in Which I Post an Assignment from Class: "Vigilante Club"
Foreword: This was an assignment I wrote as a final project for my Intro to Lit class. The assignment was to do something creative with any of the themes we covered over the semester. The last two novels we read in class were Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk and Watchmen by Alan Moore & Dave Gibbons. When I originally began writing the story, I intended to fuse the plots and themes of these two novels. However, it became very difficult to fuse the plots, so I ended up mainly with a Fight Club plot that included a few Watchmen-y themes. It's odd, but I promised a lot of people that they could read it when I finished, so I decided to post it here. Enjoy!
Sometimes the ending is just like you expected.
You’re in a chokehold and you’re being told that this is the end.
You’re on the edge of a building and it looks like a long way down.
***
The beginning is less exciting. Maybe even more predictable though.
I work for the government. The IRS, to be more specific. I start crunching numbers at 8 a.m. and by 5 o’clock my eyes burn from the constant intensity of the computer monitor’s glow. I come home to my dark apartment and make dinner, just going through the motions of cooking and hoping it’s done in time for my girlfriend’s arrival home from work.
Did I say “my dark apartment”? I meant “our dark apartment,” and even that is a stretch. The whole place is covered in flower-patterned pillows. The curtains are made of something called damask. I heard somewhere that damask burns quicker than paper. That doesn’t seem right, though.
A few weeks ago the couples therapist told us we should take a class together. Said learning a new skill in each other’s company would not only give us more in common, but allow us to see each other in a new light. I wanted to take something easy, like a drawing class. I could completely zone out and no one would notice. Carol wanted a workout. The couples therapist sided with her, saying that a workout might help me with my insomnia. Carol brings in $500 more a year than me. Because of this, she wins every argument.
***
The best thing about our adult karate class is that I rarely have to interact with Carol. I’m a big guy. Carol’s no pixie, but I still tower over her. The instructor pairs me up with the only other big guy, a dude named Drake who seems to be taking the class on his own. Carol drags her partner, a uni-browed troll of a woman, over to us on the combat floor so we can be near each other for class. I pretend to be focusing all of my concentration on the instructor and Drake. I talk to Carol as little as possible.
For a certain amount of time I actually liked the karate class. Carol and I still had nothing in common, but it was nice to get rid of some of my frustration physically. I was able to sleep through the nights following classes. Drake wasn’t much of a talker, but I still felt as though he and I had formed a kind of karate-partner bond. I think I read once that fighting someone is the best way to get to know them. Does that seem right?
I use the past tense when talking about liking the karate class because there came a day when it wasn’t enough. I was sitting on our floral couch, watching a group of red ninjas beat the shit out of a group of black ninjas on the Kung Fu Network, when it hit me that I needed real life experience. The controlled, tightly monitored sparring on the combat floor at Sensei Tim’s School of Karate was no longer going to cut it for getting out my daily dose of aggression. I wanted to really fight. I wanted to see blood.
I started by trying to convince Drake to have a real fight with me. I got him to go out to the back of the building with me after class and tried to start something. Dude wouldn’t bite. He blocked every hit I tried to take, only letting me get close enough for my fists to slam hard into his swiftly blocking forearms. Feral yells escaped my lips. Drake made the grunting sounds that Sensei Tim had taught us. He batted my clumsily balled-up hands away from his face. He was tame, a man locked in a cage that he can’t even see.
Two weeks later there’s a story on the news about some crazy fuck who’s been reported several times for verbally harassing female tourists at night. This idiot wears a black ski mask over his face and has a knack for only going after women with hulking boyfriends. So far, no fights had actually been started. Cops intervened once. The hulking boyfriend’s friends stopped it another time. A third time the harassed female herself stopped the potential fray. There’s amateur footage of her with her red-edged lips pressed into a pout, whining at the men not to hurt each other in front of a lady. The shot turns into slow-mo and you can see the orange lettering on the harasser’s black shirt: Dr. Terror.
What the hell?
***
Seems to me like this “Terror” asshole is looking pretty damn hard for a fight. I could get used to the idea of fighting in the name of honor. And, hey, if a beautiful woman begs me to be with her after I save her from the harsh words of a foul needler, so be it. Everyone knows the quickest way to the heart of a woman is through defense of her honor. Don’t they?
