried to lift himself, but his legs would not respond. He fell flat onto his face and began to cry. Moments later he heard footsteps approaching. "Dios mio, Senor." A man's voice mocked from behind him. The Mexican tried to turn over and see who the voice belonged to. He was too exhausted, too spent from the bullet in his belly and his mad dash through the lumberyard. He couldn't feel his legs, only an odd detached feeling below his waist that reminded him of a trip to the dentist as a child. The smiling dentist had given him a shot of Novocain in his mouth, and he remembered touching his cheek afterward. He could feel the pressure of his finger against his cheek, but no sensation. The Mexican realized he had been shot in the back, and the bullet had severed his spine. He knew he was about to die, and he knew he was totally helpless to stop it. He continued crying. His hands dug into the soft earth, clawing at it in a feeble attempt to crawl away. The smell of damp earth and dry wood filled his nostrils. He could also detect the sickly sweet smell of blood, his own. The ground underneath him was red with it. "Do you know what today is mi amigo?" The voice asked. The Mexican didn't respond. He lie there crying in a growing pool if his own blood. "Today is a good day to die." The voice said. A foot materialized out of the darkness and suddenly the Mexican felt a blinding white pain in his stomach. Before darkness took him he caught a brief glimpse of a slender shadow looming over him. Seconds later a gunshot rang out. Then there was blackness. "That's what happens when you don't pay your bills amigo." The voice said sullenly. "That's what happens when you fuck with me." The shadow turned and walked away, whistling a merry tune. He meandered between huge piles of wood chips and sawdust until he reached a fence, and then strolled along the fence for a few minutes until he reached a gate. Standing over the gate was a pole with a single light at the top. It cast a muted white light. As he passed under the light it shone dully against the expensive tailored suit he was wearing, grey with thin black pinstripes. He was rail thin, yet a bit wiry looking. His short hair was sand colored. He looked like an up and coming young executive, not a gun happy hired killer. But that's exactly what Jeremy Michael Finch was. Not only was he a hired killer, he was one of those sick souls who enjoyed every minute of it. To hear him tell it, he was the greatest assassin ever born, a machine of pure clinical destruction. In his mind he was the finest instrument of warfare ever conceived by the minds of men. Matter of fact, he had taken the time to tell a few of his victims that before he finished them off. He didn't want them thinking they were going to be killed by just anyone. Dammit, he wanted them to know they got bumped off by someone special. Suddenly he stopped and pulled a cell phone out of a pocket. It was vibrating in his hand. He touched a button and held it up to his ear nonchalantly. "Yes." He hissed. "I've got a job for you." A man's voice said. "Be in Dallas tomorrow by noon." "You assume I'll accept it." He replied, instantly angry. "I'm a busy man." "You're busy like I'm the Pope." The voice snapped. "And if you want your payment for the Mexican then you'll be in Dallas tomorrow by noon. Got that Finch?" "But of course." He answered, trying to sound casual despite his growing anger. That man knew how to see right through him, precisely how to push his buttons. And it drove him just plain nuts. "I'll make time for it." The voice on the telephone made an exasperated 'hmph' noise. "Whatever. Just be there." The voice said. "I need you to pay a visit to some damned bumpkin out in the styx, so be ready to travel. And be on your toes when you arrive. This guy's a ghost. We don't even know if our location is good or not. Only hard fact we have is that he dresses in black. Other than that all we have to go on are guesses. So be sharp, kid." "My name isn't kid." He responded angrily, speaking slowly as if to emphasize his point. "Of course it's not. Be there by noon." The man said, his voice followed by a click then silence. Jeremy Michael Finch was a young man who had allowed himself to be consumed by hate. He hated women, hated blacks, hated Jews, hated Mexicans, so forth and so on. He hated so well that he did it without thinking at times. His hate was the foremost thing in his life. It was bigger than he was. The sad part was that he hated because he liked to. He led a privileged life and never went without a thing, yet for some reason the sensation of animus toward another human being made him feel good about himself. After all, why should he let someone else's feelings or needs come between him and the most important thing in the world, himself? He was quick to assume that anyone who didn't remind him of himself deserved to be hated. And for all the gleeful hate that he kept close to him, the one thing that he hated more than anything else in the world was to be called 'kid'. To Be Continued The Man in Black Pays a Visit The heat was rising off the asphalt in waves, radiating upward like a shimmering cloud. It was so hot that it could cause an optical illusion if you stared at it too long. The man in black knew this, so at random he would take his eyes off of the road in front of him. After all, it was Dallas in the middle of August. A summer thunderstorm had blown through the day before and the humidity was hovering just above tolerable. The air felt like a damp veil of gauze. He had the a/c on in the big Crown Vic so the temperature inside the car was nice and brisk, but the a/c couldn't take the moisture out of the air. Locked away in a compartment under the back seat were two pistols and enough ammunition to turn the tide at the Alamo. A small brown box wrapped in twine sat next to the guns, resting on a mat of padding foam. The man in black had an appointment. He had been monitoring a hotel on the West side of town for a while. There was a tall silver haired fellow who called himself the Sandman holed up in that hotel. The Sandman was a dealer in child pornography. He had built a pretty sizable underground following. People