Tales of the Parodyverse

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Messenger
Wed May 05, 2004 at 09:10:17 pm EDT
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'Messenger: It's a Bloody, Wonderful Life!' (a story that is either five months too late or seven months too early...)
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Messenger: It’s a Bloody, Wonderful Life.




Every night I kill…

As warm blood sprays over me I am reborn. I feel rejuvenated, as if a part of me is now at peace. The screams can be so rewarding. You have no idea. They scream because I am purging them of the evil which lurks within. The evil that lurks within is their very lives. They must die so a balance of good can be restored.

When I’ve struck down every evil man in this world will it be my turn? Perhaps. I would have it coming. To kill monsters, one must first become a monster. Not every person that I’ve terminated deserved to die. I have made horrible mistakes. I have killed teenagers. I have murdered those who are not murderers. To make this world a better place I must be a hypocrite. To save this world from the filth that would seek to destroy it, I have to be as horrible and as blood soaked as those I face. Perhaps even more so. Perhaps.

The worst mistake I ever made was killing Jerome Hales. Poor inner-city kid. Mom is dead. Dad is in jail. Older sister would take care of him when she wasn’t out turning tricks. Jerome was a petty crack dealer. Saw him on a corner one night last week. Decided it warranted an investigation. Came swooping down from a canvas overhang, in all my menacing glory. We locked eyes. As I stood there, my trench-coat billowed around me, making a whipping sound as it flapped in the wind. I told him to throw his drugs and weapons to the floor. He didn’t respond. He didn’t say anything. I repeated my warning, this time adding the words ‘or else’. He reached in his coat for what I thought was a weapon. I shot him twice in the stomach before he could pull it out, and he fell to the snow letting out a horrid banshee scream. As he twisted and turned, the snow beneath him turned a dark, deep shade of crimson. He kept on screaming… he couldn’t stop. Or he wouldn’t stop. Inside I was screaming too. I crossed the street, my stomach in knots. I could feel it in my bones. I had made a mistake. I looked at this person’s baby face now illuminated under the street light and realized he couldn’t have been any older than fifteen. Not even of shaving age. Not old enough to drive. Yet still old enough to die. As he convulsed on the snow there he feverishly clutched an object in his hand. And then his grip loosened, and his eyes became like two glassy marbles. Even as his eyes began to glaze over, tears of blood started to flow from them. His hand uncoiled and what was inside now skittered on to the street.

I was right. It was a weapon. It was a fucking chain.

I stood there, not saying a word. I tore a shred off of my trench-coat and pressed it against his wound, but it could not stop the bleeding. My hand became soaked in him. I watched as his breath became more and more shallow and then it ceased. Vapid puffs no longer rose from his mouth and his screams had long been silenced. I heard sirens and realized I had to go. I fled into the night… merging with the shadows of the surrounding alleyways.

Jerome Hales.

Read the newspaper the next day. I was wrong. He wasn’t fifteen. He wasn’t even fourteen yet. I threw up all over the article, sickened with what I had done. I felt as if the wrong man died last night.

Later that night … I tracked down where he had lived by accessing old police files on his incarcerated father. It was a small two room apartment. Perched there on the stairwell I glanced into the fogged up window. His sister was on her knees, all alone and she was crying and cursing and clawing at the carpet. She was cold and lonely and ruined… because of me. I had killed her thirteen year old brother.

I hadn’t washed my hand since the incident. It was still covered in Jerome’s dried brown blood. I took out a Razor Letter and sliced a small incision on my palm and let my fluids mingle with his. Then with my hand once again soaked in fresh blood, I wrote ‘I’m sorry’ on the window pane.

And that’s it. I killed Jerome Hales on Christmas Eve and his sister now knows that there is no Santa Claus…


~Messenger~ 12/28/97


6 years later:

“You think you can stop me?! You’re gonna fuckin’ die!” Messenger shouts as he dives behind a table. A barrage of gunfire sinks into the wooden desk and whizzes past his head. As the postman is crouched there he puts a fresh clip into his gun and mumbles under his breath.

Behind him a muscular, bald man in a wife-beater walks towards him, a smoking Uzi in his hands. Tattoos cover his arms and he smells of stale beer and cigarettes.

“I aint ‘fraid of you, essay! I’m gonna kill you, homes. Gonna tear ya to pieces! Y’hear me? I’m gonna be the one who kills—“

Messenger leaps up from behind the shattered table, simultaneously unleashing a firestorm of lead and letting loose a Razor Letter. The shard of metal embeds itself in the bald man’s leg. The bullets pass through his chest.

He collapses to the dusty, bullet shell covered floor, blood spurting out of several orifices.

Messenger calmly walks over to him as he tries to scramble away.


“Puh- Please, man…. I need to get to a hospital.” He coughs up blood as he struggles to look up at the cool, collected Postman. He trembles. “Please, man… I’m gonna die.”


“Yes.” Messenger replies as he places a cigarette between his lips. “Yes, you are going to die.”


“I dun- I don’t wanna die, man….”

Messenger points his gun at the man’s head. “I am an Angel of death! I come for those that have been corrupted to the point of no redemption. I send them back to the wicked dirt from which they came! You, so arrogant and mighty a mere minute ago now realize you are the architect of your own destruction!”

He lightly squeezes the trigger.

“Fiat justitia; ruat coelum.”

*BLAM*!