***
The streets are still damp from the rain that pounded them earlier in the evening. I’m prowling around Dr. Terror’s part of town. I’ve been watching every clip of him I can find to ready myself for a fight. I probably should have sheathed myself in spandex for this, but instead I have on red sweatpants and a black t-shirt. Not too classy, but I need to be able to move. My red ski mask is from the early 1990s, but it covers my face and thus serves its purpose. I could’ve sworn I had a black one. Carol must have tossed it.
My overly-casual garb and covered face get me a few looks from passing tourists. Most seem to brush me off as a homeless guy, probably insane. I see a kid whose eyes widen when he catches sight of me. He points me out to his mother and whispers in her ear. She grabs his hand and pulls him quickly past me on the sidewalk. He cranes his neck to look at me for as long as possible as he is dragged past. I wonder what that was about.
Two hours of wandering the crowded tourist district has gotten me nowhere. I slip into a back alley to take a piss in back of an old brick warehouse. Most of the buildings in this area have been renovated into bars and chain restaurants, catering to tourists. This one hasn’t. It seems deserted through the broken window that’s in front of me as I pull down the sweatpants’ elastic waistband. I’m pulling the waistband back up when I notice a glimmer of movement in the building. Probably just a homeless person. I’m a defender of justice and honor now, though. I should check it out.
The window with its empty panes is low enough for me to climb through. I jump down from the sill. The sound of my feet hitting the warehouse floor is muffled by years of dust. I look around. No sign of movement. I start to walk along the wall of windows. Enough light streams in from the streetlights in the alley outside for me to see that there’s nothing to see.
Suddenly there’s a voice in the dark.
“I know why you’re here,” he says, taunting me, “You’re telling yourself it’s for noble reasons, but you just want a fight. You just want to feel alive.”
The first fist against my jaw is like seeing God.
***
The fight with Dr. Terror has my blood boiling. I need more action.
I buy a police scanner. I go out on patrol a few nights a week. If I’m closer to the scene of a petty crime than the police are, I go for it.
The fighting gives me a rush. When I come crashing back down from it I sleep at night. I dream of sex and violence. Sometimes the sleep leaves me even more tired and sore.
I’ve gotten pretty good at bloodying up bad guys. There’s been some media coverage. A week ago, I was fleeing the scene of a mugging just as the cops and news van skidded up. The perfectly made-up reporter who situated herself in front of the two knocked-out muggers shouted after me as I ran, asking for my name. Her question stopped me in the middle of fleeing.
“You know what?” I said, “Just call me The Vigilante.”
***
In the past week’s patrolling I’ve seen two other people in sweats and ski masks. One woman in a bodysuit of spandex that fit her like a second skin. A dude in jeans and a leather jacket with a hockey mask over his face. I made eye contact with none of them. I guess it’s good that there are other vigilantes out here. Just as long as they keep their hands off my action.
There’s been more news coverage. This masked vigilante thing is all the rage.
***
My idea has gone wrong. The surge in heroes has been matched by a slightly delayed surge in villains. The crime rate took a dip when the heroes first started their work. Now it’s soaring again. People in masks are robbing convenience stores and snatching purses. Some just walk up to other masks and punch them in the face.
I understand the appeal of villainy. It’s lazier than heroism. You don’t have to bother with police scanners and racing the cops to a crime scene. Especially with all of these heroes around. Just break one little law and you’ve got yourself a fight. Easy as pie.
***
I’m still going to karate class with Carol. More and more people in the class are showing up with busted faces. Last class, Drake was moving as if he’d recently broken a rib. He had to leave class halfway through to tend to the blood gushing out of his nose. He couldn’t stop smiling at me even as he clamped his hand over his nose and tilted his head back.
In fact, no one could stop smiling at me. Carol included. She’s been looking at me with a sparkle in her eyes that hasn’t been there since the day we met. I’ve heard that one way to get a woman to look at you like this is to perk up your sex life. That seems like it would be true.
We haven’t had sex in weeks.
