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| Behind the Mask | Started by: Rorschach on Aug 02, '08 11:44 |
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The first thing that anyone wants to ask me is "Where the hell did you get that scar?" I don't blame them for it; it's damn hard to ignore a scar that starts next to someone's left eye and drops a few inches down to their cheek. I can tell a lot about a person by how they handle their curiosity. Some blurt out the question immediately, while others wait for an opportune moment. Only one person never asked me, and she never will. But that's a story for another time. This story is about me, my scar, and the mask. I like my scar. It's not red or gruesome or anything, just a sharp white line on the side of my face. I like it because it deflects attention. Everyone stares at the scar, and most of them never think to look beneath it. It's like when the soldiers came back from the Great War, talking about how people couldn't look at anything except their missing arms or legs. I can understand what they mean, though they were probably just projecting. Hell, I probably am too. But the scar isn't all that important. What's important is the mask. Let me tell you about the first night I put it on. I'd been in New York for a few days already. Nothing special, just your regular goomba. I'd made a few brief comments to the big boss, but I'm not the asskissing type, so I didn't want to take up his time until I'd earned it. I kept my mouth shut, and worked on bringing in as much money as I could. I'd never been in a city, and never even sniffed the world of crime before. It was different than I expected. I thought every man and woman walking down the street would be intelligent and honorable- worthy company in an increasingly dangerous line of work. I was wrong. There was still the occasional true Mafioso, but these seemed to be the exception, rather than the rule. I remember walking through the streets of the Seven Cities in shock, watching the rampant chaos. Returning to New York, I sought refuge amongst the family I was working for, where I'd met several men and women in this thing of ours who had earned my respect. I headed to a bar that paid tribute to the boss, and slumped into a booth in the corner. I was putting a major dent in a bottle of good Irish whiskey when an idiot showed up, and shouted down the brief moment of peace that I'd found. He looked young- you couldn't tell how old he was exactly, but he was young in a way that had nothing to do with years or months. The cocky grin on his face, the way he strutted into the bar, and the way he spun his gun around on his finger like he was a fucking cowboy... I hate my gun. I use it as little as possible. Not only have I never been an especially talented shooter, but guns are bad for business. I'm the first one to deal lead when my family is being threatened, but only with respect for what it entails. This kid looked like his gun defined him. Before he even started drinking, he sounded like a fool. Barely spoke English, and he didn't have the excuse of coming direct from the old country. This was a person who didn't give two shits about speaking the right way, and even seemed proud of that. I sat in the corner, and simmered. I listened to the boy grow bolder and bolder, talking brashly about how many people he'd killed and how many women he'd slept with. Eventually, a group of gals sitting near him rolled their eyes and got up to leave. The idiot flew off the handle, running over to them and grabbing the woman closest to him, yelling about bitches and sluts and God knows what. He was so pathetic, I couldn't help but laugh. Unable to take him seriously, I dismissed him with a chuckle. Then he threw one of the women to the floor and, surprised, I stood up to confront him. So did another man, who was closer to the situation. He was an older, distinguished looking gentleman- he placed his hand on the punk's shoulder to calm him down, and the young man pulled his gun and shot him in the head. Watching the corpse of the dead man slowly and inexorably crash to the beer soaked floor, my laughter screeched to a halt, and I felt fear twist my lower back like a knife, slowly working its way up to my heart. I looked at the grinning face of the idiot, and recognized the true evil within him. I'd looked over his fractured speech, but failed to see the fractured person it represented. I'd thought that the blustering and careless use of violence was just a young man trying to show off, or cover his insecurities, but the vapid violence was not just a blanket that these men hid under- it was their entire self. Stunned, I slowly stood up, tossed a few bills on the table, and walked out the back door into an alley. This place had so much potential, but it was being corrupted. I felt the need to intervene, not just for those women, or for myself, but for the larger world. I'd seen too much mindless violence and silent mockery of what this thing of ours should be... but what the hell could I do about it? I was a goomba, barely known by my boss or the world, and rightfully so. If I was killed, no one would notice. I had no power. It was then that I saw the clothesline hanging before me. Amidst the haphazardly drying clothes, I found myself. A pair of black trousers to accompany my dark shoes. An expensive black shirt. A black tie. And finally, a large, black handkerchief. I took out my pocketknife and cut two quick holes in the handkerchief, before raising it to my head and slipping under the mask. Checking my reflection in a windowpane, I saw that only my mouth and lower face were visible, and my green eyes glowing with renewed enthusiasm. On my way back into the bar, I grabbed a trench coat and dropped my gun, money, and other personal effects into a large pocket at my right side. Enraged at the state of decaying values that I had come to love, and finally presented with a physical representation that I could confront, I flew back into the bar and headed straight towards the killer, who was still at the bar. I've never been much of a shooter, but when you grow up in an orphanage and box for fun, you learn how to fight damn quick. I darted fluidly over to him and effortlessly disarmed him with a hard blow to his wrist, as his gun spun off to the far corner of the bar. Believing myself safe, I grabbed him by the collar and threw him against the bar. At the last moment, I saw the glint of metal and lurched backwards, tripping over a chair. I had barely managed to dodge the knife, and was giving up ground rapidly, trying to get away. I managed to hit him with several solid punches, but he continued backing me up until I was trapped against the wall. I was barely able to reach out with my left arm and stop the knife inches away from my face. With my right hand, I reached down into my pocket, frantically searching for my gun. The knife came closer and closer to me, and my left arm could only slow the descent. I felt it slice down the side of my face, but I refused to scream, only glaring at my enemy. My right hand finally grasped my gun and I raised it to his temple. Pulling the trigger, I saw the shock in his eyes as he fell slowly backwards to land on the floor. Holding a hand to my bloody face, I glanced around at the other people in the bar. I could see the fear in their eyes, but also innate understanding of why this had to be done. Behind the bar I frantically searched for a cloth that I could stop the bleeding with. There was all manner of crap back there, which I tossed over my shoulder. I distinctly remember throwing a container of ink in the general direction of the body. Hearing the rising sound of police sirens, I abandoned my search and fled out the back door to the alley, hoping that the trail of blood I left would be too scattered to follow. The next day, apparently safe, I checked the papers. On page two, there was a small story about a masked vigilante killing a man who'd just murdered one of the city's most respected businessmen. The tone of the story made it seem like the police weren't going out of their way to find the killer. In the last paragraph, I read "Police have taken to calling this masked vigilante 'Rorschach', due to the pattern of ink that was left splattered next to the body." With a grim smile, I held up the mask in my hands, and slipped it over my face again. The police had done me the favor of naming me- now it was time for me to make a splash. |
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| Great read man | |
| Reply by: Shagggyd at Aug 02, '08 13:31 | |
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