Of Men and Monsters

Ever paused to wonder what makes one man a hero and what's different that makes another, a villain? All of life, I lived by the directive to do what felt right, what felt good, what felt fun. I developed quite the sense of humor and a taste for things of a wide variety. I even got pretty good at telling stories, but it took me a long time to be able to tell this one, for I had to fully understand both sides first-- both sides of men and their monsters.

...Battle cries are bellowed out over the starry sky as they twinkle in mirth, whether cold or not, he could never tell. His voice isn't so solitary and it thrills him to rush head-long into danger with his comrade in arms. She's a sultry one too, so he doubts his thrill is all that pure or his poses, all that practical in this particular melee.

"I never knew being a good soldier could be this exciting. It's like exhibitionism and rough sex all rolled into one. Sometimes, I just can't help but want to pop some girl... after well popping 'em"

She shivers uncontrollably, a subtle marker of disgust and loathing that she would ever be forced to pair up with this one... hero. The word itself, makes the corner of her mouth rise in a sneer whenever it is said in association. A hero is supposed to exemplify some virtue, supposed to stand up for what they believe in and protect those without the capacity to protect themselves. A hero should be considerate, thoughtful and decisive, a man of action when there is a need and a man of peace when there is none.

Laughter echoes across the alleyway, punctuated by the brittle snapping of bone as a combatant's skeletal structure crumbles under the stress of some rather well aimed strikes. Still the laughter rolls on, it follows at a decent pace, not hurried or fanatical at all. One would even think it was but another random bloke in a bar after hearing a good punch-line.

Outnumbered and thoroughly stalwart, the two figures of justice spare little time on thinking about the odds. Having barely enough time to keep their previous moment from being their last, they dodge, weave and maneuver as best as their battle honed reflexes allow. It is a long, hard fought battle that leaves them shaking.

The heroine continues to tremble as she suddenly turns to her companion, "What is wrong with you!?" and her screech finds him, quite squarely on the back of his head. "You were completely out of line and beyond basic bounds of decency! These punks are stupid and thick-headed, but they didn't deserve one whit of what you gave out to them!"

Every time, he can't help but hunch his shoulders slightly at her screaming fits and this time, he recovers by turning about face to grin widely at her. He's still carrying a badly beaten thug by the belt of his pants, fist tightly clenched on the back of it and dragging him along while this pleasant discussion heats up.

"I'm fighting for the safety of all who need to be safe. I fight for the orphans, for the children, for the little god forsaken orphans and their god damned puppies. Where in all that, does it say I can't enjoy myself while I'm at it too?"

Eyebrow raised, he bent to his side and grasped the poor fool's head by the top of his hair. It lolled about limply as he began to make the head bob up and down, nodding along to his mocking speech, "Don't worry ma'am, boys will be boys. I was being bad is all, I needed a good straightening out and I'll be right as rain in the morning"

It's just too bad all of his attention had been spent on ill-advised prop joke, or else he might've seen the attack coming, but as it were, all he did was feel it impact. A grunt escapes his body and he drops his package as he staggers back a step. Cheek aflame with a surge of heat and pain, he wonders if he'll be able to spit out any teeth this time as he finds a nearby wall for support.

His back thankfully sags back against it and his knees protest fiercely before they too, find the weakness they had been holding at bay for far too long. He slides down the wall, trembling a bit in his hands, but his eyes strangely don't look the least bit surprised as she towers over him with fists clenched: the very image of feminine wrath. He wonders rather than speaks, when was the last time she ever got laid?

"You're not the man I loved, not anymore and I don't even know if you ever were. You're the shadow that I couldn't see before and everything I could ever think to hate. After this mission, I'm leaving it all behind and don't you think for a minute I'll allow you to follow. I'll do everything imaginable to you that's painful and make you useless to a woman." Her body stance reeks of barely restrained anger and her voice, confirms that all too readily.

"...heh, well someone had to pop your cherry. Better me, than someone else." He manages to grin wide as he closes his eyes and leans his head back, thinking of those nights of passionate love making. Still wrapped up in his wistful longing, he dimly hears the crunch of cartilage tearing before his whole world turns a darker shade of black that swallows him whole. He welcomes it, for he could use a rest from knowing.

The men have all been swept up, carted off and sent to either a lockout or medical factility, depending on which person they had the misfortune of fighting, of course. He knows this upon snapping back to consciousness and confirms he's got a few shackled to the beds next to him in the infirmary as he cracks an eye open just a fraction. Another thing he notices is that the guy next to him is staring straight at him and not in any kind fashion either.