***
I wake up in my bed. My head is spinning from a dream about sex with Carol. She hasn’t been around recently for me to propose an actual sexual encounter.
I wander out into the apartment, stretching my body to feel all the sore parts of me. I catch sight of my face in one of Carol’s decorative mirrors. I have two black eyes.
I find her in the office. She’s curled up in the computer chair in panties and a t-shirt. I’ve never seen her lounge around in so little clothing. She turns to looks at me. Her smile is blinding, her eyes shining. There’s a cut on her cheek with five neatly placed stitches holding it closed. What the hell?
The floor around her office chair is covered in clothes. A black shirt, covered in sweat. A pair of sweatpants, too big to be hers. A black ski mask.
My eyes widen in realization as they sweep from the floor back to her face. Her forehead crinkles as she sees the accusation on my face. She’s confused.
“What is it, baby?” she asks, “Ready to go again?”
“What?” I say. Now I’m the one confused. Was she not fucking another man while I slept in the other room?
I pick up the black shirt from the floor. The orange letters on it are familiar.
“Dr. Terror?” I say, cocking my head at her, “When I was asleep in the other room?”
She still seems confused.
“No one messed with your stuff,” she begins, “You were only asleep for ten minutes.”
She trails off, looks at the computer screen, back at me.
“Looks like everything’s going to hell. The crime rate has tripled. People are just beating on each other in the street.”
For some reason this is funny to her.
My girlfriend the villain.
My thoughts rewind.
Asleep for ten minutes? Wasn’t I out for hours?
Holy shit.
Asleep for ten minutes.
No. No. No no no no no.
No fucking way.
I am not Dr. Terror.
No. It’s not because of me that people are dying in the streets.
My eyes snap back to Carol’s grinning face.
“More sex?” she asks, coyly cocking her head, “In honor of the revolution?”
Fuck.
I shake my head and slip the t-shirt over my head. I pull on the ski mask.
I have to go.
***
Outside, it’s dark.
I run through the streets, the damp t-shirt clinging to me.
I pass a million cop cars, their lights sparkling against the buildings.
I get to where I’m going.
Then I go up.
***
It’s just like I expected.
I’m on top of this building with Dr. Terror.
He’s got me in a headlock and he’s holding me over the edge.
I see Carol and a group of masked villains limping their way into the building down at street level.
Dr. Terror disappears and I hurl myself over the edge.
Sometimes the ending is just like you expected.
You’re in a chokehold and you’re being told that this is the end.
You’re on the edge of a building and it looks like a long way down.
***
The beginning is less exciting. Maybe even more predictable though.
I work for the government. The IRS, to be more specific. I start crunching numbers at 8 a.m. and by 5 o’clock my eyes burn from the constant intensity of the computer monitor’s glow. I come home to my dark apartment and make dinner, just going through the motions of cooking and hoping it’s done in time for my girlfriend’s arrival home from work.
Did I say “my dark apartment”? I meant “our dark apartment,” and even that is a stretch. The whole place is covered in flower-patterned pillows. The curtains are made of something called damask. I heard somewhere that damask burns quicker than paper. That doesn’t seem right, though.
A few weeks ago the couples therapist told us we should take a class together. Said learning a new skill in each other’s company would not only give us more in common, but allow us to see each other in a new light. I wanted to take something easy, like a drawing class. I could completely zone out and no one would notice. Carol wanted a workout. The couples therapist sided with her, saying that a workout might help me with my insomnia. Carol brings in $500 more a year than me. Because of this, she wins every argument.
***
The best thing about our adult karate class is that I rarely have to interact with Carol. I’m a big guy. Carol’s no pixie, but I still tower over her. The instructor pairs me up with the only other big guy, a dude named Drake who seems to be taking the class on his own. Carol drags her partner, a uni-browed troll of a woman, over to us on the combat floor so we can be near each other for class. I pretend to be focusing all of my concentration on the instructor and Drake. I talk to Carol as little as possible.
For a certain amount of time I actually liked the karate class. Carol and I still had nothing in common, but it was nice to get rid of some of my frustration physically. I was able to sleep through the nights following classes. Drake wasn’t much of a talker, but I still felt as though he and I had formed a kind of karate-partner bond. I think I read once that fighting someone is the best way to get to know them. Does that seem right?
