Post by mauvelantern on Mar 7, 2012 18:27:17 GMT -5
THE CLOCK in THE NEW BATTLEFIELD
The skies were dark and foreboding that chilly day in March. It was the sort of weather that invoked melancholy in people, which meant more business for George Brenner. He welcomed the bad weather, as it seemed to increase the number of patients who came to visit him. So he stood at the window in his office, smiling out at the bleak day while drinking a cup of coffee.
"Dr. Brenner," said Margret, his receptionist, "Mr. O'Brien is here to see you."
"Send him in, Margret," the doctor replied without turning from the window.
Shortly after Margret left, a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped into the room. He carried himself with poise and elegance, making him seem even taller, and he wore a tailored three-piece suit. There was a slight limp in his walk, though he was aided by an obsidian cane with a polished ivory handle. Brian O'Brien was one of the lucky few who managed to survive the hit of the Depression and he flaunted his good fortune wherever he went, even on a trip to his doctor.
"Thanks for seeing me at such short notice, Dr. Brenner," Brian apologized. "I realize you're a busy man, so I just wanted to tell you how glad I am you could fit me in today."
"Not at all, Mr. O'Brien; you know I'm happy to help," the bearded doctor said to his patient, moving from the window over to his desk.
"What brings you in today?"
Brian walked over to the leather couch near Brenner's bookcase without saying a word. When he sat down, he said to his doctor, "I went out last night."
"You did what?"
Brian hung his head in silence while Dr. Brenner eased himself into his desk chair. The old doctor glared at the man as a parent would a misbehaving child.
"Mr. O'Brien," Brenner sighed, "please tell me that you did not wear the mask."
When the man did not reply, the doctor rose from his chair and crossed over to the couch. "I thought we were making improvements, Mr. O'Brien! I thought that we had gotten to the point where you did not need to wear the mask anymore!"
"I know, but," Brian raised his head to look at the doctor, "it wasn't my fault. Not entirely."
Dr. Brenner glared at him in silence, so Brian continued, "I'm serious. If I had done nothing, innocent lives would have been lost. I needed to put on the mask."
"Needed to? Or wanted to?"
Brian looked away from the doctor. Brenner said to him, "Mr. O'Brien, if you do not cooperate with me, then I'm afraid I cannot help you. Now, can you tell me why you went out with your mask on?
"I can," Brian nodded, "but it's something of a long story."
Last week, I told you that I was going to be at a gala on the 14th; the museum was putting on something to celebrate their new addition. I was invited to come along by the curator, Mr. Hawkins, and I planned on taking Ruby Dean, the singer down at the Apollo Lounge. The whole evening was planned out: dinner, dancing, music; no expenses were paid to make the evening complete. Unfortunately, I never attended the gala, though I was told it was a spectacular show.
You see, as I was leaving my building and walking towards my limousine, I noticed a man walking down the sidewalk on the other side of the road. He had brown hair cut so that he had just a thin stripe of the stuff running down the length of his scalp, running all the way to the nape of his neck. He was glancing over his shoulder every other step, as though he was watching for someone. And he was, Dr. Brenner. He was watching out for me.
The man's name is Casey Kelley, and the reason he was looking for me was because I had been looking for him. With my mask on, you understand. Casey is a small-time crook who does work for almost all the big names in the city; everyone from Glen Starr to Antony Abelli has him on their payroll. I keep tabs on men like him because they have information, information I can use for work.
I told my driver to go to Miss Dean's house and take her to the gala; there were more pressing matters at hand. Once I was sure he was gone, I took my mask from my coat pocket, slid it on, and chased after Casey.
"And there's the first problem, Brian. Why did you have the mask in the first place?" Dr. Brenner asked.
"I had it with me in case of an emergency."
"That's what the police are for, Mr. O'Brien! Let them handle the emergency; it's their job, not yours."
"It is my job."
"It used to be your job. Now you don't need to worry about such matters. The police need to worry about Casey Kelly; all you need to worry about is yourself," said the doctor, gesturing at Brian's head.
Brian took pause. "I did not call the police because I did not think to do it at the time."
"Do you expect me to believe that?"
Brian grimaced and said, "No. I didn't call the police because I know that I can do a better job than they can."
"You think you can, you mean."
"No," the rich man scowled, "I do not. I know I can."
I was able to catch up to Casey with relative ease; he has never been a fast-moving man, even when running away. When I drew near him, I slipped the mask on and grabbed him by the shoulder.
"Make a move, and I yank your arm right out of its socket," I hissed at the man.
Casey is about as brave as he is fast, so he crumpled almost instantly. He began to cry, "What do you want with me? I haven't done nothing today!"
