REAL LIFE/REAL DEATH Chapter Eleven

“NIGHT CAT”

The city was abuzz with its nighttime choir of sounds, but it was all silence to me.

The sound of my heavy breathing echoed inside my head. I was only listening for one thing, and I couldn’t hear it. I ran out of the apartment complex, desperate to find what I was looking for.

And I did. She was running in my direction, ducking behind cars in the parking lot. Then I saw him. He was just another guy in a suit and he seemed to be by himself, but I knew he was armed. All the others were. He was standing at the opposite side of the parking lot. I doubted he saw me, but I hung back in the shadows anyway. He just stood there for a moment, surveying the lot. It was dark and I doubted he could see much of anything.

My gun felt heavy in my hand. I looked back at the man in the parking lot. He was slowly stalking his way through the lot. He was on alert, but he didn’t see me. I tried to raise my gun up, it was a clear shot. My hand was still shaking. I grabbed hold of my arm with my left hand, unsuccessfully trying to steady my aim. I couldn’t do it. I don’t know what was wrong with me, but I just couldn’t pull the trigger.

I felt sick. The guy in the suit was making his way toward me; I was surprised he hadn’t seen me yet. In a way, I guess I wanted him to. Everything would be so much easier if he’d just shoot me. It would be a fitting end to my night.

But he never got the chance. Helplessly, I stood there and watched as that stupid girl jumped out from behind a car and effortlessly kicked the gun out of his hands. It went off when it hit the ground. In the time it took the gunshot to echo across the parking lot, the man was dropped to the ground, effortlessly it seemed, by a few precise kicks.

I ran toward her, calling out, “Anne!”

She spun around so quick I thought she was going to attack me. Thankfully, she didn’t.

“No Anne here, sir. Just me, Night Cat,” she said in what almost sounded like a parody of a police officer.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, you know what I meant, Jen-Jennifer. Whatever.”

“No. I’m Night Cat. And as long as Night Cat is here, nobody is getting shot. Not anymore.”

Her fists were clenched tightly, ready to knock somebody out. I took a step back; her voice was different, and not as reserved as it had been before. She was emotional, and ready to explode on the first person to argue with her. Unfortunately, so was I.

“What the fuck are you talking about? Are you crazy? Those guys had guns, they were shooting at you! Why the fuck did you run down that hallway. Don’t you have any sense?” I kept screaming at her for a minute or so, I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I’m sure I repeated myself a bunch of times. She finally just cut me off.

“Somebody had to something!” she shouted, “that what being a superhero is all about. I can’t just be doormat for the rest of the world. I won’t be. I won’t let anybody else get hurt. That’s Night Cat’s job!”

“I’m just glad that you’re okay,” I finally blurted out, “Look, this is big, okay. Somebody sent these people after us. I…I have to call the cops.”

“I thought you didn’t trust cops,” she sneered. Her newfound courage was unsettling.

“I was wrong, okay. I was being stupid. We can’t just let this go. It’s…too much.”

“Good,” she said, “These men should be arrested. Breaking and entering, assault, I’m sure there’s plenty of other stuff these guys are guilty of.”


“Right,” I stuttered out, “I’ve got a friend, a detective. I’ll give him a call. He may be able to keep this low profile. It’ll probably be better for both of us.”

“Fine,” she said and sat down on the curb to wait.

REAL LIFE/REAL DEATH Chapter Ten

"THIRTY-EIGHT SPECIAL"

My ears were ringing.

I shook my head, trying to get my bearings. I think the alcohol was finally wearing off. There was a familiar weight in my right hand. My gun. The Thirty-eight Special had been fired. I looked over to Sandy, she was screaming something. At least, that’s what it looked like; my vision was a little blurred and I couldn’t hear what she was saying, just a dull tone muffling her voice. I looked back to the doorway, there was a man in a navy blue suit leaning against the wall in the hallway, clutching his leg as cherry red blood leaked out.

Fuck. I just shot someone. I fell backwards, fortunate that the couch was there to catch me. I needed to snap to attention, and fast. My hand was shaking so I put the gun away, unsteadily. That gun hadn’t been fired in over twenty years. What had I done? Suddenly, everything seemed so pointless, so futile. Maybe my time really was up and I’ve just been prolonging the inevitable, torturing myself out of some deep sense of self loathing. What the fuck do I deserve to live for anyway?

Steadily, the sound of Sandy’s voice came pouring back into my ears.

“FRANK!” She yelled, “You have to get out of here! Are you listening to me?”