I use the past tense when talking about liking the karate class because there came a day when it wasn’t enough. I was sitting on our floral couch, watching a group of red ninjas beat the shit out of a group of black ninjas on the Kung Fu Network, when it hit me that I needed real life experience. The controlled, tightly monitored sparring on the combat floor at Sensei Tim’s School of Karate was no longer going to cut it for getting out my daily dose of aggression. I wanted to really fight. I wanted to see blood.
I started by trying to convince Drake to have a real fight with me. I got him to go out to the back of the building with me after class and tried to start something. Dude wouldn’t bite. He blocked every hit I tried to take, only letting me get close enough for my fists to slam hard into his swiftly blocking forearms. Feral yells escaped my lips. Drake made the grunting sounds that Sensei Tim had taught us. He batted my clumsily balled-up hands away from his face. He was tame, a man locked in a cage that he can’t even see.
Two weeks later there’s a story on the news about some crazy fuck who’s been reported several times for verbally harassing female tourists at night. This idiot wears a black ski mask over his face and has a knack for only going after women with hulking boyfriends. So far, no fights had actually been started. Cops intervened once. The hulking boyfriend’s friends stopped it another time. A third time the harassed female herself stopped the potential fray. There’s amateur footage of her with her red-edged lips pressed into a pout, whining at the men not to hurt each other in front of a lady. The shot turns into slow-mo and you can see the orange lettering on the harasser’s black shirt: Dr. Terror.
What the hell?
***
Seems to me like this “Terror” asshole is looking pretty damn hard for a fight. I could get used to the idea of fighting in the name of honor. And, hey, if a beautiful woman begs me to be with her after I save her from the harsh words of a foul needler, so be it. Everyone knows the quickest way to the heart of a woman is through defense of her honor. Don’t they?
***
The streets are still damp from the rain that pounded them earlier in the evening. I’m prowling around Dr. Terror’s part of town. I’ve been watching every clip of him I can find to ready myself for a fight. I probably should have sheathed myself in spandex for this, but instead I have on red sweatpants and a black t-shirt. Not too classy, but I need to be able to move. My red ski mask is from the early 1990s, but it covers my face and thus serves its purpose. I could’ve sworn I had a black one. Carol must have tossed it.
My overly-casual garb and covered face get me a few looks from passing tourists. Most seem to brush me off as a homeless guy, probably insane. I see a kid whose eyes widen when he catches sight of me. He points me out to his mother and whispers in her ear. She grabs his hand and pulls him quickly past me on the sidewalk. He cranes his neck to look at me for as long as possible as he is dragged past. I wonder what that was about.
Two hours of wandering the crowded tourist district has gotten me nowhere. I slip into a back alley to take a piss in back of an old brick warehouse. Most of the buildings in this area have been renovated into bars and chain restaurants, catering to tourists. This one hasn’t. It seems deserted through the broken window that’s in front of me as I pull down the sweatpants’ elastic waistband. I’m pulling the waistband back up when I notice a glimmer of movement in the building. Probably just a homeless person. I’m a defender of justice and honor now, though. I should check it out.
The window with its empty panes is low enough for me to climb through. I jump down from the sill. The sound of my feet hitting the warehouse floor is muffled by years of dust. I look around. No sign of movement. I start to walk along the wall of windows. Enough light streams in from the streetlights in the alley outside for me to see that there’s nothing to see.
Suddenly there’s a voice in the dark.
“I know why you’re here,” he says, taunting me, “You’re telling yourself it’s for noble reasons, but you just want a fight. You just want to feel alive.”
The first fist against my jaw is like seeing God.
***
The fight with Dr. Terror has my blood boiling. I need more action.
I buy a police scanner. I go out on patrol a few nights a week. If I’m closer to the scene of a petty crime than the police are, I go for it.
The fighting gives me a rush. When I come crashing back down from it I sleep at night. I dream of sex and violence. Sometimes the sleep leaves me even more tired and sore.