"That's not what I've heard."
I dragged the man, kicking and screaming into a nearby alleyway. Casey shut up when I slammed him up against the wall, which was good for me, as I do not need beat-cops looking for me. I took my cane and held it against his throat, pinning him against the bricks.
"Let me tell you what I've heard, Casey: word is that Marcello Conti is back in town and pedaling moonshine, Danny the Dog's boys were responsible for turning over a jewelry store, and Rotten Oscar is dealing in stolen guns. So, what did you do for your country today?"
When I asked him that, I was just listing off names. None of the big names have been in business like for that a while, but if you have false information, you can sometimes get them to spill the beans on what you really want to hear. And, thankfully, Casey is as predictable as he is cowardly.
"I don't know nothing about booze or cars or guns! Please, just leave me be!" he said, gasping for air. I pushed a little harder on his throat and put my face inches from his.
"You're a very busy man, Casey; you work for all these men, some of whom are enemies. You must know what somebody's up to tonight," I smirked, though he did not see it, "so why don't you make this easier on yourself and tell me what's what."
"All right," he wheezed, "all right! I'll talk!"
I let up on the cane just a bit, enough for Casey to grab some air. He rubbed at his throat, feeling the dent I had made, and coughed, the returning air forcing its way into his lungs. When he was ready, he started to babble like a brook.
"A couple days ago, two guys came up to me with a job offer; one of them was Johnny Two-Steps but I couldn't tell who the other guy was. Johnny told me about this new guy that was in town, the Carver, and that he was promising a pay-off for everyone involved. I said I needed to know what kind of work he was doing and Johnny, he looks down and gets all quiet, and that's when the other guy takes over.
"He steps up to me and says, "We are selling meat to the poor, to those who cannot afford to eat. We provide for them and take care of them."
"It couldn't be that simple though. He's up to something, sir, and it can't be anything good. I hear that people have been disappearing from the East District and the poorhouses are losing people too. This Carver guy, whoever he is, is up to no good."
When Johnny was finished, he looked about ready to cry. I figured him to be out, so I let him off the cane just a little more. I asked him, "Where can I find Johnny and his friend?"
"He said that if I changed my mind, I could find them over on Fleet Street, Building 837. Please, you've got to do something about this. This whole thing rubs me the wrong way!"
I refused to entertain his noise any longer, so I hit him in the stomach with the end of my cane. As he lay on the ground, clutching what was surely a cracked rib, I told him, "I'll check the house out, but if I'm ambushed, I'm coming for you. Remember that, Casey."
"Y-yes, sir," he whimpered as I walked away.
"Why did you feel the need to hurt him?" Dr. Brenner interrupted. "He cooperated and told you what you wanted to know."
"I wanted to put the fear of God in him, let him know that, if he crossed me, he would have to pay for it," Brian replied.
"It seemed to me that you had him plenty scared already, Mr. O'Brien. Your actions were completely uncalled for."
Brian fiddled with his fingers, feeling the lines on his fingertips. "They were justified, Dr. Brenner. Casey is a criminal who has been in and out of jail for years; with enough reminders, he might be steered away from crime."
"If you had a child who acted out in a way that displeased you, would you hit them to stop the behavior?"
"We're not talking about children, doctor; we're talking about criminals."
"The same ideas apply to both, Mr. O'Brien. You can't expect a man to reform if you beat him without mercy!"
"It can be done," Brian said, lowering his head, "I know it can be done."
Dr. Brenner sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. This job was taking its toll on him; such words might have disturbed him in the past.
"We'll discuss this later. For now, tell me how the rest of the night went."
After I spoke with Casey, I went back to my building to get my car; Fleet Street is a way's away, and I do not care for walking around with my mask on. Once I was on my way there, I tried to make sense out of what Casey had said. I knew that vagrants had been disappearing from the streets, but I had no idea it was so bad that even scum like Casey would stop and think about it. Johnny Two-Steps knows almost everything going on at anytime in the city, so I hoped he and his new friend would have the answers I was looking for.
When I got to Fleet Street, I parked in an alleyway and began to search for 837. It did not take long to find the place; it was the only building where the doorman was built like a gorilla. He stood tall and strong, bigger than me, but you and I both know that has never stopped me in the past.
"What do you think you're doing here, Clock?" the big ape asked. I recognized him as one of Conti's old enforcers.
"I'm here to see Johnny Two-Steps," I told him, refusing to back down.
"He ain't here right now. Last I heard, he was on his way to your mother's house."
