It all came back to him. The small-time drug deal. Grandma Pearl's kid. Jefferson knew that they were just a bunch of stupid kids doing stupid things, but he thought he'd scare some sense into them. Jefferson had emerged from the night, bellowed, "crime doesn't pay, fools!" then chopped the money right out of one kids hand with his sword. He roughed them up a little bit, but he didn't think it was that serious. Then it hit him. The other kids must have thought that Grandma Pearl's kid was in on it; they must have been the ones who beat him up. Jefferson's mind raced. By trying to prevent crime, he had only made it worse. Much worse. Jefferson thought of all the past events, especially his recent thefts. Had he become one of them? Had he become... a criminal?
"I'm waiting," Oscar said, impatiently. Jefferson didn't think; he only acted. Everything he did at that moment was completely instinct. Jefferson reached behind him and grabbed his sword, then swung it at Oscar, hitting him in the face with its flat side. Oscar stumbled back into the hallway, dazed. Then, in one fluid motion, Jefferson grabbed the door, locked it from the inside, stepped into the hallway, and slammed the door. Then he ran down the hall, down the stairs, and out onto the street. He wandered aimlessly for a while, unsure of what he was to do. The more he thought about it, the less he wanted to think about it. Then he saw a familiar sight: an abandoned building with a large boarded up hole in it, roughly the size of a small sports car. He pried open the boards with his sword and climbed inside. Finding an area on the floor that didn't have a puddle or broken glass, Jefferson lied down and tried to stay warm. All he could think about was sleeping, so he slept.
Jefferson hid out in that building for several days. He fortunately had some cash on him when he left, and was able to buy food and supplies, but he was basically miserable. The days were cold and overcast, and all Jefferson could do was think, which made him even more miserable. Jefferson's thoughts did eventually help him out, however, as he was able to decide what to do. He would leave Washington Heights; in fact he would leave Baltimore altogether. There was nothing here for him now. But he would not leave empty handed. He couldn't. Not if he had any hope of starting a new life somewhere else. He would have to take the stolen drug dealers' treasures from under his floorboards. And he would have to do it soon.
Night fell. It was time. A storm had moved in, and it had begun to drizzle, but Jefferson feared if he waited too long there would be no treasure to take. Jefferson walked out into the street. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Jefferson grabbed a trash bag, emptied it of its contents, and stuffed it into his pocket. He walked up to Washington Heights, careful to steer clear of Oscar's. The building now looked alien to him, though it had been his home and base of operations for the past couple of months; thjis was only accentuated by the rain and lightning. The storm grew worse. Jefferson hurried inside.
He snuck up the stairs, as the elevator could attract attention. Fortunately, the night and the rain meant that everyone was fast asleep in their apartments. Hopefully. Jefferson reached his floor and proceeded down the hall to his room. He slid a brick out of the wall and grabbed the key that was hidden there for just such an occasion. Jefferson opened the door and flicked open the lights. It was exactly as he had left it. He pried open the floorboards. There were his various treasures. He filled the trash bag with everything that he thought would be of use to him. Then he grabbed a few other things from around the room. He slipped on his bulletproof vest, just in case. Then he left the room and locked the door. He tied the end of the bag in a knot and slung it over his shoulder, like some Bizarro Santa Claus. Lightening flashed, and a figure revealed himself at the end of the hall.
It was Holger Vollsunger. "I have been looking for you," he said, "The city is mine!" "You can have it. Just let me go!" Jefferson. "Not after what you did" said Holger. He took a swipe at Jefferson with his huge sword, but Jefferson was able to parry, but just barely. The bag over his shoulder was hindering him greatly. He blocked Holger's slashes successfully, but each swipe forced him to take a step backward. He was slowly being backed towards the window at the end of the hall. The rain was hitting the window at almost horizontally. Lightening illuminated the hallway again. Jefferson had only one means of escape: the window, and the fire escape behind it. He knocked Holger's sword out of the way and kicked him in the chest. As Holger stumbled back, Jefferson opened the window and climbed out.
The wind blew violently and the rain was hard and cold. Jefferson had to grab on to the railing just to hold on. The metal was wet and slippery. Jefferson struggled to hold on to his bag as he attempted to climb down the fire escape. Lightening flashed and the storm grew stronger. Jefferson had to hold on for dear life. Then it stopped. Jefferson climbed slowly down to the last balcony of the fire escape. He was sopping wet. Then a huge flash illuminated Washington Heights as though the sun had come out for a millisecond, and a boom shook the neighborhood like a sonic boom. Lightening had struck somewhere nearby. The rusted bolts of the fire escape gave way, and Jefferson tumbled to the ground, unconscious.
