“Start by doing what’s necessary; then do what’s possible; and suddenly you are doing the impossible.” – St. Francis of Assisi
Pulling the collar of her tapered black frock coat closed and her short black skirt down just a tad, her heels clicked and echoed across the cold concrete.
She shivered, even in ‘Hotlanta’ a chill was in the air, Spring was practically here. The ravages of winter would soon be behind them.
Thus was the cycle of life; bloom in Spring, grow in Summer, slow in Fall, die in Winter. Begin again. The lesson? Death is but a part of the cycle of life. Death comes before rebirth.
Looking around, she was absolutely freezing. She never thought she’d be here on a Friday night.
Her life had been cleanly cut into sections, before and after ‘he’ entered her life.
He watched her struggle through relationship after relationship, all the while challenging her to be the best version of herself. Wishing for her to become the version of her ‘he’ saw all those years ago in PWA. The version she had finally become before their relationship came crashing down around them.
It all felt so far away now. Morgantown, their love…all of it some distant memory she clung to like a limpet.
This made six nights in a row now, and she was getting desperate. ‘They’ were getting impatient.
Her skirt was shorter than usual, her makeup leaning just a tad on a trashy side. She couldn’t believe their instructions, “Look more vulnerable.”
And such was the gamble she’d taken each night since returning to Atlanta. Each night, curfew in place or not, she walked the streets of Bankhead.
She wasn’t a prostitute, even if she was being used. At least there wasn’t anything sexual about her demeaning presently. Though she’d gotten a couple offers for ‘company’, she continued alone.
Dressed as though she were some drunk party girl stumbling her way home alone, she was being used as glorified bait. Even though ‘they’ constantly referred to her as an “asset”, she had the distinct feeling that assets were easily parted with when it came to this particular ‘organization’.
People swarmed the streets from time to time. Smaller, more contained riots seemed almost a normal occurrence these days. This was the real “new normal”.
Social and political unrest. Everyone was uneasy, yet no one dared to speak about it.
But tonight, as of yet, she’d seen nothing, not a shadow, a scurry of anything other than a rat, nothing. Why were ‘they’ so sure?
All she had was questions, precious few answers graced her ears these days. They kept her locked out from information and though her professional title these days read “production assistant”, years spent as a wrestling journalist left her needing answers.
That was how ‘they’ controlled people, keeping the answers just out of reach while the realization that ‘they’ are the only ones who could possibly gain their quandary settles in. Once that happened, they would see the kind of reach Justice truly had. It only took one demonstration to keep most of their “assets” loyal.
Her nightly walk was almost nearing its end, she turns on her heel to cut through an alley. The latest news reports had stated most of the attacks had taken place in alleys or narrow side streets. The police believed this was how their vigilante was getting around Bankhead unseen.
She was amazed by the sheer lunacy of it all. If ‘they’ were correct, she had almost married this man.
In normal times, there would be a task force dedicated to his capture, pleas to the public for information leading to an arrest, maybe even a reward. But these weren’t normal times; a global pandemic, racial tensions flaring, protests and riots claimed the streets, police trust was close to an all time low, political unrest, western parts of the country recovering from fire. And all of this laid at the feet of a new President.
It seemed, for now, local authorities were on their own.
Then, there was an unforeseen complication.
The Bankhead Boogeyman had become something of a folk hero.
The stories were starting to pile up. This man, appearing from the shadows, saving people from thugs and out of control rioters, then simply disappearing. It was torn straight from the pages of a comic book. And the people were eating it up.
Passing a drugstore window as she entered the alley, she chuckled, if they only knew.
Businesses and cars were starting to place a red ‘B’ decal in their windows, a sign of support for the increasingly brutal vigilante. There were the Braves, the Hawks, the Falcons and now the Bankhead Boogeyman. Atlanta certainly wasn’t as boring as Morgantown.
She missed the days they spent in his home in West Virginia, simpler times. When they were in love.
Each time the Bankhead Boogeyman appeared, it was resulting in hospital stays for the would be attackers. Each time, the story was the same.
He’d give them the chance to leave peacefully, when they didn’t accept that offer, he brutally and efficiently beat them into unconsciousness, carving their would-be crimes into their foreheads before disappearing.