She had been repeating herself for what seemed like eternity. Even when my hearing returned, I still couldn’t bring myself to acknowledge her.

Then, I heard her say something different.

“What the shit! What’s she doing?” screamed Sandy as she jumped behind the couch, followed by the distinct sound of a man punching a large side of beef.

Looking up, I saw Jennifer, in full costume, twisting a man’s arm around behind his back. I think I heard a ‘snap’ but I don’t honestly remember. She turned toward me and I could see her mask covering her face. That fucking mask! I didn’t think she still had it.

The man screamed. He had entered the apartment after seeing his companion get shot and was immediately disarmed by Jennifer. That damn girl was going to get herself killed!

“It’s okay, Frank! Night Cat is here.” She said, rather boisterously. She gave the man a sharp kick to the back of his shin, felling him instantly.

Another gunshot pierced the air and splintered the door panel next to Jennifer’s head. Then, before I could even react, she bolted down the hallway toward the gunfire. Two more gunshots rang out, followed by scuffled feet. I was completely paralyzed with fear, unable to move until I noticed the bleeding man leaning against the wall. Still clutching his leg, he reached into his jacket for his firearm.

I pulled my revolver out and roared, “Don’t move!”

He froze and stared at me. I had my gun trained on him, but my hand was shaking like a rattlesnake tail. The gun nearly fell out of my hands. He turned toward me. I saw it in his eyes, he knew I wasn’t going to be able to hit him. But he didn’t shoot. He spoke.

“Frank, you damn fool. Why’d you have to complicate things?”

Realization crashed into me like waves on a beach. These were Gurly’s guys. I’d even worked with these guys before. The guy I shot was named Rick. The one on the floor’s name was Jason, I think. Fucking Gurly set me up. It was so fucking obvious. It was Gurly’s drug deal that went wrong last night. He must have been the one who sent the guy to my place. Then I fucking walked right into his arms. Fucking idiot!

“What are you here for, Rick?” I asked as calmly as I could.

“My name’s Nick you fucking idiot.” He snapped.

“Fuck you, asshole. What does Gurly want?”

“We’re not here for Gurly, fuckhead. Gurly sold you out. Too bad his stupid bitch stripper couldn’t keep her mouth shut, this would have gone a lot smooth—“

He coughed twice, spit up blood, and fell to the floor, leaving a bloody stain on the wall behind him. I don’t remember shooting him, but the smoke was still emanating from the chamber of my Smith and Wesson, which now contained two less bullets than it did yesterday.

I looked down the hall, desperate to see Jennifer, but all I could see was a couple of bodies lying on top of each other. I hoped to God she wasn’t one of them.

This whole day had been one colossal fuck up.

REAL LIFE/REAL DEATH Chapter Nine

“SANDY BREEZE”

Sandy’s lips sucked gently on my neck. It was a good way to end the night.

Sandy Breeze was a stripper at Gurly’s. She was small and stout in stature, had short, dark brown hair, and was pushing forty. She wasn’t the most attractive stripper, but something about her just pressed all my buttons. She reminded me of better days.

And she seemed to like me well enough. To say what we had was a relationship was a bit of a stretch, but it was something. I don’t think either of us was looking for any kind of relationship anyway. Relationships just lead to misery. But even a lonely old broken fucker like me needs some companionship every once in a while. She had other occasional boyfriends, but never anything serious. At least, not serious enough to disrupt what we had between us. I don’t know what she saw in me that kept her from ditching me altogether, but I wasn’t going to fuck it up by asking.

It was stacking up to be a pretty good night. I was more than a little drunk so Pete gave us a ride to Sandy’s once his shift was over. It just felt so good to get everything off my mind. I didn’t have to think about murders and costumes and drugs. All I had to think about was Sandy’s plump lips making their way up my neck.

But then, inexplicably, I pulled away. I don’t what was wrong with me, but I just couldn’t get one thing out of my mind.

“Where’s Anne?” I asked.

“Who? Anne? Jesus, Frank, her name’s Jennifer,” Sandy moaned, “and I already told you, she in the other room watching television or something.”

I looked around a bit and sat up. I was inside Sandy’s bedroom and had been propping myself up on my elbows rather awkwardly. The room was small and cluttered with clothes and trinkets. I was lying on Sandy’s bed. It was small and crammed in the corner of the room. Sandy was hovering over me on her hands and knees. All in all, it was an excellent view from where I was sitting, but I still couldn’t get the girl out of my mind.

I nearly pushed Sandy off of me. She landed on her feet and stumbled to keep from falling over.

