Post by mauvelantern on Mar 7, 2012 18:30:36 GMT -5
THE CRIMSON AVENGER in QUI VINDICET IBIT
Lee Travis had lived his life thinking the world to be black and white; two parallels that complimented each other. The night cooled the world after the sun set and the ocean needed the sky to make rain so it may fill with water. And for every good deed, there must be a wicked one so that people may understand what is right. There must be a villain so that the hero may have a reason for being.
All his life, he had lived as a hero. When he was a child, he fought off the bullies who preyed on the weak and helpless. When he was in school, he won games so that he might bring honor and pride to his schoolmates. When he went to war, he fought not for one nation or another's victory, but for the ideals and beliefs he held dear to his heart. He could never once see himself not on the right side of life, the side of the good.
So how had it come to be that he was meeting with none other than "Rotten" Oscar Fierro?
That question buzzed around the newsroom of the Daily Star, Travis's newspaper. Lee had been on a campaign against people like Oscar for months, and now he was meeting with them in his private office. Nothing about it made sense to anybody. All they could do was try and listen in on the conversation in the office…
"Mr. Travis, I am hurt and appalled by the disparaging comments your paper has made about me," said Oscar to Lee, "and that's not easy to accomplish. I've been called many things in my life, but the muck you're throwing at me in your paper is simply unbelievable!"
"I hate to break it to you, Mr. Fierro, but that's the way things work here at the Daily Star. That's how it's always been and that's how it always will be," Lee replied, leaning back in his chair.
The two men sitting across from each other could not have been any more different if they had tried. Oscar had walked into the meeting in a fine suit and stinking of foreign cologne; Lee was wearing the same old shirt, trousers, and vest he had worn yesterday. Oscar was well-groomed and portly; Lee was disheveled from head to toe and thin as a rail. And while Oscar had four men, each one a mountain of a man, Lee only had his assistant, Wing. "Rotten" held all the power in the room.
"You're a man of integrity, Lee, and I can respect that. However, I want you to remember who it is that's been keeping your paper afloat," Oscar said with a triumphant smirk. If ever he had to put someone in their place, all he had to do was flaunt his control and they would stand down without hesitation.
Lee did not stand down easy though. "We've paid our debt to you in full, Oscar, and we can stand on our own two feet. We're not "partners" anymore."
Oscar's smirk collapsed into a frown. He snapped at one of his lackeys, who pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and passed it to his boss. Oscar took a puff and blew the smoke at Lee.
"I don't think you understand the nature of our relationship, Travis, so let me explain it to you nice and clear. I own the property where you print your little pamphlet; I bought the machines you use to print your garbage; I even took down a company or two so you could get better writers. Whether you like it or not, I own enough of this newspaper that you'll be paying me till the day the Earth stops turning," the man sneered through gritted teeth.
"And if you insist on being a hero, then I can just take back what's mine. I could torch the place and start over from scratch. Maybe I'll open up a gin joint here; I'd be working with my kind of people that way."
Lee sank into his chair. No matter the bravado he put on, Oscar was right. The Daily Star was his, and there was nothing Lee could do about it; he simply had to persevere and stay alive. If not for his sake, then he had to for the sake of his employees.
"I understand, Oscar," the gaunt man acquiesced. "I assume you'll be wanting the payment tonight?"
"I'll be wanting a little extra to make up for the slander you've been printing about me in the paper," said the greasy criminal, his smirk returning once more.
"How much more do you want?"
"Not much: just an extra thirty dollars or so."
"Thirty dollars?"
"I understand times are tough, so think of it as a token of my generosity."
His fists clenching and teeth grinding, Lee said, "Thank you very much, Mr. Fierro."
"It's the least I can do for my favorite businessman," Oscar chuckled. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got another "business meeting" to attend to. I'll see you tonight; don't be late!"
When Oscar and his men walked out of his office, Lee gestured at Wing to close the door, which the young man was all too happy to do. The weary owner slumped down in his chair and covered his face with his hands. Every month ended the exact same way: Oscar would come and take more money from the paper, each time demanding a little more. There did not seem to be an end in sight for either party.
"Wing, would you mind fixing me a drink?"
"Not at all, Mr. Travis," the assistant replied. Wing walked to the side of the room and opened a cabinet using a key his boss shared with him. Inside the cabinet was a treasure trove of drinks, enough to make any bartender envious.
While Wing prepared a vodka tonic, Lee got up and moved to the window. He wanted to spit at Oscar when he saw the fat man getting into a fancy car. That would just be stoking the flames and would end up costing him more in the long run.