Jefferson woke up. The sun was out. finally. He felt terrible and cold. He got up, and walked across the street. He could see an ambulance at the street next to a downed tree. Then Jefferson left Washington Heights forever. He realized that he was doing what no one else was able to do. He had escaped Washington Heights
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Giving Back to the Community?
George Jefferson stepped into his room. He had just come back from the clinic. He hadn't gone to the hospital this time; they ask too many questions. He had waited a few days after his accident to get treatment so as to not attract attention. He could barely remember what happened that night. He hoped no one else had been hurt during the chase; Ryan Ford wouldn't have any lasting damage, but it was still too much. He had been reckless, and someone innocent had been hurt. He would have to lay off of his Robin Hood - like thieving spree for a while again, but this time he wouldn't have to be completely inactive. He shut the door behind him and made sure that it was completely locked. He pried open the floor boards and revealed the numerous treasures, formerly belonging to unworthy drug dealers. It was time to give something back to the community.
There were a couple thousand dollars under there (Jefferson needed something to replace his lost police salary), but most of it was much more valuable than money. Jefferson had chosen to steal objects whose worth was uncalculable, objects of true beauty and art. These were things that no criminal, common or otherwise, could ever truly appreciate. That was why he had stolen the Miura; it had fit his criteria perfectly. Now he was charged with the task of redistributing these precious objects to those who would appreciate them.
Unfortunately, he had no idea how he would accomplish this task. His stomach rumbled. Today was not the day, he decided. Now he just needed food. Jefferson grabbed some of the smaller bills in his stash and replaced the floorboards. Then he left his apartment, went down the elevator, and out on to the street. It was still overcast. I don't know if I remember what the sun looks like, he thought. He walked down the street. An ice cream truck was parked across the street. It was completely silent and still; no kids or music or anything. Jefferson also noticed that it appeared to be the same make and model as the black van he had nearly plowed into only a few days earlier. He would have thought about it more if it wasn't for an odd girl he noticed walking in the street ahead of him. She was walking as though every step filled her with disgust. Probably some sort of neat freak, Jefferson thought. If only he had some sort of golden disinfectant in his stash somewhere, he could give it to her. She would probably appreciate it. he smiled to himself and kept walking.
He arrived at the grocery store and entered. He picked some basic food items to stock his apartment and proceeded to checkout. A middle-aged woman was in front of him was taking an unnecessarily long time buying her food. She was obviously quite smitten with the checkout boy; Jefferson wondered if the boy realized this as well. He wondered which of his treasures he would give to these two people. Probably some sort of exotic rose would be given to the woman; of course, such a gesture could easily be taken the wrong way. Plus, he didn't think he had anything like that.
As Jefferson left the store with his groceries, he felt depressed. He had no idea how he would distribute his loot. He wanted his gifts to match the receiver, but he realized he knew very little about the people in his neighborhood. He had spent most of his stay at Washington Heights patrolling the streets alone at night. His was a lonely pursuit, and now it had caught up with him.
Then, as he rounded the corner, he saw the answer to all of his problems.
He ran back to his apartment. He threw his groceries into the fridge. As he was about to pry open his floorboards, he heard a knock at the door. He opened it, and there stood Oscar Alcazar. Oscar grabbed Jefferson by his necktie and pulled him close so Jefferson could smell his spicy breath. Jefferson's problems weren't over; they had just begun.
There were a couple thousand dollars under there (Jefferson needed something to replace his lost police salary), but most of it was much more valuable than money. Jefferson had chosen to steal objects whose worth was uncalculable, objects of true beauty and art. These were things that no criminal, common or otherwise, could ever truly appreciate. That was why he had stolen the Miura; it had fit his criteria perfectly. Now he was charged with the task of redistributing these precious objects to those who would appreciate them.
Unfortunately, he had no idea how he would accomplish this task. His stomach rumbled. Today was not the day, he decided. Now he just needed food. Jefferson grabbed some of the smaller bills in his stash and replaced the floorboards. Then he left his apartment, went down the elevator, and out on to the street. It was still overcast. I don't know if I remember what the sun looks like, he thought. He walked down the street. An ice cream truck was parked across the street. It was completely silent and still; no kids or music or anything. Jefferson also noticed that it appeared to be the same make and model as the black van he had nearly plowed into only a few days earlier. He would have thought about it more if it wasn't for an odd girl he noticed walking in the street ahead of him. She was walking as though every step filled her with disgust. Probably some sort of neat freak, Jefferson thought. If only he had some sort of golden disinfectant in his stash somewhere, he could give it to her. She would probably appreciate it. he smiled to himself and kept walking.