“Frank, what the fuck!?”

“Oh fuck,” I muttered, “Sorry doll. I just….where’s Anne?”

I could see tears welling up her eyes, “Frank…I…” she hesitated and sat down on the bed next to me, “Frank, Anne is gone. She left a long time ago. That girl you came over here with is named Jennifer.”

“I know that!” I snapped, “Fuck, you knew what I meant.

“I’m sorry, I know.” She sighed, “Frank, what’s wrong. I mean, I wasn’t going to ask, Jesse told me you needed a place to figure things out, but…this girl, you keep calling her ‘Anne’ but she is not your daughter. You don’t owe her anything.”

“She needs help. Isn’t that enough? She’s…not well. I just…She needs help, okay?”

“Oh Frank,” she said as she started to massage my chest, “I know you mean well, but helping this girl is not going to bring your daughter back.”

I stood up and wobbled trying to maintain my balance, “I too fucking drunk to help anybody, anyway. Where’s Jen?”

“I already told you, she’s in the other room.” Sandy crossed her arms. She was pretty upset. She hated repeating herself.

I walked out of the bedroom and saw Jennifer sitting on the couch watching Sandy’s TV. She was still wearing my old clothes. I nearly fell over just from walking across the room and quickly found an empty chair to collapse in. Jennifer gave me a timid look, but didn’t say anything. It was good, I didn’t really feel like talking anyway. I just sat there and let the ambient sound of the television lull me into a state of meditation.

Sandy walked out shortly thereafter and sat down on the couch. The TV droned on for a few minutes before Sandy started talking.

“So, I saw you and Pete were getting pretty friendly, are you his new girl?”

“Who me? No, of course not! We were just talking. He’s the first person that’s really been nice to me since I got here.”

“Oh, where are you from?”

“New York.”

“Well now, that’s quite a travel, what are you doing all the way out here?”

“I…” she paused, “it’s a long story.”

“S’alright, I understand.”

“No, it’s not like that, it’s just…” she trailed off.

“It’s okay, girl. You can trust Sandy. Prolly more’n you c’n trust me.” I said, or, at least I think that’s what I said. Whatever I said, it got her talking.

“Well, you are probably going to think this sound crazy, but…I’m a Real Life Superhero.” Jennifer braced herself for the inevitable barrage of questions, but got a little surprise instead.

“Oh yeah, I saw something on the news a few months ago about that. I thought it was some kind of joke. I didn’t know people actually did it! Neat, what’s your superhero name?”

Jennifer was clearly caught off guard, but she seemed to relish in the fact that somebody was interested in her.

“Night Cat," she said gleefully taking of my old clothes revealing her costume underneath, “I have a cat mask with ears and everything, but no tail. Everything I tried with tails looked stupid and just got in the way.”

Sandy seemed to be warming up to Jennifer, which was good because it gave me time to relax. I really needed to get my head straightened out, figure out what was going on. Shit, but all I could think about was Sandy.

“What on Earth made you wan to do this?” Sandy asked skeptically.

“Well, I didn’t grow up in New York. I was born in Ohio. Spent most of my life there, actually. But then I moved out to New York with my boyfriend at the time…”

“Oh, I see,” Sandy interrupted, “one of those stories.”

“Yeah. We got a place together for a few months before it ended. He ended it. Fell in love with someone else. I was only 20. So there I was, all alone, little girl in the big city. I got a cheap place and a waitress job and was barely getting by. My parents wanted me to come home, but I just couldn’t. One night a coworker convinced me to go to some clubs with her to pick up some men. We spent the night dancing and drinking and I ended up going home with some guy. I didn’t really like him, but he was very insistent, for some reasons I couldn’t say ‘no’ to him. It was the alcohol. We walked home from the club, it was only a few blocks. Before we even got to his place he starts getting…intimate…with me. By the time we got to his apartment he was already trying to get my clothes off. I panicked and ran off, but I was still pretty drunk and had no idea where I was. I spent the night in an ally behind the club.”

“That’s…that’s horrible!” cried Sandy.

“I know, I felt like such a weak fool. The next weekend I signed up for Taekwondo classes, put together my costume, and patrolled the streets around the night clubs, in order to help girls from being taken advantage of.”

“Well good for you. Lord knows I couldn’t have used a superhero in life a couple of times.” Sandy said wistfully. Shit, I hoped that wasn’t supposed to be directed at me, I’m so bad with women.