"Your drink, sir."
Lee took the glass from Wing and almost downed it in one gulp. He turned to his assistant and asked, "Wing, do you think it's fair?"
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"Do you think it's fair that people like Oscar Fierro get to control everything? They've got all this power, the power to run a city, and they use it to terrorize people. You saw what he did just now; he's taking money from us just because we're doing our jobs! I ask you again: do you think that's fair?
Wing took Lee's glass and moved back to the liquor cabinet with it. He answered, "Not at all, sir, but, as you said, he is the one with the power to shut us down. I have seen many men like him in my life and they are all the same. They abuse their fortune and exploit the people below them."
"Isn't that the truth? I've always believed that there is good and evil cannot exist without each other, but I had no idea that it would be a give-and-take relationship."
As Lee drank some more, he heard a knock at his door and signaled for Wing to lock up the liquor cabinet. He downed the rest of his drink and said, "Come in!"
In walked Marty White, a young reporter who covered local news. He had several papers and photographs in his hands, no doubt material for his next piece. When he entered the office, he looked around as if searching for Oscar or any of his henchmen.
"Don't worry, the bad guys are gone," Lee said. "They just left a minute ago."
"Sir, is everything okay?" Marty asked his boss. "Some of us were a little concerned, especially since he's, y'know, "Rotten" Oscar."
"I know who he is and I can assure you we have nothing to fear from him. All he wanted to do was ask that we tone things down in the paper. Now, what did you want to talk about?"
"Actually, I just wanted to get your okay on the Red Tornado piece."
"'Red Tomato'?"
"No, sir, 'Red Tornado'. Here, take a look."
Marty passed him three pictures of what looked like an escaped circus performer. This man was running around in red and yellow tights with a cape, black boots and gloves, and a pot on his head. Lee was not sure what was more amazing: that someone would dress up like that or that they were not committed to an asylum.
"What exactly am I looking at, Marty?" he asked, holding up one picture for reference.
Marty pointed at the man and said, "That's the Red Tornado, sir. He's been running around Suicide Slum and taking out small-time criminals with things like pans and rolling pins. It's pretty impressive, really."
Lee tapped his fingers on his chin. "So this guy dresses up in a costume and goes around beating people up? How has no one killed him yet?"
"Well, they don't exactly know what he looks like outside of the costume. No one knows what's underneath that helmet, which just adds to the mystery."
"So he just does whatever he wants and gets away with it?"
"He seems like he's fighting on our side, Lee," Marty said as he took his papers back. "So, is this okay to print?"
"Yeah, go ahead and print it. Just make sure you don't talk about Oscar Fierro!"
When Marty left, Lee snapped his fingers and remarked, "I've got an idea!"
"What would that be, sir?" Wing asked.
"Wing, old friend, this Red Tomato knows what he's doing. He's got the gumption to take to the streets and handle the problems that police aren't. He's got the mask so no one can trace him anywhere. And this is the best part: he's getting the attention of all the right people. Whatever he's doing, I like it!"
"Indeed," the assistant replied, "he does seem to be bringing much attention to Suicide Slum. Very needed attention, if I may say so."
"Exactly. Now, what if I were to do the same thing?"
Wing cocked his head to the side. "You wish to run around with a pot on your head?"
"No, no, no. I have some dignity, y'know! No, I'm talking about putting on a mask and a costume and just going to town on these boys. We could finally make Fierro cut us loose!" Lee exclaimed, shaking Wing's shoulder.
"Many apologies, but how do you plan on doing this?"
Lee gave his assistant a cocky grin. "Surely you haven't forgotten who you're talking to, have you? I've been to war, Wing! I was an ace back in school! I've held my own against men twice my size and shot down snipers before they could see me. I'll use what I know and take it to the streets!"
"Like the Red Tornado?"
"Exactly! Now, the only question is how I'll get around. People are going to notice if a man's walking around in a costume, and I want to surprise these people," Lee pondered aloud.
Wing raised his hand and offered, "I would be willing to drive you around, sir."
"No, I couldn't ask that of you, Wing," said the editor. "Bad enough I'm sticking my neck into this. I don't want you getting hurt either."
"Sir, I can provide you assistance if you needed it. My father taught me how to deliver medical assistance while in combat and my mother taught me the art of silence and observation. I can support you while you go on the offensive," the assistant explained.
Lee went back to his desk and drummed his fingers along the surface. Finally, he relented and said, "All right, you've got the job. When we get home tonight, we'll get everything ready for the meet with Oscar Fierro and then we'll go out and bust him!"