Before he could even smile at his joke, I struck him in the mouth with my cane. While he recoiled from the blow, I jabbed him in the chest, striking the areas most vulnerable. I could hear his insides cracking with every single blow until I finally heard the sound of bone breaking in his rib cage. He swung at me with a wild left punch, but I dodged it with ease and delivered one last blow to his head, breaking his jaw.
The ape crumpled to the ground and lay there twitching. I scoffed, "And here I thought you'd be made of sterner stuff."
I opened the door and crept down the hallway, trying to make as little sound as possible. The building was old and in a poor state of disrepair, making it the perfect place for a hideout. No one would think someone was living here.
Further down the hall, I heard voices coming from an open door. I looked and found the door lead down into the cellar, where I heard a man in a thick Russian accent commanding other men. Maybe this was the "Carver" Casey was talking about.
"I am finished with this one. Prepare the next one!" said the Russian.
"We're almotht out, thir," said Johnny Two-Steps. I would recognize that lisp anywhere.
"What all is left?"
"Just this kid we snatched out of the alley. Scrawny thing, but she put up a hell of a fight," one of the men remarked.
"Da. She will have to do. Bring her over to my table."
I could not linger by the door any longer. With great caution, I walked down the stairs and into the basement, lingering for a moment while I fiddled with my watch. I twisted the dial on top and lobbed it into the room, where it exploded and released a cloud of white smoke into the room.
"Vat is dis?" the Russian cried out.
"Tear gas! Someone must have set off a bomb!" Johnny Two-Steps wheezed as the gas crippled him.
"That was me," I said, leaping down the rest of the stairs and landing in the middle of the men.
I told you before, Dr. Brenner, but I had my mask specially treated for emergencies such as this, because I knew this would happen. The eyeholes are covered by a translucent film that acts as a shield, protecting my eyes from the harsh chemicals in the gas. Fortunately, the men in the room had no such protection. They were clawing at their eyes, begging for the pain to stop, but it was only just beginning.
Having no idea how long the gas would stay in the room, I moved fast. I struck the nearest thug on the back of the head with my cane and punched the next one in the face. Being distracted, they fell without putting up much of a fight until the Russian got smart. He navigated his way towards a small window and shattered it with his fist, bringing ventilation into the room. It was not long before the gas had filtered out, but in that time, I had taken down almost all his men.
"You are crafty like fox," he said to me, wiping the tears from his face. "I admire that. If you are here for job, I have place for you as enforcer. What do you say?"
"I refuse."
I pressed a button on the side of my cane and fired the ivory knob at his head. The Russian was not fast enough to dodge it, so he took the blow right on the nose. He staggered back and grasped at his shattered nose, only to be stopped by a blow from my cane. When I got close enough, he tried to grab me, but I stepped to the side and, taking his wrist in hand, twisted it until it snapped.
"My hand!" the Russian screamed. "I will kill you for that!"
He never got the chance. When he charged at me to attack, I stepped to the side and tripped him up with my cane, sending him flying into the wall. As he got up, I ran up from behind and bashed him in the head. The Russian got up again, so I hit him a second time. Every time he got up, I hit him and sent him to the floor. His face was a bloodied mess by the time I finished, though I may have hit him again for good measure.
With all the thugs in the room either unconscious or incapacitated, I started to search the room. It was empty save for some cages in the back of the room, all of which seemed to be empty. Near the cages was a table covered with knives of varying sizes. What really sickened me though, doctor, were the bones near the cages. They were not the bones of an animal but the bones of a man. I had to control myself and keep from vomiting on the spot.
I looked around some more and found that there was an operating table not too far from the cages and the bones. On closer inspection, I saw that there was a girl, no older than twelve, strapped to the table and wheezing her lungs out. This was what Casey had worried about: the Carver was carving people.
Behind me came a groan, so I stormed over to the source of the noise and found it was Johnny Two-Steps, still conscious and, unfortunately for the rest of us, still breathing. I picked him up by his collar and threw him as hard as I could. He crashed into the cement floor with a sickening thud. As he tried to prop himself up, I came up behind him and slammed my foot down on the joint of his leg. I could hear the bone break under my foot.
"Please stop! Please, please stop this!" he screamed.
"That must have been what they said," I told him as I broke his other leg. "That's what they were saying, wasn't it, Johnny? Wasn't it?"
"I'm sorry! I swear to God, I had no control over this!"
"I know that, you monster. I know you people, scum though you are, would never do something like this. So that's why you're going to tell me where I can find the man who is responsible for this. You're going to tell me where I can find the Carver and you're going to tell me everything you know about him."