He arrived at the grocery store and entered. He picked some basic food items to stock his apartment and proceeded to checkout. A middle-aged woman was in front of him was taking an unnecessarily long time buying her food. She was obviously quite smitten with the checkout boy; Jefferson wondered if the boy realized this as well. He wondered which of his treasures he would give to these two people. Probably some sort of exotic rose would be given to the woman; of course, such a gesture could easily be taken the wrong way. Plus, he didn't think he had anything like that.
As Jefferson left the store with his groceries, he felt depressed. He had no idea how he would distribute his loot. He wanted his gifts to match the receiver, but he realized he knew very little about the people in his neighborhood. He had spent most of his stay at Washington Heights patrolling the streets alone at night. His was a lonely pursuit, and now it had caught up with him.
Then, as he rounded the corner, he saw the answer to all of his problems.
He ran back to his apartment. He threw his groceries into the fridge. As he was about to pry open his floorboards, he heard a knock at the door. He opened it, and there stood Oscar Alcazar. Oscar grabbed Jefferson by his necktie and pulled him close so Jefferson could smell his spicy breath. Jefferson's problems weren't over; they had just begun.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
The Car Than Almost Finished Him
Jefferson's string of Robin Hood-like robberies had been successful up until that night. He had amassed a small collection of riches hidden under his floorboards that he had purloined from undeserving drug lords, which he intended to distribute to the poor somehow. But he made a mistake; he had to have the car. It was a beautiful yellow Lamborghini Miura he had found in one particularly well-off drug dealer's garage. The Lambo was pristine and collecting dust, proof its owner didn't use it. Jefferson didn't know how he would return it to the community; he just knew that its current owner didn't deserve it in the least. So Jefferson stole it. The theft wasn't difficult; cars that old didn't have that much of a security system. The garage, on the other hand, did.
As soon as Jefferson started up that glorious engine, three thugs with machine guns ran out of the dealer's crib. Jefferson gunned the Miura in reverse and broke through the garage's wooden wall. He slung the car around and flew down the street. The thugs peeled out of the garage in two black Cadillacs. The Miura was much faster than the Cadillacs, but the thugs had machine guns, and he couldn't outrun a bullet. The thugs fired at him; his car was riddled with bullets, and his rear window shattered. Jefferson swerved left and narrowly missed hitting a minivan. The Cadillacs followed easily. Jefferson weaved through traffic wildly, but the thugs still kept up. Then he saw flashing red and blue lights in his rearview mirror - three police cars had not surprisingly taken notice of their activities. Two of them rammed the Cadillacs and forced them off the road. The third followed Jefferson. Jefferson floored it. The police car could barely keep up, and Jefferson almost got away. Then it began to sleet.
The sleet made a sound similar to the bullets as they hit his car. Jefferson could barely see. A truck pulled out in front of him and he swerved into the left lane, then back into the right as another car almost hit him head on. Jefferson spun out of control, but regained it and sped down an adjacent street. The police car was still hot on his tail. Jefferson slowed down; the Miura's speed was no use to him if he couldn't see. The hail grew heavier. Jefferson looked in his mirrors. More cars had joined the chase. This would have to end soon. The lights of Washington Heights stood out in the darkness. He would have to ditch the car; he knew this now. At least it wouldn't be in the hands of a drug dealer. Suddenly, a black van pulled out in front of Jefferson. He swerved right. He didn't see the small coupe until it was too late.
The coupe backed out of the garage. The Miura's headlights illuminated it suddenly. Jefferson didn't have time to think. He slammed the brakes. It was useless. The Miura slammed head on into the coupe's trunk. The trunk was obliterated. The Miura lost contact with the ground. It flipped over several times. It landed in an abandoned storefront. Everything stopped.
Jefferson came to. The hail had stopped. He was lying upside down in an upside down Miura in the front of an abandoned building. Everything hurt; something was bleeding. Cars that old didn't have much of a safety system. Jefferson laboriously pulled himself out of the wreck. He knew he didn't have much time before the police got there. He peeked out of the gaping hole in the front of the building. The coupe was sitting in the middle of the street, its rear end completely smashed in. A trail of glass and metal lay between it and the Miura. The coupe's owner was climbing out of his car. Jefferson recognized him as Ryan Ford, one of the tenants of Washington Heights. He looked shaken but mostly uninjured. Then Jefferson saw the police cars zoom around the corner; they must have been stopped by the black van. Jefferson stumbled out the back of the abandoned building and into the street.