She continued, “Have you ever gotten into a real fight. I mean, isn’t that dangerous. What if someone pulled a gun on you?”

The room got as silent as a graveyard. Jennifer sat down and covered her face. She just got brought back to reality. And it hurt.

“Oh shit,” stammered Sandy,” I…I didn’t mean…”

“That’s why we’re here, darling. One of her friends got murdered last night,” I coughed out, “now somebody is after us. And I just…I just don’t know what the fuck to do. I think maybe it’s the cops trying to cover something up, that Polack sonuvabitch knows something, that’s why Jesse set me up here tonight. I’m gunna owe him big for this, but at least he’s helping me out of a jam.”

I looked up at Sandy for the first time and saw tears streaming down her face, “Oh Frank,” was all she could stutter out before I heard the footsteps outside her apartment door.

REAL LIFE/REAL DEATH Chapter Eight

"GURLY'S"

It was broad daylight, but the neon lights were still on. They were always on. The first thing that caught your eye was the big pink neon lights. They twisted themselves around until they formed the image of a woman on her hands and knees, her ass hung in the air in a provocative manner. Directly above this hung another neon light that spelled out the word “Gurly’s” in an elegant blue cursive.

This place had no class.

I grabbed Jennifer by the wrist and dragged up to the front double doors. The bouncer nodded at me.

“Who’s the girl, Frank?” he asked.

“A friend.” I replied.

“She got any ID?”

“Yeah, Charlie, here you go.” I grumbled, and promptly fished twenty bucks out of my pocket and handed it to him.

“Thanks, Frank. Have fun.” He smiled.

Charlie was a big guy. He used to be a body builder, but now his muscles all turned to fat. Still, I wouldn’t want to get in his way. I was upset about losing the twenty bucks, but I didn’t hate him. He was just doing his job. Besides, it helps to keep people like him happy. He and I, we had an understanding. I take care of him, he takes care of me. He’s saved my drunken ass on more than one occasion.

The first thing I felt after entering was the thumping bass from the music. It reverberated through the walls straight into my chest. As we entered the club the music became louder and clearer. I didn’t recognize the song. It was some pop song, I imagine. I never pay attention to stuff like that. It was pretty empty, not that many people come to a strip club at four in the afternoon. I quickly glanced at the stage and saw some topless girl dancing for some old, wild haired guy in front of the stage. I didn’t recognize the girl, she must have been new.

I took Jennifer over to the bar and sat her down.

“Hey Frank, who’s your new friend.” the bartender asked.

“Shut up, Pete. It’s not like that.” I snapped.

“No offense meant, mate. Didn’t mean anything by it, still, apologies all the same.”

What I said earlier about this place having no class? I was fucking wrong, cause one thing Gurly’s did have, was Pete. Peter Poppins was the coolest cat in town. He wore a tight, black, short sleeve collared shirt that revealed tattoos running up and down both arms. His jet black hair was slicked back and his face was covered in various piercings, but they didn’t cover his ladykiller smile. Together, with his white tie and suspenders and his round rose tinted glasses, he looked decidedly out of place in this joint.

“Don’t worry about it, Pete. I’m just a little edgy right now. Is Jesse in today?”

“Yeah, in the back office, just a sec.” Peter walked around the bar into the back of the club and promptly reappeared a few second later. “Head on back,” he said.

“Thanks, Pete,” and leaning in close I asked him, “Keep an eye on the girl for me, okay? She’s not from around here and she may be a little disoriented.”

“Sure thing, bud.”

“And Pete, no funny stuff, okay? I mean it. She’s…special to me, alright?”

“You got it,” he said, reigning in his smile to a half smirk. Peter was a skirt chaser, but he also knew when to respect another man’s wishes. I knew I could trust him to look out for her.

I made my way to the back room and was greeted before I even entered the office.

“What brings you in today, Frank? Sandy’s off tonight,” boomed the thick, bass voice from inside the office.

Jesse Gurly, was the biggest, blackest, meanest motherfucker in this whole city. He owns the strip club, but I know that ain’t the only way he makes his money. He’s never done anything for free in his entire life, and he’s probably got more blood on his hands than any coroner down at the precinct. And he’s probably the closest thing I have to a friend.

“I’m not here to see Sandy; I’m here to see you.”

“What do you need, Frank?” I couldn’t stand the way he said my name, like it tasted bad coming out.

“I need an alibi. For today.”

“You expect some trouble coming your way?”