The people he saved were often left confused by the ferocity and brutality of it all. The ones that didn’t run away were left traumatized in their own way.
They all remembered one common thread, he laughed as he carved his message into each of them. Sometimes merely a chuckle, other times maniacal laughter worthy of an insane asylum, but he always laughed.
For these reasons, the praise wasn’t universal. Police were intensifying their investigation and more news outlets were picking up the story. Needless to say, their message was a different one.
He was dangerous, he was operating outside the law, but worse; he was making them look bad. He needed to be stopped.
The police’s task was simple, in theory. bring him in, dead or alive. He was becoming a symbol, an increasingly dangerous symbol.
Her task was to find him first.
It wouldn’t be easy, she was competing with every cop in Atlanta. Each eager to prove themselves.
Especially in today’s climate, in light of the events of the past year or so, policing was a closely monitored subject. Defunding the police while painting a romantic picture of a world where police officers were police officers and nothing more, was a common dream but there would be challenges.
They needed to be able to assure the public that they were capable of, not just, protecting them; but that they were capable of doing it regardless of the colour of their skin.
And police agencies all across the United States of America were failing at such basic tasks, whilst an apparent hobo vigilante was cleaning up one of the most notorious areas of Atlanta single handedly. The balance they would need to maintain was delicate, to say the least.
The scuffing of a shoe drew her attention to behind her and served to snap her from her pondering, it seemed it was her lucky night. Catcalls came from behind her followed by a rather obnoxious, “Hey baby, why don’t you slow dat ass up and let a brotha holla at ya for a minute!”
Her courage was fleeting, running away started to seem like a good idea. In fact, she was now envisioning a life on the run.
She had a little money saved up, she could see the world, maybe carve out a life for a few years before ‘they’ found her. It was her lucky night…
Like a pack of hyenas, they ran up to her laughing. Four of them in all.
Every group has a dynamic; naturally people’s personalities lead them to serving roles.
Responsible for a string of break ins, vandalisms, and assaults. This group was no different than any other set of bullies.
Bullies were often bigger, louder, and usually flanked by mindless goons. With the leader more than capable of talking a big game. All the boxes were checked.
The big one, ‘the muscle’, stood in the back. She could see that his arms were covered in tattoos and scars. The perpetual glare held in his anger fixed eyes made her skin crawl.
Two punks of similar size and appearance came next. Shoulder to shoulder, they were likely related but neither looked particularly dangerous until the brass knuckles clinched in their fists came into play. Things became truly real when she noticed the one on the left toting a shotgun.
Then, of course, there was the leader of the pack. Tall and thin but wirey, a crazed look held his eyes. It was clear this was the source of their inspiration as of late.
Tattooed in gang signs and Bible verses, they were the worst of their lot and now she was surrounded. Fear choked her voice and left her head swimming as they circled her, laughing, taunting her…
They were hyenas…ready to pounce.
The four of them were lost in their game when from behind them came a voice, “She wants to leave.” He was giving them the same chance he gave all of them. A chance to walk away.
Immediately noticing the four to one odds, the mouthpiece of the group was ready to shine. “Oh dis homely lookin’ mafaka thinks he know bitches better than me? Shit…” The talker was smiling, confident the shambles of a man that stood before him was no boogeyman.
“She wants to leave.” Again he stated the obvious, only this time, his voice ran cold as he walked forward immediately taking note of the lone shotgun wielding member of this little crew.
“Nah bruh, ya got it all wrong see? We just playin’. C’mon baby…tell him we just playin’…” Terror was held in her eyes, she leaned into him but only because he held her by the loop of her skirt. He could see it was torn.
She was definitely in over her head, ‘They’ must be truly desperate to reach their target. And here he was.
The fringe guy was upon him now from the left, not all magic was smoke and mirrors, sometimes all it took was a little misdirection.
Letting the young hoodlum advance on him from behind, soon the end of the shotgun was pressed to his back.
“Is that a shotgun?” He asked without fear, smiling. The young man wielding it either didn’t notice or didn’t care about his potential ‘victim’s’ matter of fact tone. Both would soon be revealed as rather large errors.
The young bandana clad man held his confidence despite his inexperience becoming increasingly obvious. “Sure is asshole! Now don’t move or I’ll blast your guts all over this bitch before we finish our game!” The wraith smiled, the ignorant never learned.