He was able to evade the police as he limped back to his apartment. He walked behind the Chinese restaurant near Washington Heights so that he could get in through the back entrance. He saw the kid who worked there speed away on his bike. He hoped the kid didn't see him. Jefferson snuck in through rear entrance of his building and into the elevator. He pressed the button to his floor. He felt terrible. His mind raced and he couldn't think straight. He pulled a shard of yellow metal out of his bulletproof vest and dropped it on the elevator floor. The doors opened and he walked awkwardly into the hall. He stumbled to his room, opened his door, and fell straight onto his bed. He felt terrible. Sirens sounded throughout the night.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
A Week Off
George Jefferson hurt. A lot. He opened his eyes and slowly lifted himself out of bed. He stared into space for a few seconds, then looked at his right arm. The bandage was so itchy. He hadn't noticed the shard of glass wedged in his arm after he had fallen through the skylight at Oscar's until he got back to his apartment that night. He had rushed straight to the hospital (after changing out of his costume, of course), where the doctors where able to remove the shard. Unfortunately, they also said that, in order to heal completely, Jefferson would have to avoid lifting heavy objects with that arm; heavy objects like his sword.
So Jefferson had decided to take a week off. He had hid his sword and costume underneath some floorboards in his apartment and done nothing for the past few days. This morning he felt terrible. He was bored and tired, and couldn't shake a feeling of uselessness. However, he knew that if he took to the streets to fight crime too soon, he would risk injuring himself permanently. He decided to take a walk to get some fresh air.
He left the building. It was cool and overcast. A strong breeze blew past as soon as he stepped on to the sidewalk. Not the best day for a walk, he thought, but then again it had been this way all week. He walked down to the park. He passed a young woman walking her dog. She smiled awkwardly at him. Jefferson smiled back. There was a paperboy at the end of the street. The boy was probably homeless, thought Jefferson. He walked up to the boy and bought a newspaper. He gave the boy a twenty. "Keep the change." said George. He was feeling generous. "Gee, thanks mister!" said the boy. Jefferson just smiled at him. He walked away and opened the paper. There was a story about the incident at Oscar's last week. Police were investigating Machelli for opening fire in a public place, and Oscar for the illegal gambling. George smiled even more. Taking a walk was definitely a good idea. Then another cold when blew through and chilled Jefferson to the bone.
He heard the paperboy yell "Hey!" Jefferson turned around. An angry, bitter-looking homeless man was running the opposite way down the street. "He took my money!" yelled the paperboy. Jefferson didn't even blink. He dashed down the street and clocked the homeless man in his face - with his left hand, of course. The man fell to his knees, cursing and screaming something about rich people. Jefferson twisted the man's arm around to his back and plucked the bag of money out of his hand. Jefferson couldn't tell what the homeless man was saying - it was all expletives and rage. Just then a slightly pimped Cadillac pulled up. Its back door opened, and Dominic Roberto Machelli stepped out.
"Is there a problem here?" Machelli asked threateningly. Jefferson stood up to his full height; he was slightly taller than Machelli. "This man stole that boy's money."
"You seem familiar. I don't suppose you do this vigilante stuff regularly?" said Machelli, eyeing Jefferson's bandaged arm.
"No, I'm just an honest citizen doing his duty." said Jefferson, sternly. The homeless man had slowly snuck away as the young paperboy ran up.
"Here you go, son," said Jefferson, handing the boy his bag of change. "Hold on to that now."
"Good," said Machelli. "We don't need any more vigilantes in this city. Quite frankly, I think one is too many. It's dangerous work. someone could get hurt." Machelli had emphasized that last bit. He turned and climbed back into his car. Jefferson could feel his hand slowly reaching for the sword he didn't have. He stayed his hand, and just stood there, glaring as Machelli's car drove off. "Uh, thanks mister," the boy said, and he hurried away. Jefferson watched as the boy ran back to his street corner. He thought about the boy and the homeless man. Both were products of their environment, an environment created by the rich and greedy - rich and greedy people like Machelli. Something would have to be done. Machelli couldn't rule this city forever. Maybe it was time George Jefferson became less like Batman and more like Robin Hood.
So Jefferson had decided to take a week off. He had hid his sword and costume underneath some floorboards in his apartment and done nothing for the past few days. This morning he felt terrible. He was bored and tired, and couldn't shake a feeling of uselessness. However, he knew that if he took to the streets to fight crime too soon, he would risk injuring himself permanently. He decided to take a walk to get some fresh air.
He left the building. It was cool and overcast. A strong breeze blew past as soon as he stepped on to the sidewalk. Not the best day for a walk, he thought, but then again it had been this way all week. He walked down to the park. He passed a young woman walking her dog. She smiled awkwardly at him. Jefferson smiled back. There was a paperboy at the end of the street. The boy was probably homeless, thought Jefferson. He walked up to the boy and bought a newspaper. He gave the boy a twenty. "Keep the change." said George. He was feeling generous. "Gee, thanks mister!" said the boy. Jefferson just smiled at him. He walked away and opened the paper. There was a story about the incident at Oscar's last week. Police were investigating Machelli for opening fire in a public place, and Oscar for the illegal gambling. George smiled even more. Taking a walk was definitely a good idea. Then another cold when blew through and chilled Jefferson to the bone.
