The Legend (15 page)

My wife suffered from severe back pains and headaches after the accident.  She was prescribe
d painkillers by her doctor.  But soon I started noticing she was getting addicted to them.  She asked me steal medication from the hospital I was working in.  I did it out of guilt.  It was my fault that we crashed.  However, supplying her habits caught up to me.  Eventually I got caught and my medical license was revoked.   

One night my wife asked me to drive her somewhere where she could get more pills.  I didn't want to at first but I hated seeing her suffer
ing.  So I drove her to the place.  When I pulled up she said she would be right back.  I wanted to go with her but she told me to stay in the car.  She got out and walked into a dark alley.  That was the last time I saw her alive.

A few minutes later I heard five gunshots
and saw the muzzle flashes.  I got out the car and ran into the alley.  She was lying on the ground bleeding from her face and stomach.  I then noticed three guys running from her body.  I held her head tightly against my chest and pleaded to God to let her live.  But I knew deep down there was no way she could come back from those gunshot wounds. 

I fell into a deep depression.  If I didn't drive drunk that night, my wife would still be alive.  I loved my wife more than anyt
hing and couldn't get the guilt out of my head. 

A couple days later a Capitol City
homicide detective named Wu told me the murderers were caught.  I thought once they were arrested everything would get better.  But I was wrong.  Nothing changed.  I still missed her and I blamed myself for her passing.

One night I sat in my dark apartment with a three fifty seven magnum in one hand and a finished bottle of Jack in the other.  I couldn't go on any longer and I wanted to end my depression.  I cocked the hammer and put the gun to my head.  I started crying and said a prayer.  I asked God for forgiveness.  Suddenly, in the corner of the room, I saw a figure walking towards me.  He was
dressed in all black with a cloak and mask.  His eyes… I’ll never forget them.  They were red and glowed in the dark like flames.  He slowly approached me and gently pulled the pistol from my head.  He took it out of my hand and said 'Trust me, it gets better.'  For some reason I believed him. He sounded genuine and I felt like he knew exactly what I was going through.  He then turned around and disappeared into the dark room.

The following morning I got in touch with a psych friend of mine and
I confided in him.  We spoke for hours. He even invited me to sit in some of his seminars.  He also introduced me to a priest that helped me out as well.  I still attend his church to this day.  It was exactly like The Legend said, it gotten better.  I still missed her but I was no longer depressed.  Even though I still wish my wife was here, I am thankful The Legend saved my life..."

I spent the last five nights inside the back room.  The doctor kept the door locked so his patients wouldn't wonder in.  There’s a small black and white box television on a table besides the bed.  Two nights ago the local news reported a homicide that occurred downtown.  The male was found beaten to death in an alley behind Presidential Drive.  Reporters say he went by the handle
"Red."
 

"Duane, how have you been?  I haven't heard from you in days."
  Detective Wu inquired after I answered my cellphone.

"Fine." 
I responded.

"Have you found anything on the homicide case?"

"I'm still working on it."

"Well
, be careful."

"I will."

After shutting my cell phone, the door to the provisional triage room slowly gaped and the pair of bifocals peered inside. 
”Are you on the phone?” 
The doctor inquired.  I shook my head.

"This is a sedative I'm giving you.  Inject four ccs before you go to bed.  It should help you fall asleep.  It's the best I can do.  I can't write prescriptions." 
The doctor directed while handing me two one ounce vials with a clear liquid inside and a packaged syringe. 
“All right, you’re all set.  Stop by if you need anything?”

"Thanks doctor
." 
I uttered then left the clinic.

Night after night I read the headlines on the daily newspapers; 
"Mother Of Six Gunned Down In Cross-fire," "Rival Drug Dealer Shot Thirteen Times At Red Light," "Grandmother Killed When Bullets Rang Through Bedroom Window," "Man Stabbed To Death For Refusing To Give Muggers Wallet." 
It's been a month since my brush with Tiago.  My body is still broken.  The city's homicides make the front page.  Every day I gaze at the paper frustrated.  Lives are being taken; most are innocent.  Yet there is nothing I can do about it.