Johnny was a blubbering mess but, with a little pressure on his arm, I was able to squeeze out what I needed. He said, "Th-th-the Carver's n-n-name is…is Ivan Zsasz. His c-cousin cut up the bodies and we had t-t-to cook them. I'm sorry! God forgive me, I'm sorry!"
Now I knew who this monster was; all I needed was a place. I asked Johnny, with more pressure on his arm, "Where is he?"
"Agh! He-he's downtown, right above Green's Butcher Shop! Please, I swear I don't anything else!"
"I believe you."
I left him lying there, crying and sobbing, while I took the girl off the table and out of the basement. I should have called the police and let them know that she was there with them, but I could not risk Zsasz making a visit and finding her alive. So I did what seemed sensible at the time: I took her back to my home.
"And that's why I had to see you this morning. I'm afraid it's getting worse, Dr. Brenner."
"I agree, Mr. O'Brien. What you did was beyond anything you've done before when you become "The Clock"."
"What?" Brian blinked in confusion. "No, I meant the city, Dr. Brenner. We live in a city where this sort of crime is going on right under our noses and we don't even think about it. I am only doing what I know is right."
"You are doing what you think is right!"
Dr. Brenner rose from his seat and said, "Look at what you've done, Mr. O'Brien! You've brutally assaulted over half a dozen men and kidnapped a child. You need to find a way to control yourself and your urges before this gets any worse!"
"I don't need control! I need to be better so I can keep this from happening again!" Brian shouted, standing eye to eye with the doctor.
"Stop what from happening again?"
"I won't let those men die. I can't let those men die. I refuse I refuse I refuse I refuse."
Brian began to pace about the room, his hands clenching and unclenching, beads of sweat rolling down his face. Dr. Brenner followed Brian and tried to understand what he was doing, what he was thinking, but all he was getting was mumbled gibberish. The doctor walked faster so he could be in front of the man and found that Brian's eyes were glazed over and distant; his mind was unfocused.
"Mr. O'Brien!" Dr. Brenner snapped his fingers. "Brian, get a hold of yourself!"
The snapping brought Brian back to reality. He slowed down and glanced around the room as if he had never seen it before. He placed a hand on the doctor's desk to steady himself.
"Brian, do you know where you are?" Dr. Brenner asked, taking a few steps back as a precaution.
It took a few moments for the words to come out, and though they came slowly, Brian said, "I thought I was back in Germany. I was in the trenches. Jesse King was dead to my left; they put a bullet in his brain. David Erikson was to my left; gangrene would get him before the end of the week. I was stuck in mud up to my knees and my gun was jammed. I could hardly hear over the roar of gunfire and the sounds of explosions."
Brian looked up at the office again. "I'm not in Germany, am I?"
"No, Brian. You're not a soldier anymore. The war's been over for nearly fifteen years," said Dr. Brenner. "You're a socialite in New York City, one of the few who's managed to stay afloat all this time. You're a very fortunate man."
The doctor took Brian's hand and guided him back to the couch. He had never seen such a reaction from the man before; this was the first time he had even mentioned the war. At first, Dr. Brenner had thought his patient's problem to be something inherited from his childhood, but it seemed to be more recent. The Clock was born in the war.
Brian lay on the couch and tried to recollect his scattered thoughts. One second, he was talking about the night before; the next, he was back in Germany, knee-deep in mud. He could hear Brenner in the background, pouring a glass of water, but it felt so far away. Brian raised a hand to his face and wondered how he was able to move it; it did not feel like his own. Everything felt so alien, so unfamiliar.
"Drink this," Dr. Brenner said, passing the glass to Brian. His hands were shaking terribly, so the doctor helped him hold the glass and bring it to his lips. When Brian managed to choke down a few gulps, the doctor took the glass away and put it on a side table.
"I think I understand why you do the things you do, Brian," the doctor began, "though this is only a guess. You put on your mask and become the Clock because you survived where so many others died. You feel responsible for their deaths, so you take it on yourself to better the world in their place."
Brian said nothing, so the doctor pushed on. "Those instincts you were taught in training, how to kill a man and how to survive? They never left you, did they? You stayed on that battlefield even after you came home."
Silence filled the room as Brian digested all he was told. It was true: life after the war had never been the same; everything he had lived through refused to go away and live on as memories. But Dr. Brenner was wrong, saying that he had never left. The world was his battlefield, and Brian O'Brien would fight in the frontlines until the day he died.
"So, what should I do?" he asked, only partially listening to the answer.
"I'm coming to your house to check on that little girl. After all she's been though, she'll need a doctor. And I would like to talk to you about ways to help you leave the past behind."
Brian nodded and shook his head to whatever the doctor was saying. All he could think about was the mask in his coat pocket, burning and telling him there was still work to do…