I’ve gotten pretty good at bloodying up bad guys. There’s been some media coverage. A week ago, I was fleeing the scene of a mugging just as the cops and news van skidded up. The perfectly made-up reporter who situated herself in front of the two knocked-out muggers shouted after me as I ran, asking for my name. Her question stopped me in the middle of fleeing.
“You know what?” I said, “Just call me The Vigilante.”
***
In the past week’s patrolling I’ve seen two other people in sweats and ski masks. One woman in a bodysuit of spandex that fit her like a second skin. A dude in jeans and a leather jacket with a hockey mask over his face. I made eye contact with none of them. I guess it’s good that there are other vigilantes out here. Just as long as they keep their hands off my action.
There’s been more news coverage. This masked vigilante thing is all the rage.
***
My idea has gone wrong. The surge in heroes has been matched by a slightly delayed surge in villains. The crime rate took a dip when the heroes first started their work. Now it’s soaring again. People in masks are robbing convenience stores and snatching purses. Some just walk up to other masks and punch them in the face.
I understand the appeal of villainy. It’s lazier than heroism. You don’t have to bother with police scanners and racing the cops to a crime scene. Especially with all of these heroes around. Just break one little law and you’ve got yourself a fight. Easy as pie.
***
I’m still going to karate class with Carol. More and more people in the class are showing up with busted faces. Last class, Drake was moving as if he’d recently broken a rib. He had to leave class halfway through to tend to the blood gushing out of his nose. He couldn’t stop smiling at me even as he clamped his hand over his nose and tilted his head back.
In fact, no one could stop smiling at me. Carol included. She’s been looking at me with a sparkle in her eyes that hasn’t been there since the day we met. I’ve heard that one way to get a woman to look at you like this is to perk up your sex life. That seems like it would be true.
We haven’t had sex in weeks.
***
I wake up in my bed. My head is spinning from a dream about sex with Carol. She hasn’t been around recently for me to propose an actual sexual encounter.
I wander out into the apartment, stretching my body to feel all the sore parts of me. I catch sight of my face in one of Carol’s decorative mirrors. I have two black eyes.
I find her in the office. She’s curled up in the computer chair in panties and a t-shirt. I’ve never seen her lounge around in so little clothing. She turns to looks at me. Her smile is blinding, her eyes shining. There’s a cut on her cheek with five neatly placed stitches holding it closed. What the hell?
The floor around her office chair is covered in clothes. A black shirt, covered in sweat. A pair of sweatpants, too big to be hers. A black ski mask.
My eyes widen in realization as they sweep from the floor back to her face. Her forehead crinkles as she sees the accusation on my face. She’s confused.
“What is it, baby?” she asks, “Ready to go again?”
“What?” I say. Now I’m the one confused. Was she not fucking another man while I slept in the other room?
I pick up the black shirt from the floor. The orange letters on it are familiar.
“Dr. Terror?” I say, cocking my head at her, “When I was asleep in the other room?”
She still seems confused.
“No one messed with your stuff,” she begins, “You were only asleep for ten minutes.”
She trails off, looks at the computer screen, back at me.
“Looks like everything’s going to hell. The crime rate has tripled. People are just beating on each other in the street.”
For some reason this is funny to her.
My girlfriend the villain.
My thoughts rewind.
Asleep for ten minutes? Wasn’t I out for hours?
Holy shit.
Asleep for ten minutes.
No. No. No no no no no.
No fucking way.
I am not Dr. Terror.
No. It’s not because of me that people are dying in the streets.
My eyes snap back to Carol’s grinning face.
“More sex?” she asks, coyly cocking her head, “In honor of the revolution?”
Fuck.
I shake my head and slip the t-shirt over my head. I pull on the ski mask.
I have to go.
***
Outside, it’s dark.
I run through the streets, the damp t-shirt clinging to me.
I pass a million cop cars, their lights sparkling against the buildings.
I get to where I’m going.
Then I go up.
***
It’s just like I expected.
I’m on top of this building with Dr. Terror.
He’s got me in a headlock and he’s holding me over the edge.
I see Carol and a group of masked villains limping their way into the building down at street level.
Dr. Terror disappears and I hurl myself over the edge.
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