Another week has past.  There still hasn't been any progress in my health.  I haven't used the sedative the doctor handed me.  I don't deserve to sleep.  Not while the city is running amok.
  My frustration continues to grow as the piles of newspapers I collected, headlining the city’s homicides, steadily gets higher.

It's been two months. 
I don’t know how much longer I can sit back and allow this to persist.  Every night another newspaper is added to the pile.  Word has disseminated to every street corner, barbershop and back alley pub; The Legend has been killed.

On this side of town the rain is perpetual.  But tonight is really not showing any mercy.  I picked up
the daily paper and read the headlines. 
"Lady Gunned Down Inside Of Dry Cleaners." 
Again?  I sifted through the newspaper pages until I found the article. 
"... A female is gunned down and another male is holding on as gunmen barraged into the cleaners and shot the couple..."
  There is portrait of the victim. The resemblance was ghostly. 
"Wha... What?  Lolani?" 
This had to be a misprint.  That homicide was almost seven years ago.  My fingers suddenly went numb.  The pages from the newspaper began to slip from my hands and glided onto the floor.  Suddenly a comic book slipped out from the paper and fell in between my feet.  It was sheathed inside a sealed plastic sleeve and the cover page was faced down.  I retrieved it from the floor and turned it over. 
“The Urban Legend.”

Just then, from the corner of my eye, I noticed a figure appear in the dark corner of the room. 
"Lolani?" 
I gasped.  She's wearing her angelic white spring dress.  She glanced at me with a full smile.  She looked radiant. 
"No... It can't be...  The hallucinations... It's the hallucinations!" 
I uttered.  Suddenly a storefront window door appeared behind her and a ski masked gunman violently bashed it open with his shoulder.  It shattered and shards of glass clashed onto the white vinyl tile.  Her joyous facial expression became fearful.  She turned to me for help.  She reached for my hand.  I tried to get to her in time but the gunman fired his sawed-off rifle before I could shield her.  The gunman then darted out of the door.  Lolani bawled then collapsed onto the floor.  Her cries brought back the guilt I've been holding in.  I kneeled besides her, clenched her body and rested her face against my chest.  She gazed at me as tears ran down her cheeks.  Seconds later she was still and her eyes slowly shut.  Then she faded away in my arms.  

T
he anger I learned to suppress was resurfacing.  Although I haven't healed from my encounter with Tiago, I could no longer sit around while the city ran rampant.  I ripped the bandages off my body and put on my black hoodie.  I snatched a stack of newspapers and duct tape and headed to a local park.

It's minutes after mi
dnight.  I treaded through the downtown streets amidst the storm.  After pacing past the junkies, the pushers and the ladies of the evening, I arrived at the Theodore Roosevelt Community Park.  I found a sturdy a tree that sheltered me with its leaves.  I began taping the newspaper pages to the trunk.  The storm continued.  Cracks of lighting illuminated the black sky.  They were followed by distance roars of thunder.  When the tree was padded with enough pages, I began pelting the makeshift punching bag with hooks, jabs, front and side kicks.  I threw brute elbow and knee strikes.  My eyes were flaming red; filled with madness and rancorous.  I wasn't training myself like the other nights but getting used to the agony of fighting with a broken body.  Although every strike was vitally painful it was imperative that I became familiar with it.  Tiago needed to be stopped and it had to be at the hands of The Legend. 

It's been abou
t seven years yet my key to the dry cleaners still works.  The code to the alarm system hasn't changed either.  Mr. Delancey has passed away and his son now runs the business.  He's kept the family’s vintage sewing machine.  I sat on the rusty metal stool and began stitching up the tears in my ensemble.  The aged machine growled as it punched the white thread through.  I taped the rest of the newspaper pages around my body to help soften the blows I was about to receive.  With my cloak back on, I aggressively scoured the downtown streets in search of Tiago.  It's time for The Legend's resurrection.