"Will you need a disguise or should I procure one right now?"
"No need. I've got many a costume hanging in my closet after years of parties and events. If I need anything, I'll just pick one of those. You just need the darkest clothes you can find."
"I understand," Wing nodded.
"Good. Now, get me another vodka tonic and make a drink for yourself. Let's toast to a successful night, Wing!"
That night, after leaving the Daily Star, Wing waited in the garage at Lee's house. He had decided to simply wear his valet's uniform, though he added a red cloth that ran around his head and left his eyes exposed. The better part of the evening had been spent fixing up Lee's black sedan and removing any traces of familiarity on it. The license plate had been covered up and covers had been placed on the seats. To the average person, this was an entirely different car.
"How do I look?"
Wing looked up to see his boss standing in the doorway of the garage in a crimson costume, one he vaguely remembered from a Halloween party last year. Lee was wearing a dark red suit with a white shirt and red vest beneath it, plus a crimson cape and hat. The piece was completed with a red domino mask that fit perfectly on his face, covering his nose and his cheekbones while leaving his eyes exposed. His hands and feet were protected by black gloves and shoes, and, though it was difficult to tell, he had two pistols hidden within the confines of the coat.
"Very red, sir," Lee remarked. "A good disguise though."
"Thanks. I was going through the costumes that I owned, and then I remembered reading about that Clock fellow in the newspaper. Something about a man in a suit just struck me, so I went with my bandit costume from Halloween," Lee explained.
He opened the car door and marveled at the work done to the interior. "You're sure this is my sedan? It looks brand new!"
"I did some work on it, Mr. Travis," said his assistant, sliding into the driver's seat.
"Now, I recommend we get going if we are to arrive at your scheduled time with Mr. Fierro."
Lee chuckled. "That's what I like about you, Wing: you're efficient. We probably shouldn't keep him waiting. Drive on, driver."
"Yes, sir."
They drove through the darkened streets of New York and carried on through the rain. Lee was shivering with anticipation the closer they got to the meeting place. He wondered how Oscar and his boys would react: they could draw their guns and start firing right away; they could sit there and gawk at the sight; they could even start running at the first sign of trouble. It may have sounded crazy, but he was hoping for the first one.
Finally, they reached the meeting house. It was a brick building that looked like any other, which made it perfect for a consortium of those with less-than-pure intentions. Lee knew that area well, having sent many a reporter down these streets to get their stories and having made numerous visits to Oscar Fierro. Hopefully, all that would change tonight and Lee could finally stop paying protection money to these people.
"We've arrived, Mr. Travis," Wing said, parking the car across the street from the meeting house.
Lee twisted his neck to the left and right, feeling the joints crack with each turn. When he felt ready, he dipped his hat down and said, masking his voice with a growl, "Excellent. Wait here until I come out."
"And what happens if you don't come back out?"
"That won't happen."
Lee got out and walked to the house, feeling the rain fall on him and slide down the length of his coat. He almost smiled, feeling like something out of the movies, but he refrained. If he was going to pull this off, he needed to be intimidating; he needed to be tough. Thinking back to his days in Europe, fighting the Germans, helped focus his mind and bring him to the state necessary for this job. He needed to be a force of nature, something these men could not comprehend, much less control.
When he got up to the door, he brought his leg up and kicked with all his might. He broke through the cheap wood and took the door off a hinge. A guard reached for his pocket, only to be stopped by a bullet to his knee.
"Oh God, he shot me!" the man screamed as he grabbed his leg. Lee ignored him and ran further into the building.
He came upon another door at the end of the hall and, tucking his head down, he rammed it open with all his strength. The men inside were stunned when they saw him spin into the room, cape flowing and all. As they reached for their guns, Lee shot one in the shoulder and another in the leg. Both went down, but there were still three more, Oscar included.
"Shoot him! Shoot him in the face!" the fat man hollered as he fired his gun at Lee.
Lee ducked down and rolled, spinning across the floor so as to avoid the bullets. He fired at the remaining thugs, but they shielded themselves by flipping their table up and hiding behind it. When he stopped rolling, Lee ran towards the icebox and used its door as a shield for himself, making him even with the other thugs. He peeked over the door and fired two more shots, winging one thug but missing Oscar by a hair's breadth.
Oscar and his last man were not able to hit Lee either, both being mediocre shots when it came to the use of handguns. They were able to hit the icebox door, but they only left dents in the metal. Lee went unharmed until they ran out of bullets.
"I'm all out, boss!" said the thug to Oscar.
"Me too!"
"Want mine?"