He heard the paperboy yell "Hey!" Jefferson turned around. An angry, bitter-looking homeless man was running the opposite way down the street. "He took my money!" yelled the paperboy. Jefferson didn't even blink. He dashed down the street and clocked the homeless man in his face - with his left hand, of course. The man fell to his knees, cursing and screaming something about rich people. Jefferson twisted the man's arm around to his back and plucked the bag of money out of his hand. Jefferson couldn't tell what the homeless man was saying - it was all expletives and rage. Just then a slightly pimped Cadillac pulled up. Its back door opened, and Dominic Roberto Machelli stepped out.
"Is there a problem here?" Machelli asked threateningly. Jefferson stood up to his full height; he was slightly taller than Machelli. "This man stole that boy's money."
"You seem familiar. I don't suppose you do this vigilante stuff regularly?" said Machelli, eyeing Jefferson's bandaged arm.
"No, I'm just an honest citizen doing his duty." said Jefferson, sternly. The homeless man had slowly snuck away as the young paperboy ran up.
"Here you go, son," said Jefferson, handing the boy his bag of change. "Hold on to that now."
"Good," said Machelli. "We don't need any more vigilantes in this city. Quite frankly, I think one is too many. It's dangerous work. someone could get hurt." Machelli had emphasized that last bit. He turned and climbed back into his car. Jefferson could feel his hand slowly reaching for the sword he didn't have. He stayed his hand, and just stood there, glaring as Machelli's car drove off. "Uh, thanks mister," the boy said, and he hurried away. Jefferson watched as the boy ran back to his street corner. He thought about the boy and the homeless man. Both were products of their environment, an environment created by the rich and greedy - rich and greedy people like Machelli. Something would have to be done. Machelli couldn't rule this city forever. Maybe it was time George Jefferson became less like Batman and more like Robin Hood.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
The Battle
Jefferson stood on the rooftop of Washington Heights. It was raining heavily. Lightening flashed in the distance. Jefferson had been watching Oscar's for about a week now-it hadn't stopped raining since then. It had paid off though. It seemed like every criminal in the city hung out there, to join in on the illegal gambling that took place in the back. Tonight, Jefferson thought, he would strike at the heart of this criminal enterprise. Tonight he would announce officially to the criminal underworld that he was here. He surveyed the area. Clio Ford was closing up her flower shop and walking across the street, obviously quite irritated by the rain. Jefferson waited until she had entered the building. He climbed down the fire escape. More lightening in the distance; it was getting closer.
Jefferson pulled his mask over his head and shivered - the rain was very cold. He looked across the street. It was deserted. He darted out into the open and ran behind Oscar's shop. He could barely hear the sound of the activity inside over the pounding rain. Jefferson climbed on top of a dilapidated dumpster, then pulled himself up on the roof of the building. There was a little skylight in the middle of the roof - a nice touch, thought Jefferson. A little too nice for a butcher's shop. He peered down into the illegal casino. It was full of people. He recognized a few. There was Machelli, of course, surrounded by his goons. Jefferson would have to take him out first; fortunately he was just below the skylight. There was Marcus Manuel, the small time drug dealer; there was Grandma Pearl; Elizabeth Farraday was there, yelling at some guy; Lola Fontaine, dressed like a stripper; Oscar himself, of course; and others from around the neighborhood. Jefferson had unsheathed his sword and was prepared to strike, when he felt something cold and sharp on his neck.
Jefferson turned around abruptly and held up his sword. Lightening flashed, and the figure of Holger Vollsunger appeared. "I know you," Jefferson said. "You're the guy who owns that gas station down the street."
"I know you as well," Holger said. "I know that fighting you is the only way I can gain the honor of my ancestors and clean up this dirthole of a town."
"We both want the same thing," Jefferson said. "We should be working together. We shouldn't be fighting!"
"No," said Holger, ominously. "this is the only way. Defend yourself, George Jefferson, and defend your honor!"
Holger slashed at Jefferson with his huge, serrated sword. Jefferson knew if that thing hit him it would hurt, a lot. Jefferson blocked with his own sword; the two swords collided with a loud clang as lightening flashed and thunder rumbled across the city. Maybe my sword is real after all, thought Jefferson. The two sparred and parried across Oscar's roof. Jefferson had been practicing in his spare time, but Holger was still more skilled and larger. Jefferson was on the defensive as Holger swung wildly. The pounding rain only made his job more difficult. Jefferson was blocking every one of Holger's massive blows, but he was being pushed to the edge of the roof. It's time to change the game, thought Jefferson. He ducked Holger's blade and tackled him to the ground. The two warriors rolled across the roof. Holger got up a split-second faster than Jefferson, and Jefferson only had enough time to just barely block his blow; neither of them had noticed that Oscar's skylight was just behind them. They both lost their balance and fell through.