“Yeah, well no. I mean, I already had some. I just need to get my bases covered so I can think this one through.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Cops, I think. I don’t know. I haven’t figured it all out yet. I was just on this case last night and now—“

“Last night?” He cut me off, “So you were a part of that massacre, huh?”

“Yeah, I mean no. It’s complicated. I didn’t have anything to do with it, but somebody thinks I did. I just need to get somewhere so I can think things though. I can figure this out. I just need time.”

“And you're sure that someone’s after you?”

“You think I’ve just been drinking too much. That what your saying, Jesse? Course someone’s after me! I just left a guy half dead back in my apartment!”

“Alright Frank, alright. I think I can help you out. I just hate to see you get in over your head.”

I didn’t mean to snap at him. I never mean to snap at anybody. I just get angry when I can’t figure things out. He was right, though. There wasn’t anybody after me. They were after the girl. But I couldn’t tell him that. Can’t risk it. He’s too connected. He was true to his word, though. He said he’d cover for me. He even set me up with a place to stay at Sandy’s. God bless him for that. She might be just what I need to get my head straight. I was going to owe him big time for this.

I went back to the bar and Pete and Jennifer talking. A little too comfortably from the looks of it, too.

“We’re leaving,” I said as sternly as I could.

“Awww, c’mon Frank. You don’t have to go so soon. She was just telling me about New York, I’ve never been there, ya know? Stay for a while, have a drink. On the house.”

I never could say no to a free drink.

Let's talk about art.

Remember the first time you saw the film The Boondock Saints? You had just caught up on Quintin Tarantino's filmography and were still riding high on The Matrix wave when this movie came out of nowhere and stumbled into your possession. Naturally, you thought this was the coolest movie ever because, well, you were eighteen and violence was cool. But then as you got older the movie lost some of it's shine and you started seeing it for what it really was, a collection of action sequences designed to exhibit extreme shootouts and executions. The story development was contrived and nearly nonexistent, and the characters are mere props set in place to hold the guns. This movie is pure fourteen year old child fantasy. Not to say that it doesn't have entertaining moments, there's a spark of clever film making in there, and there is some genuinely funny dialog, but as a whole, the film lacks substance other than a petulant statement that killing bad guys is cool.

At least, that was my experience with the movie. But what I find more interesting is Troy Duffy's experience with the movie. Troy Duffy, for those of you who don't know, is the writer and director of The Boondock Saints, and his story is a sad and amazing tale of self destruction.

Duffy was a musician who moved to LA in order to pursue a record contract for his band, The Brood, while bar tending. Eventually, he wrote a movie script and astounded media agents when it was bought by Harvey Weinstein for quite a large sum of money. Weinstein was building Duffy up to be the new golden boy, and was gearing up to make his movie with Hollywood stars, land a record contract, and be the new bad boy of the entertainment industry. After a few months he lost it all, got blacklisted from Hollywood, and by some miracle barely got his movie made. How did he manage that? For the whole story, I would recommend the documentary Overnight. If you're on Netflix, it's a free instant view right now. In a nutshell, Duffy was an uncharismatic, foul languaged, loudmouth who was so convinced by his own genius that he put off everyone he met. He successfully alienated all his friends and arguably ruined their lives. Every challenge he faced was met with cries of "they'll all be sorry!" and "you'll come crawling back!" It's quite a scene, man.

Obviously, The Boondock Saints was eventually made and went on to be a large success on the DVD market, which is a testament to the films likability, although Duffy didn't make a cent on the DVD sales due to signing away all the rights. Likewise, for the last five years, Duffy has been trying to get the sequel made, which apparently is set to be released this November.

The Boondock Saints is a frighteningly accurate portrayal of Duffy's personality. The movie's adolescent glorification of murder, under the guise of Catholic symbolism and morality, is the same attitude that every narcissistic teenager shares. This is all representative of Duffy's perpetual state of arrested development. Every decision he makes is driven by his paranoia that everybody thinks he's a bum instead of a genius, so he's going to prove them all wrong and shove it in their faces.

Troy Duffy is a perfect example of why I can't separate the art from the artist. Art is about communication, and when you make a piece of art you are communicating your thoughts, feelings, and ideas. Even if your thought is no deeper than, "Baby, baby, I love you, baby!" -- it's still a thought which other people share and connect with. So when examining a piece of art, I don't think it's unreasonable to get a feel for the creators personality. Likewise, when a creator does something that I disagree with or find appalling, or is just plain old despicable, it does affect how I feel about his art, because any piece of art should be representative of his beliefs.

And if it's not then he's a hack and a liar, in which case I have no interest in his art.