Originally written April 14, 2007
When you find yourself playing the role of the hero, you are supposed to be able save the day, kiss the girl and ride off into the sunset. In my experiences, usually you just get bloody.
The book says you stand up for those that cannot stand up for themselves, no matter what the consequences shall be. In the past it has been enough to throw around the big bad attitude and watch them back away. We found out the hard way what it means to save the day one Tuesday night at a time.
Same as it ever was as it were, several months ago this show started off the same way. Those cries in the night from that same studio down the hall, those cries the hero is not allowed to ignore. 5am, a night in the clubs burning off into the harsh of light of day. I hulk out as I always do, rolling out of bed and hit the hallway running. No coherent thoughts, nothing resembling a plan. Pure unbridled instinct and emotion boiling over to the point where we see the familiar red once more. I let out a hey yo to announce that the big bad was about to go off the deep end.
That door at the end of the hall, it finally swings open. The first thing that strikes me is the pitch black darkness of the windowless room. The next few events happen in a rather rapid succession:
The sensation of a fist making its impact against my face. A sucker punch if there ever was. One. I can’t see, stagger back, feel my nose start to run with red. Two. Something emerges from the dark, bad things in me start to take over. Three. Over before it began. I rush at him, grabbing his collar and throwing him against the wall, hands firmly planted around his neck. Four. Spilling into the hallway, he throws a punch to my stomach to no effect. I am Jack’s smirking revenge. Five. I let loose a headbutt by the likes of which no of us have ever seen. Six. My size eleven club shoes are imprinted on his forehead. The boy makes his first good decision of the new day, and with another kick to his midsection he stays down. In this moment I have all the control in the world, the life of this peasant, the freedom of the whore, they belong to me.
My attention gets redirected to the bedroom. A half naked blonde, tears in her eyes, mascara running in a getting dumped on prom night sort of way, trying to cover herself with whatever sheets are within reach.
Hey darling’, you all right in there?
Yeah, everything is okay, its okay.
Not from where I’m standing…and bleeding…
What happened, what happened, what is going on out there?
I don’t what your story is love, but this is getting ridiculous.
The neighbors have called the Cantonese police. They will be here shortly to deal with a bloody American, a bloody Indian, and some chick that isn’t worth her weight in dirt. They will come to us, and I will be a marked man. This wasn’t the first time I’ve caused a scene in this city, and it won’t be the last.
The police arrive and the lawyer from the states makes his presence felt. They may not be fluent in English, but they understand the caste system applies everywhere. So a dispute got out of hand, I admit to la policia, but never to myself, and I may have been in the wrong for interfering with a domestic matter. But there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory. With a slight British accent in my voice, because I know that is what they are comforted by, I implore the constables that I was merely the lone underdog avenger out to right an injustice against an evil…that I was the good guy in all of this, that I can be trusted…so go ahead my friends, trust me.
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