They landed on a roulette table, breaking it in two and sending chips everywhere. Lola Fontaine screamed. Jefferson stood up with a groan, and picked up his sword. Suddenly, Holger came out of nowhere and swung at Jefferson, narrowly missing him and cleaving another table in two. People began running and screaming. Jefferson was dodging Holger's massive blade. It missed him again and almost became stuck in one unlucky soul, who Jefferson only knew as "Lowride." "What is it with these freaks with swords? Kill them!" yelled Machelli. Gunshots filled the air as Jefferson leaped behind an overturned table. I've got to get out of here, he thought. He picked up a roullette ball on the floor and threw it at a light switch. The lights went out and more people screamed and ran out of the building. Jefferson kicked down the back door and fled into the night.
He ran across the street, breathing heavily. The police had just arrived, thankfully. Maybe some good would come from this after all. Still, Jefferson thought, he would once again have to be more careful. Basic criminals he could deal with, but he hadn't expected anything like Holger. Fortunately, Holger at least had a sense of honor, sort of; Jefferson wouldn't have to worry about him killing him in his sleep, or anything like that. Of course, he would probably have to face him again. Next time, though, Jefferson would be more prepared. He sheathed his sword and climbed up the fire escape.
The rain continued to fall.
Jefferson pulled his mask over his head and shivered - the rain was very cold. He looked across the street. It was deserted. He darted out into the open and ran behind Oscar's shop. He could barely hear the sound of the activity inside over the pounding rain. Jefferson climbed on top of a dilapidated dumpster, then pulled himself up on the roof of the building. There was a little skylight in the middle of the roof - a nice touch, thought Jefferson. A little too nice for a butcher's shop. He peered down into the illegal casino. It was full of people. He recognized a few. There was Machelli, of course, surrounded by his goons. Jefferson would have to take him out first; fortunately he was just below the skylight. There was Marcus Manuel, the small time drug dealer; there was Grandma Pearl; Elizabeth Farraday was there, yelling at some guy; Lola Fontaine, dressed like a stripper; Oscar himself, of course; and others from around the neighborhood. Jefferson had unsheathed his sword and was prepared to strike, when he felt something cold and sharp on his neck.
Jefferson turned around abruptly and held up his sword. Lightening flashed, and the figure of Holger Vollsunger appeared. "I know you," Jefferson said. "You're the guy who owns that gas station down the street."
"I know you as well," Holger said. "I know that fighting you is the only way I can gain the honor of my ancestors and clean up this dirthole of a town."
"We both want the same thing," Jefferson said. "We should be working together. We shouldn't be fighting!"
"No," said Holger, ominously. "this is the only way. Defend yourself, George Jefferson, and defend your honor!"
Holger slashed at Jefferson with his huge, serrated sword. Jefferson knew if that thing hit him it would hurt, a lot. Jefferson blocked with his own sword; the two swords collided with a loud clang as lightening flashed and thunder rumbled across the city. Maybe my sword is real after all, thought Jefferson. The two sparred and parried across Oscar's roof. Jefferson had been practicing in his spare time, but Holger was still more skilled and larger. Jefferson was on the defensive as Holger swung wildly. The pounding rain only made his job more difficult. Jefferson was blocking every one of Holger's massive blows, but he was being pushed to the edge of the roof. It's time to change the game, thought Jefferson. He ducked Holger's blade and tackled him to the ground. The two warriors rolled across the roof. Holger got up a split-second faster than Jefferson, and Jefferson only had enough time to just barely block his blow; neither of them had noticed that Oscar's skylight was just behind them. They both lost their balance and fell through.
They landed on a roulette table, breaking it in two and sending chips everywhere. Lola Fontaine screamed. Jefferson stood up with a groan, and picked up his sword. Suddenly, Holger came out of nowhere and swung at Jefferson, narrowly missing him and cleaving another table in two. People began running and screaming. Jefferson was dodging Holger's massive blade. It missed him again and almost became stuck in one unlucky soul, who Jefferson only knew as "Lowride." "What is it with these freaks with swords? Kill them!" yelled Machelli. Gunshots filled the air as Jefferson leaped behind an overturned table. I've got to get out of here, he thought. He picked up a roullette ball on the floor and threw it at a light switch. The lights went out and more people screamed and ran out of the building. Jefferson kicked down the back door and fled into the night.