He responds to the stare by grinning at the corner of his mouth and turns to face his silent accuser. "Boy, I'll tell ya. Woman make you do the most fucked up shit. It's just too bad she doesn't have much of a sense of humor. Not like you, though. I can tell you're an Ace. A good stand-up guy."

His back protests at him sitting up and his legs are no different as he takes a few wobbly steps off of the sterile bed. He can hear a string of obscenities being hurled at him and for some reason, just can't be all that bothered to really listen to it. He's pre-occupied with gazing at the relative status of each man here and sees one with a lot of hardware running into his body near the end of the room.

"Aaaah, there we are. God's seen fit to grace me with such a gift this morning, I simply must give thanks to Him for this bounty." He winks at the shackled and still, quite vocal prisoner. For some reason, this admission gives the beaten criminal pause and he watches suspiciously as the man makes his way on over to the person on several kinds of life and organ support.

His basic medical training in the Company, interprets all the data of the many digital readouts and he easily learns the pacing of their scanning intervals. Hands a blur, snatching up the main two sensory pads and attaches to his own chest. The machines barely register the interruption, but do record the different readings. The pulse of his heart seems relaxed now, higher than if he had been sleeping but still to a leisurely pace.

Hands extending, he pulls out the breathing tubes snaking into the thug's mouth and still, the machines keep pumping air. The body spasms lightly, trying to force more air inside, but far too weakened to be able to sustain itself in this condition.

The pulse rate indicated, climbs steadily as it reads a mild excited state to the discerning eye.

The spasms grow more pronounced, one might even say frantic if it weren't so clear it was all so automatic and apart from rational reasoning.

Data indicates the heart rate of someone jogging, or in a lightly strenuous activity.

It's his death throes now, a clear sudden seizure of the body's muscles before it sags completely and forever more. Death is instant in the reasoning that one moment he had been living and now, he won't ever be again.

The heart is beating quite fast now, commonly indicative of a very intense level of activity. It remains at that peak for a bit, but soon calms back down.

The machines all around, continue their assigned duties with no interruption or outside interference and here merely watches the corpse with a frozen grin on his face that improperly conveys some amount of mirth that doesn't even begin to reach his eyes.

"...To Saint Peter he will tell: Another soldier reporting Sir, I've served my time in hell."

A chuckle is born from his throat as his practiced hands reinsert the breathing tubes, fix the surgical tape on the outside and lastly, replace the sensor pads. Alarms sound, insistently alerting the medical team to rush forth out of their relaxed states, reminding them of their duties.

He's already in his bed as they enter the room, in a flurry of motions and pressing need that he doesn't do anything to bother their work. He looks straight at his loving admirer and smiles to him with a finger placed to his own lips.

"Shh, don't ruin the joke for them or I'll have to tell one about you too."

He doesn't wait for an answer, but closes his eyes and rolls onto his back. A slight smile creases his face and stays there until slumber claims him once more. As always, he gives himself up willingly and fades down into the deep nothingness.

Campaign after campaign and through it all, he succeeds with reliable finality. Never a loose end that had needed tying or a moral quibble would keep him from meeting the end-goal. The superiors in charge, called it exemplary, courageous, heroic. He had been truly, doing a great service to his country.

The medals stacks up, the trophies increase in significance and then soon, die away altogether. Nothing public is noted of him or recorded for a long time. He becomes part of the shadows and finds plenty of work there to do. More servicing to his country, more exemplary charges laid out for him.

His sense of humor never leaves him and as much as he bathes in the blood of others, he always manages to rise to the surface laughing; always laughing.

"...Better me than someone else!"

A mightily powerful and far-reaching Company now with many years spent in its' service, he has never once been taken off the front lines. His missions taking him from locale to locale, meeting new people of many races and creeds, then rather suddenly, removing them of any living claim to either.

It is his own personal choice now, handling these matters directly for when once had worked for superiors, he now has others just starting off in the same position he had, so very long ago.

Grey hairs crept into his scalp over the years, slowly as if lying in ambush to for the right moment to overwhelm opposition or he merely never took the time to notice it until a chance morning in front of the mirror.

He had long passed the season of his life when he had been doing questionable things in his life. Now, everything is beyond question. It is all very clear and distinctly corrupt. He does his work well, enjoying every moment despite the fact no one could ever know or fathom how it benefits the whole of his country.

The joke of his life, it seemed, never stopped handing out punch-lines and he laughed at every one. He slept like a baby every night too, imagine that.