Lee took the chance and ran out from his hiding spot. He sprinted towards the table and, as he did with the door, he shoved it out of the way with his shoulder. As Oscar and his guard ducked out from behind, Lee spun and shot the thug in the leg, right below the knee. The guard laid bleeding and screaming, but his shooter had already turned his attention to Oscar, who reached for one of the fallen thugs' guns.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Oscar Fierro," Lee growled, pointing his gun at the fat gangster.
"Wh-who are you?" Oscar cried.
"I was sent here by Marcello Conti to let you know that your time is up. He wants what you've got, and he's not taking "no" for an answer."
"Conti? H-he can have whatever he wants!"
"What he wants is control of the Daily Star. You're going to hand it over to him bright and early tomorrow morning, and if I hear you haven't, then I'm going to pay you another visit. Do you understand me, Fierro?"
"Y-Y-Yes, I understand! I'll go tell Conti that he can have the newspaper. Just please, please don't kill me!"
Lee gave a gravely laugh. "I'll let you live tonight; I'm feeling generous."
As he walked out of the house, Lee could not help but breathe a sigh of relief. Finally, he was free from that pompous, horrible man. He could run the paper the way he wanted to, with integrity and truthful journalism. There was nothing that could stop him from doing the right thing now. Unless Marcello Conti had something to say about it.
"Why did I say that? Why, why would you mention another gangster, Lee? Do you like punishing yourself? How could you do something so stupid?" he berated himself, smacking himself in the head.
Wing stood by the car and asked, "Sir, is everything okay?"
"No, everything's not okay, Wing. I got rid of Oscar, but I think I just doomed us to another boss."
"But how did things go in there? I heard many gunshots."
"Oh, that went off without a hitch. I haven't had that much fun in years. Why did I have to mention Marcello Conti?"
The next day, Marcello Conti marched into the office of the Daily Star. He cut an imposing figure, standing taller than any man and wider than a wrecking ball. The floor shook as he stormed in, a group of thugs trailing behind him.
"S-sir? Can I h-h-help you?" the nervous secretary asked.
Marcello gave her a half grin and said, "No, thank you, ma'am. I just have to talk with Mr. Travis. Could you let him know that I want to know why I suddenly own this place?"
The secretary squeaked out of fear and ran for Lee's office. There was some excited whispering from the room and, seconds later, Lee strode out with a beaming smile on his face. He had not expected Marcello to be in quite so early.
"Mr. Conti, what a pleasant surprise! To what do we owe the pleasure?" he asked, knowing full well the answer.
"'Rotten' Oscar came to me this morning and said one of my men forced him to sell me your paper. I don't remember sending any men his way lately, but I did get to thinking: I don't particularly like the way your paper's been talking about my business ventures," Marcello explained.
"I am hurt, appalled even, by your accusations."
This was sickeningly familiar to Lee, but he grinned and bore it all the same. "Step into my office and maybe we can work something out, Marcello."
The two men disappeared into the office and did not come out for another hour. The noise coming from the room ranged from polite speaking to full-on shouting and ranting. By the end though, they had started to laugh and, when the doors opened again, Lee was clapping Marcello on the back.
"You're all right, Travis," the big man snorted. "I think I'm going to like doing business with you."
"I'm looking forward to it, Mr. Conti," Lee said as he watched the man leave. Once the last of Marcello's goons had left, the editor turned to his employees and clapped his hands.
"I need everyone's attention up here," he said, "and I need it now. Lately, we've been getting a lot of noise from the people we've been writing about. They've voiced their complaints before, but this is the first time I've had them come into this office to talk to me. After close review, I have decided that we will no longer cover stories on Marcello Conti, who proved that we are defaming a good man."
There was angry chatter stirring up in the employees, so Lee clapped his hands again. "I need everyone to understand that this paper will still stand for integrity and journalism. The only difference is now we will need to be careful about whose toes we trod on. Everyone must send their pieces to me for review and, if I find that they are defamatory, I'm kicking you out. We will not stand for false accusations in here, only what we are told is the truth."
As people barraged him with questions, Lee walked back into his office and had Wing lock the door. His assistant turned to him and said, "It sounds like they took it as well as expected."
"This is a turning point, Wing. I'm going to be working for Mr. Conti, and now I know how to play this game. I'll get close to these men and use the information they give me; once I have that, I'll go in as the Crimson Avenger and take them down. They'll never see us coming, old friend!" Lee exclaimed as he opened his liquor cabinet.
"Very good, but, if I may ask, why "Crimson Avenger"?"
"To sell papers, Wing. I'm trying to run a business, after all."