from all over the globe contacted the Sandman for his goods. The Sandman didn't deal in websites or digital photos or DVD's or any of that. No, he dealt in the old school stuff. His specialty was 8x10 glossy shots. You name your perversion, he could get it. A blonde haired, blue eyed corn-fed Midwest girl, the Sandman could get it. A doe eyed boy from Cambodia, the Sandman could get it. He had connections that spread outward like a malignant cancer, reaching in all directions. He didn't just sell copies of the pictures he dealt in. He had them custom made to the buyer's preferences. That meant for each picture... The Sandman considered himself to be a specialty dealer. The man in black considered him to be dead. He had been watching the hotel for days. He had a very expensive boom microphone and a large pair of binoculars. He had managed to find a room in a run down brownstone across the alley from the Sandman's hotel. He had been listening and watching for days, trying to pinpoint which room the Sandman was using. After a couple of days he narrowed it down and determined which room his man was in. He took notes and made careful observations about the Sandman's visitors. There were two men in the room with the Sandman at all times. Once he was dead certain which room they used and when they came and went, he had to prepare for his entrance. The man in black snuck over while they were eating and sprayed the inside of the striking plate on the door with a small shot of graphite. Just a quick shot. The next time the door was opened and relocked, the bolt would be coated with graphite. While the man in black was monitoring the Sandman he also picked up on some very interesting conversations and goings on of the hotel's other tenants. On the second floor, room 509 to be precise, a married woman was meeting in secret with a lover. He heard them talking on the telephone several times. She would get a room in the hotel then call him over to meet her. Only sex wasn't the only thing he brought her. The sex was just a means to an end for her. "Yeah we've been together for years." She hissed over the telephone. "But what he doesn't know won't hurt him." "That doesn't bother me a bit." Her lover said. "I know how to take care of you, since he obviously doesn't know how to." Her voice took a definitely indignant tone. "He has always taken good care of me. He has always been a faithful husband and a good provider." She pouted. "He just won't provide for me." "Yeah I know baby." The man said. "I've got access to kilos baby doll. I can provide." "And if he finds out I'll threaten to take the kids from him." She snorted. "That'll put him in his place." They both laughed. Through the boom mike the man in black could hear a low snuffling sound. Sounded like about a hundred bucks worth of powder disappearing up a brat's nose. That was the day before. Today he would introduce himself to the Sandman and keep his appointment. Appointments were a part of business matters, and business matters were important. Business matters always got special attention. The man in black pulled the Crown Vic into the alley behind the hotel. He checked around him, then flipped the back seat up and removed his guns and the small box. He removed the twine, fiddled with the contents of the box for a moment then carefully closed the box and tied the twine back around it. Both pistols were fitted with short silver silencers. He put the box in his left jacket pocket. He checked and rechecked his guns. Old habits die hard. Both were fitted into pancake holsters, one under the right arm and one under the left. He was expecting someone before he went to see the Sandman. There were three men meeting the Sandman and his thugs in that hotel room. He was waiting on the last of the three. He got out of the Vic and walked to the end of the alley. It was around six o'clock, and dusk was consuming the narrow alley fast. He looked at his watch, and then looked up the street to his right. Like clockwork, a man in a blue suit rounded the corner. He was a dumpy guy, on the verge of being badly obese. He had a slight waddle to his walk. The guy in the blue suit was all eyes, staring at everything as he walked. He looked like he was trying to play it cool. He wasn't very convincing. As he approached the man in black noticed his suit was made of silk, shining dully. The man in black stepped back into the alley, and as the fat man walked by he throttled him and pulled him back into the alley. He planted a gun under his chin and spoke quickly. "Make one sound and I'll open your sinuses. Permanently." The man in black grunted. "I know where you're going. Give me the money." The man in the blue suit stared at him in wide eyed terror, not moving for seconds. He opened his mouth as if to speak. "One word." The man in black hissed "And you'll kick the breathing habit. Right here and now." The fat man fumbled at his pockets and then pulled out a thick envelope. The man in black snatched it away from him, throwing it into the alley behind him. The fat man's eyes followed the envelope as it disappeared into the gloom behind them. "Now. I am going to give you some simple directions. I know you are going to see the Sandman. I know you were going to his room on the third floor. If you follow my directions you will make it out of that hotel room. If you don't…" The man in black looked up above him. There were several cables strung between the buildings. In the increasing dark they were faint lines against the sky. He trained a gun on one of the cables then looked away to face the fat man. He winked at the fat man then pulled the trigger twice. A cable clanged to the ground behind them. The fat man just about jumped out of his skin. "You try and run and I'll do evil things to you boy." The man in black said. "Now, I want you to go into that hotel room, close the door behind you, get close to the Sandman and then open the box. He'll think it has your payment in it." He pulled the small box out of his pocket, removed the twine and handed it to the fat man. He was careful to hold his thumb over the top of the box. He handed it to the fat man the same way. "I would not open that until you are