He ran across the street, breathing heavily. The police had just arrived, thankfully. Maybe some good would come from this after all. Still, Jefferson thought, he would once again have to be more careful. Basic criminals he could deal with, but he hadn't expected anything like Holger. Fortunately, Holger at least had a sense of honor, sort of; Jefferson wouldn't have to worry about him killing him in his sleep, or anything like that. Of course, he would probably have to face him again. Next time, though, Jefferson would be more prepared. He sheathed his sword and climbed up the fire escape.
The rain continued to fall.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
The End of the First Night
The night had gone well in the beginning. He had stopped two small time robberies and scared the living daylights out of a crack dealer. With his deep voice he would bellow something awe-inspiring, then he would leap out with his sword and whack their weapons right out of their hands. He would then proceed to work them over with his sword and his fists, and he would top it off by handcuffing them to a nearby object. There they would stay until the police came, if they were lucky. He knew he had struck a fear of the night into at least four criminals, and they would not be returning to crime anytime soon. Except, of course, for that last one.
In his wandering he had come upon what seemed like a classic crime: a man was holding a gun to another man's head in a dark alley. He couldn't hear what they were talking about, but he didn't care - they were obviously criminals. Jefferson leaped from the shadows and yelled, "Criminals never prosper, motherf---er!" in his most menacing voice. He sliced the sword down on the first man's hand, sending his gun flying, and possibly breaking his wrist. Jefferson then clocked him in the face, knocking him to the ground. The second man fled. Jefferson chased after him, assuming he was also involved in the crime. It was his first mistake.
Jefferson caught up to the second man and grabbed him by his collar, but he fainted in terror. Then Jefferson heard the cocking of a gun that saved his life. He turned just in time to see the first man, his nose bleeding profusely, aiming the gun directly at his chest. Jefferson dived headlong into a nearby window just as the first man fired. He could've sworn he felt the bullet narrowly miss his hand. He climbed out of the window with a few cuts and bruises but unscathed overall. That leather jacket was a lifesaver. The man with the gun was nowhere to be seen. Jefferson dragged the fainted man's body over to a nearby lamppost and handcuffed his hand to it. An elderly woman walked by, who Jefferson recognized as Mrs. Pearl, one of the tenants of his building. "Someone should call the police" Jefferson said, and fled into the night. He hoped she would not recognize him under his mask.
Jefferson ran through the back alleys of his neighborhood, shaken. That man was obviously a part of some sort of organized crime. Small-time druggies and messed-up kids could be scared straight, but crime bosses and their followers were something else. He stopped in the vacant lot next to Washington Heights. If he kept this up, he could be dead within a week. Then he remembered why he had started this crusade in the first place. This was one of the most crime-ridden parts of the city; it was also the neighborhood he grew up in. This was where he had first decided to become a police officer. He had done it with the hope that he could clean up the city. That plan had failed, so he moved on to another plan - the sword.
Jefferson stood up. Within a week he could be dead, but, he asked himself, how would that be different from any other week? He would have to change his tactics. He would deal with crime from the top down., instead of just scaring the bottomfeeders straight. This neighbor was where his first crusade had began, so this neighborhood was where his second crusade would begin, as well. Jefferson looked across the street. He could see the owner of Oscar's Meat setting up shop, and also discreetly taking down a sign that read "New York Strip." Something illegal was going on over there, but he would have to wait to investigate. The sun was just beginning to rise over the skyline, and Jefferson was still in costume. Also, he was tired. Jefferson climbed the fire escape, but he paused and looked out over the city. He would focus his efforts here, until Washington Heights was a beacon of hope for the rest of the city. Or he would die trying.
In his wandering he had come upon what seemed like a classic crime: a man was holding a gun to another man's head in a dark alley. He couldn't hear what they were talking about, but he didn't care - they were obviously criminals. Jefferson leaped from the shadows and yelled, "Criminals never prosper, motherf---er!" in his most menacing voice. He sliced the sword down on the first man's hand, sending his gun flying, and possibly breaking his wrist. Jefferson then clocked him in the face, knocking him to the ground. The second man fled. Jefferson chased after him, assuming he was also involved in the crime. It was his first mistake.
Jefferson caught up to the second man and grabbed him by his collar, but he fainted in terror. Then Jefferson heard the cocking of a gun that saved his life. He turned just in time to see the first man, his nose bleeding profusely, aiming the gun directly at his chest. Jefferson dived headlong into a nearby window just as the first man fired. He could've sworn he felt the bullet narrowly miss his hand. He climbed out of the window with a few cuts and bruises but unscathed overall. That leather jacket was a lifesaver. The man with the gun was nowhere to be seen. Jefferson dragged the fainted man's body over to a nearby lamppost and handcuffed his hand to it. An elderly woman walked by, who Jefferson recognized as Mrs. Pearl, one of the tenants of his building. "Someone should call the police" Jefferson said, and fled into the night. He hoped she would not recognize him under his mask.
