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.

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.

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.