Today is a great day, for he's no the cusp of being promoted to the final tier. A life long service to the company has many perks and for his final leisurely mission, he picks a rather outspoken figurehead.

A political advocate, very loud in her condemnations of actions he had deemed utterly reasonable. She had grown to be quite the thorn in the Company's side and unknown to her, an opportunity had been made to benefit both short and long term goals.

The dossier lands on his desk and the messenger quickly leaves the room, leaving him alone to all the information therein, but he has little need to really read all that much. He knows of the progress she's made in cleaning up the streets, in blowing whistles on many politicians and blowing open many scandals. She has shined in the limelight of truth and the American way, it seems.

A life lived to reaching her utmost potential and by all public knowledge, one just about to accept the greatest office one can. He can barely wait to stop by for a spot of tea in the morning with her. He's got such a joke to tell.

The children are still in their beds and the house is as quiet as can be. The neighborhood silently agrees that tonight is a fine night to be alive. The children would agree with them, but the blood that decorates the entirety of both rooms paint a distinctly different point of view.

Lifeless eyes gaze at the ceiling, dull and unblinking. Rather than looks of terror being frozen on their faces, they instead have the sight of one utterly confused. They could not begin to understand why, although someone had certainly tried to tell them many times for their reasons or so the splatter along the walls might attest.

His pacing is steady and calm as he makes his way through the house, going to the master bedroom where the loving married couple still rest in slumber. He wants to laugh, oh how funny he finds this all to be at the moment; especially when a young adult male leaps out at him, brandishing fists and hateful spilling his tears all over his face.

A struggle ensues with youthful exuberance matched against a lifetime of practiced experience. So while he seems all that surprised when cold steel parts the flesh of his stomach, the main holding it merely chuckles softly. A few more twists, a few more thrusts and the ruinous male is left slumped in the corridor, bleeding of far too many holes to be considered in any realm of hope of saving.

He is left as is and the intruder stalks towards his destination, although the earlier commotion has woken up his audience. The man of the house is all fire and brimstone as he leaps from the doorway to the master bedroom with a pistol held fiercely in both hands. The firearm spits lead and promises of a grisly death. The assailant doesn't find it all that funny and the wall behind him, gets the brunt of the too-hurried shooting. A measured and well-aimed shot to the head cuts off the husband's angry tirade mid-clip.

The pistol falls onto the hardwood with a thud less dull than the collapsing of the body of the now beloved and dearly departed husband. Now things are getting funny again, but it's all leading up to the final act and the killer isn't disappointed when he steps clear inside the room.

"Hello love, don't you just get a thrill when you pop someone, that makes you want to really, pop someone?"

The phrase tickles at her memory and her mind is too shocked with abject horror that she can't place it. Clutching the covers and cowering against the headboard of bed, she trembles all over in barely restrained sanity. The very image of feminine fragility.

His face breaks a beam of light coming from the full moon outside, showing clearly his features to her and recognition dawns in her eyes. Understanding flashes in her mind and slowly, her head shakes side to side as intelligence drowns her flight or fight response. She becomes rational enough for speech, whispered and fearful though it is.

"Oh God, what have you done to us and your son!?"

Her shriek still sets him on his edge and his shoulders tense in old sympathy reactions. He laughs a little, curious enough to ask, "Was that my son in the hallway? Oh, I wished I could have told him a better joke, than I had to tell the rest. I don't think he inherited my sense of humor though."

"What have I done to deserve this!?"

His shoulders barely twitch and he purrs in consolation. "You worked your whole life for this, and it's my honor to congratulate you on behalf of your country. You're getting that promotion you always wanted, sweetheart."

A slow laugh ripples forth into the room, cascading around from the acoustics and as the remainder of his magazine rips through her frame. Bullets punch into her body and some even find happy little homes inside her after leaving chaotic trails of destruction through flesh and bone.

As she slumps back blood awash on the wall behind her, he steps in closer and sits on the bed. He knows life is fading from her eyes quickly, he's seen it so many times to never be able to mistake that look for any other.

He leans closer to her, whispering in malicious glee, "Someone had to take your cherry, better me than someone else."

Laughter sounds once more inside the bedroom and for a good long while.

How does anyone ever think to see differently, the hero and the villain? I've lived long and well, growing by experiences and sharing my good humor with everyone I meet. It's too bad that most haven't yet understood what it is to really laugh. If only everyone lived by a tale that's as fun, as those of men and monsters.