"...His name is Quinnclay!" 
A junkie squealed after a brief interrogation.  I caught him buying heroin from the Fallen Saints.  He ducked in an alley and was about shoot up.  I snatched him up before he was able to.  It didn't take long for him to drop the name of the Fallen Saints’ leader.  He also told me where I could find him. 
"He usually hangs out at Sterling's Pool Hall on Ninth Street." 

“What does he look like?” 
I inquired.

“He’s a slim nerdy
looking guy.  No more than five foot eight.  He always sports this short spiky hairstyle and wears these designer geeky looking glasses.  Oh… He never leaves his apartment without his black leather blazer.”

For the last hour I've been watching Quinnclay through the window of the pool hall from an adjacent rooftop.  He's on the top floor of the three story brick building.  He's playing with three other guys at a table just by the rear window.  He isn't armed but his three companions are. 

Quinnclay
suddenly rested his pool stick against the table, sifted inside his black leather blazer and retrieved a cellphone from an inner pocket.  He flipped the phone open and answered it.  Seconds later he sauntered towards the rear window and glanced outside.  The storm has tapered off.  He lifted it open, climbed onto the fire escape and fixed the phone in-between his shoulder and right ear.  He then fetched a pack of cigarettes from his rear pants pocket, clenched one against his lips and lit it up. 

Quinnclay is now deep in his phone conversation.  He's so engaged he didn't even catch me descending down the fire escape
ladder behind him.  Although he is speaking in some kind of cipher, it appears as if they are discussing a raid on one of his crack houses.

Just then Quinnclay flicked his cigarette into the dark alley below.  He slammed his phone shut then turned around. 

"What the...?  I thought you were dead?" 
Quinnclay blurted after catching sight of the dark caped figure standing before him.  He lurched back into the fire escape railing.

"Where can I find Tiago?"

" I’m not tellin’ you nuttin'!" 
He barked.  I clenched his blazer and began to shove him over the railing.  Quinnclay quickly gripped the banister and held on.  The harder I shoved the sturdier his grip became.  He glanced down into the alley with widened eyes.  His heart palpitated against my knuckles.  The gentle rain showered his face.  He began to quiver and uttered,
"Holy shit man!  All right, all right!  Don't drop me man!  I'll tell ya!"

The absolute moon is peering through the passing storm clouds.  A flash of lightning ignites the aphotic sky.  Distant sounds of thunder are drawing closer.  Gentle rain continued to pummel the city.  I've been watching the apartment Quinnclay disclosed to me for some time now.  The flickering luminescence from a television screen illuminated a room on the fifth floor.  He's home.  I wasn't certain if Quinnclay tipped him off or not.  Either way, he was getting confronted tonight.

The rear window was
locked.  I wrapped a portion of my cape around my right hand and pelted the window with a jab.  A jagged fist-sized hole was made in the glass.  I was certain the shatter would’ve brought him into the kitchen, however, seconds later he never appeared.  I unfastened the latch, hoisted up the decrepit window and gained entry into an unkempt kitchen.  The red vertical neon sign from Lacy’s Strip Club across the street gave some visible inside. The ceiling paint is chipped and falling.  The vinyl tiles on the floors have lost its adhesiveness.  There were plates on the counter with thick bones from eaten steaks.  I continued on and sauntered through a hallway that led to the front room.  As I drew closer I could hear the television.  I got to the door and noticed the Brazilian fighter sitting on a worn red leather rocking armchair.  His shirtless back is facing me and he hasn't noticed me yet.  He's tottering back and forth causing the debilitated wooden floor to creak.  He's deeply engaged in the sitcom being showed on the small box television.  At second glance I realized it was the same box television that was lifted from my apartment years ago.