in that room if I were you." He quipped. The fat man's eyes grew wide. He wanted to ask what was in the box but didn't dare ask. The gun under his chin had his full attention. "It's just a calling card. Now just remember what I said. You follow my directions and you will make it out of that room." The man in the blue silk suit nodded slowly. His eyes large and shot with panic. The man in black stepped back into the alley and was consumed by darkness. Five minutes later the fat man was standing outside of the Sandman's hotel room. Unknown to him, the man in black had taken the stairs and was waiting not ten feet away behind the stairwell door. The fat man knocked on the door. Low words were exchanged and then the door opened. The fat man shuffled inside. The box contained a flashbang, a stun grenade used by all types of special ops and police forces. It was one of the older types that worked like a conventional grenade. The man in black had removed the pin and tied the box shut. Once he removed the twine the only thing keeping the top of the flashbang from popping up and blowing was the top of the box. So long as the fat man held his thumb over the top of the box it wouldn't go off. But the moment he released his thumb….. Seconds later the flashbang detonated. The man in black smiled, and then hiked up one large booted foot and kicked the door, just to the right of the knob. The door bent inward and forward, the bolt slipping from the bolthole. The graphite worked like a charm. The door flew open and the man in black slipped inside. The door closed behind him. The hotel room was in total disarray. Two men were lying sprawled out on the floor, unconscious. They might have been leaning over to look into the box when the fat man opened it. They both took one hell of a hit. The man in the blue suit was lying crumpled against one end of the table. His right side was a huge welt of red flesh circled in ragged blue silk. A thick fog of grayish-white smoke hung in the air. The Sandman's two thugs were rising from the floor, waving and flapping at the thick smoke that choked the room. The Sandman was sitting there in a chair at the end of a small card table, his back against the wall. His face was cradled in his hands. His hair had been blown back in a comical fashion. He looked like the Joker, only instead of green hair his was silver. His expensive tailored suit was peppered with holes and debris. There were pictures scattered about the room. The man in black tried hard not to look at them. One of the thugs saw the man in black standing there and went for his gun. The man in black already had his pistols trained on them. He shot both the thugs in the gut. Not one of them, but both of them. They each got a slug dead center of their stomachs. In the chaos, the Sandman didn't even know the man in black was there. His ears were still ringing from the flashbang and his hands were covering his eyes. He got lucky because he was the farthest away from the explosion, but he was close enough to have all his senses screwed up by it. While he was trying to figure out what the hell was happening, the man in black shot the two unconscious men on the floor in the back of the head. I doubt the man in black felt any guilt about killing two unconscious men. After all, they were unconscious pedophiles. Violent pedophiles. The man in black put his right hand pistol back in the holster. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a bunched fist. His fist was clenched tight around something. The Sandman was gathering his bearings, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes. His ears were ringing like merry hell. He knew he was in some serious deep shit. As his vision cleared, the Sandman looked up to find the man in black standing there, a gun in his left hand and his outstretched right arm held out in front of him. "Who the hell are you?" the Sandman barked. "You can't come in here and step on me!" The man in black didn't say anything. He opened his fist and a dozen silver nails clattered onto the table. "Oh shit." The Sandman whispered to himself. "Oh shit is right." The man in black said, and put a bullet in the Sandman's gut. The loads in his left hand pistol were doped, packing a punch like a runaway elephant. The Sandman flew backward out of his chair and landed hard against the wall behind him. The man in black grabbed the fat man in the blue suit by the collar and drug him to the door. He opened the door and drug the man out into the hallway. He let go of his collar and the man fell unceremoniously onto the carpet. The man in the blue suit looked up through dazed eyes. "Wha? Huh, wha... Oh God. Is it over?" He asked frantically. "I said if you followed my directions you would make it out of that room." The man in black said. "Oh, God. Yes. Yes you did. Oh, shit!" The man stammered. "Thank you. Oh bloody God thank you!" "I didn't say you would make it out alive." The man in black said, and shot him in the forehead. Moments later the man in black was striding down the hallway. He took the stairs down, but instead of going all the way to the ground level and leaving the way he came, he stopped at the second floor landing. There was a big number two stenciled on the door in blue paint. He studied the door for a moment, seemingly in great thought, and then stalked inside. He walked to room 509, stepped back and charged the door with all his weight. The door flew open with ease. Seems like maybe he got a little generous with the graphite in that hotel. The moment the door opened a woman started screaming. A man's voice could be heard briefly, followed by a sharp, hollow sound. The man's voice was suddenly cut off. The woman stopped screaming. The man in black had back handed him hard, knocking a few of his teeth loose. He had both guns at bay, one pointed at the woman and one at her lover. The man in black leaned in close to the woman, his face barely an inch from hers. "Shame on you." He said. Then the man in black turned and shot her lover in the crotch. "Hope it was worth it." He said as he left the room. "You won't die, but you'll wish you could, fucker." Moments later the man in black was gone, nowhere to be seen.