“What kind of gangster carries his daddy’s shotgun?” His question was cold, hollow, mocking. Not the tone of someone might associate with a man caught at the end of a barrel.
“The kind that’ll blast your ass!” He could feel the barrel of the gun pressed hard against his spine, it shook and trembled just a touch…this glorified child was a wannabe gangster, and possibly a rapist, but he was no killer.
Spinning inward and to his left, the weapon was pushed upward with his left hand while the point of his right elbow connected cleanly into the temple of the wannabe gangster’s skull.
Dropping to the pavement, The now shotgun wielding shadow asked another question. “Who’s next?”
The speed at which their hands shot into the air surprised even him, “Now ‘miss’…if you’ll kindly join me over here…” His voice was soft, his tone tender…after experiencing rape firsthand at the hands of Esmeralda Von Krauss, this wraith now had no patience for these so-called ‘men’.
Pointing the shotgun at the leader, he orders. “You. Lover boy, take the rope and tie your big friend there and do a good job of it because I’ll be checking and if I don’t like what I see, you’ll be first.”
Watching him tie the other conscious would-be assailant, he smashes the leader in the back of the head with the butt of the shotgun, dropping him to the pavement face first and drawing a slight scream from Alyssa.
Turning to the lone free thug wannabe, he motions for him to step forward. That’s when the pleading began.
“Man, you don’t gotta do this! I…Umm I didn’t touch her man!” The realization had set in. This homely looking disheveled man was the Bankhead Boogeyman.
“Yes, I must.” He responded flatly. “For it is the only way you’ll learn. It won’t hurt for long.” His final word was accentuated by a right roundhouse kick to the side of the beggar’s head leaving him sprawled on the ground with his two friends.
Not content to simply wait his turn, the big one decides to make a break for it. Running with desperation, the boogeyman smirks briefly before throwing the shotgun low and hard.
Clattering around the big man’s ankles, it trips him sending him stumbling face first into a trash can before continuing on to the brick walls that lined the alley.
Collecting the weapon, she was right behind him. Just like old times.
“Was all that really necessary?!” She asked, afraid of the answer. Quickly realizing her folly she corrects herself. “I…I mean, I’m sorry. Thank you, I probably owe you my life…you know, again.”
He had made a habit of saving her life. In fact, this now marked the third such occasion over the ten years they’d known one another.
“Yes.” He answered flatly as he collected the shotgun. Emptying it of any ammunition, he next searched the four men for cash, valuables, anything he could sell for a quick buck. The Bankhead boogeyman was a wraith, but ‘he’ was a mere man and men must eat.
She watched him with tears in her eyes. She was to marry this man once upon a time, she couldn’t believe ‘They’ were telling the truth, “Look at what you’ve become!” She exclaimed.
His hair was long and unkempt, tangled and matted, no longer the intricate series of braids it had been when they were together. His clothes black and blood stained, it was impossible to know whose blood soiled his clothing but her heart told her it wasn’t his.
Any additional scolding Alyssa might have planned was cut down instantly. “I am what I have always been.” He said with the resolve of a man speaking truth. He was but a shadow. A wraith. A revenant doomed to walk this miserable existence seeking justice. “I…am no one.”
She didn’t want to believe that. She had gotten him to open up before. She could do it again. They were both broken in their own ways. “We could try again. I still love you. Now isn’t the time…”
Cutting her off again, “It is the perfect time!” He yelled, but not out of anger. The passion in his voice held strong as he gathered himself. “There is a virus killing people, governments lie to their people, the masses riot in the street for equality…so I have to ask you, if not now; when?”
He was turning away from her now, she was safe, he was leaving. That was his M.O. .
The carvings? They satisfied a deeper urge, a darker urge…one manifested from his own unhealed trauma.
“Don’t you usually carve a message into them?” She wasn’t disappointed so much as she was curious.
“Only when there is a victim.” His words were short, meant to hurt.
Having narrowly avoided a horrid fate, then witnessed, what was essentially, a wild animal attack a pack of kittens, she stood confused and just a little insulted, “Then what the hell was I?”
“Bait.” He responded as he walked away.