Jefferson ran through the back alleys of his neighborhood, shaken. That man was obviously a part of some sort of organized crime. Small-time druggies and messed-up kids could be scared straight, but crime bosses and their followers were something else. He stopped in the vacant lot next to Washington Heights. If he kept this up, he could be dead within a week. Then he remembered why he had started this crusade in the first place. This was one of the most crime-ridden parts of the city; it was also the neighborhood he grew up in. This was where he had first decided to become a police officer. He had done it with the hope that he could clean up the city. That plan had failed, so he moved on to another plan - the sword.
Jefferson stood up. Within a week he could be dead, but, he asked himself, how would that be different from any other week? He would have to change his tactics. He would deal with crime from the top down., instead of just scaring the bottomfeeders straight. This neighbor was where his first crusade had began, so this neighborhood was where his second crusade would begin, as well. Jefferson looked across the street. He could see the owner of Oscar's Meat setting up shop, and also discreetly taking down a sign that read "New York Strip." Something illegal was going on over there, but he would have to wait to investigate. The sun was just beginning to rise over the skyline, and Jefferson was still in costume. Also, he was tired. Jefferson climbed the fire escape, but he paused and looked out over the city. He would focus his efforts here, until Washington Heights was a beacon of hope for the rest of the city. Or he would die trying.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
George Jefferson Apt.# 555
The sun set. A siren sounded in the distance. To George Jefferson this meant only one thing: crime. Some messed up human being had decided he was not bound by the common laws of society and had decided to something foolish and hurtful. This city was rife with crime, and George Jefferson had had enough. Today was the day he did something about it.
George Jefferson drew his blinds in his small one-room apartment. He slipped on his combat boots and put on his bullet-proof vest, a relic from his police days. He put on his leather trenchcoat, and filled its pockets with more relics from his time on the force - handcuffs. He picked up the large sword lying on his TV. That sword was the answer. A year ago a crazy man had tried to rob a convenience store with the weapon, claiming he was King Arthur reincarnated or something. That man had given Jefferson the scar over his left eye. That was a month before Jefferson gave up his job. He had stolen the sword out of the evidence locker on his way out. It certainly looked like it was from Medieval times. He remembered the strange feeling he got when he saw that sword, like he knew he would need it for something. Now he knew what that something was.
He latched the old sword on to he belt, then reached for his black mask, which covered his whole head. He had picked it up earlier this morning from a costume shop. He wasn't sure if he really needed it -- there was no one who he really needed to protect his identity from. He figured it just came from reading too many comic books as a kid. Plus, it made him look twice as intimidating, which was saying a lot. Jefferson was already a large, well-built black man, and being intimidating was rarely a problem.
Jefferson climbed out of his window and down the fire escape. He jumped on to the roof of the adjacent building. He stood there for a moment thinking. Too long he had fought the long war without seeing any change. Too long. Now he was going to do something about it, something different. His coat blew quietly in the wind. He drew his sword. The moon was full behind him. The sword glistened. Jefferson smiled a little bit. He felt like a motherf---ing superhero.
George Jefferson drew his blinds in his small one-room apartment. He slipped on his combat boots and put on his bullet-proof vest, a relic from his police days. He put on his leather trenchcoat, and filled its pockets with more relics from his time on the force - handcuffs. He picked up the large sword lying on his TV. That sword was the answer. A year ago a crazy man had tried to rob a convenience store with the weapon, claiming he was King Arthur reincarnated or something. That man had given Jefferson the scar over his left eye. That was a month before Jefferson gave up his job. He had stolen the sword out of the evidence locker on his way out. It certainly looked like it was from Medieval times. He remembered the strange feeling he got when he saw that sword, like he knew he would need it for something. Now he knew what that something was.
He latched the old sword on to he belt, then reached for his black mask, which covered his whole head. He had picked it up earlier this morning from a costume shop. He wasn't sure if he really needed it -- there was no one who he really needed to protect his identity from. He figured it just came from reading too many comic books as a kid. Plus, it made him look twice as intimidating, which was saying a lot. Jefferson was already a large, well-built black man, and being intimidating was rarely a problem.
Jefferson climbed out of his window and down the fire escape. He jumped on to the roof of the adjacent building. He stood there for a moment thinking. Too long he had fought the long war without seeing any change. Too long. Now he was going to do something about it, something different. His coat blew quietly in the wind. He drew his sword. The moon was full behind him. The sword glistened. Jefferson smiled a little bit. He felt like a motherf---ing superhero.
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