The Postman looks down at the dead man, his eyes now lolled back in his head and his tongue hanging out of his mouth. The top of his bald head is caved in like a melon. Smoke wafts from the open wound.

“Architects of our own destruction… All of us.”

He leaves the warehouse and shuts the door behind him. In the yard is a tin of kerosene. He sprays it all over the stoop. He then lights the cigarette still firmly planted in his mouth and throws the discarded match to the ground. As he walks away, flames rise behind him…

The loud crackling sounds of burning wood and exploding flesh bid him goodbye.



Later that night:


“Huh..!--*” Messenger sits up in bed, covered in an icy cold sweat. He had a dream. A dream so horrible it’s for the best he doesn’t remember it. He always has bad dreams on Christmas. Occasionally he has night terrors. Can one imagine? A hardened hero who’s laughed at death countless times leaping up in bed screaming and crying for no reason when he’s safe in his bed?

The Postman thinks he hears a sound. There is a creak somewhere from the dusty confines of his apartment. The ghosts of his past never let him have a full night’s sleep. He takes his gun out of his drawer and throws the covers off of him. He looks to the darkened window. Outside the snow falls in thick, majestic blankets.

“Who’s there?” He asks in a demanding voice. “Show yourself and maybe I’ll let you live… It is Christmas after-all.”


As he stalks around his darkened apartment he notices a white light peeking out from under the bathroom door.

“Is- Is anyone in there?” Messenger aims the gun at the slightly ajar door.

“I already have two of your bullets in my body. Do you want to add more? Maybe I can start a collection.” A soft voice replies.

“GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE!” Messenger screams. “OR SO FUCKING HELP ME I’LL SMOKE YOU OUT WITH A GRENADE!!”


“Okay… Okay, hold on…”


Chains clink against one another. There’s a soft rattle. The door swings open…


Out glides a pale, translucent specter, his feet never touching the floor as he floats towards the postman. A bright light surrounds him. It’s a small, African American boy in a thick winter coat. The coat has two holes on it where the interior stuffing is exposed.

Bloody tears remain stained on the boy’s cheeks.

He holds a chain which dangles between his feet…


Messenger tries to whisper no. However, he can’t formulate the word.


“You know who this is…? You know who I am…?” He asks in a hoarse voice.


“Jesus… I-… I had forgotten.” Messenger utters in a quivering voice.


The boy nods.
“But you see… I can never forget. I drift between the realm of life and death. I am a lost soul, trapped in a purgatory that I can only be released from with your help.”


“Jerome Hales…” Messenger whispers. “That was your name. I-… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to kuh- kill you.”

“I am dead. Nothing can take that back. You can’t take that back. You shot me twice in the chest. My lungs filled up with blood and I drowned to death. That was years ago and my body is now only bones buried under six feet of soil somewhere. It’s gone. Now only my soul remains… and I am tormented by what I wasted and by what you stole from me. Who were you to judge that I needed to die? I was too young, too stupid and too poor to make the right choices. Did this uneducated, black hood offend your perfect world view…?”

Messenger grimaces. “I’m sorry. Every night I’m sorry for what I did to you.”

“But Mr Messenger sir… You just told me a minute ago you had forgotten about me.”

“God…” Messenger rubs his eyes and looks to the snow fall outside. “I didn’t mean it.” He glances back at Jerome’s spirit hovering there, partially illuminating the room.

“What do you want with me?”


“You want a chance for us to both be redeemed by that horrible Christmas night six years ago? You want to help me be released ….? Or would you be content for us both to be wandering, lost souls for the rest of time?”

“I’ll do anything. Just tell me…” The postman solemnly replies as he puts on a shirt.

“Do you remember my sister…?” Jerome asks in a hollow voice which sounds akin to the howling winds outside. “You saw her in that apartment crying didn’t you? She was cursing a God who doesn’t care about you or me. I was also watching over her that night. I’ve been watching her since… She’s on the same path I was on… the same path my Dad was on. Bad choices must run in our family.”

“So how is your sister? Is she okay?”

Jerome glares at the vigilante.

“No. Of course not. That’s why I’m here. I had a boy back in the day went by the name of Jimmy Jingles. Not his real name, ‘course. I don’t think anyone but his momma knows his real name. He was a couple years older than me. Got me into the business and had me working for him. I thought we were pretty tight, but like I said I was young and stupid. Ironically, once you’re dead things become completely clear and you finally see everyone for who they really are. Jimmy is 22 now. Dangerous guy. A year ago he started going out with Diane, my sister. Of course he treated her like shit, taking the little money she had from stripping and her waitress job. Couple days ago she decided enough was enough and she made it clear she wanted out of the relationship. Jimmy Jingles doesn’t let a woman tell him when it’s time to move on. He flipped his shit and then beat her within an inch of her life. Since Wednesday he’s been keeping her locked in the cellar of his crack house in Seedy Town. He occasionally goes down with his boys… they rape her… they burn her with cigarettes… they slap her and makes jokes about how she’s gonna end up like me and her momma.”


Messenger bites his lip. “Those bastards.”


“You really want to prove you’re sorry for what you did to me? Then stop them.

….

Kill them all.”


Messenger slides on his trench-coat and picks up his satchel of Razor Letters, swinging it over his shoulder. He cocks his gun and puts it in his holster.

“Give me an address.”





Some time later…


The snow has now become a fine sleet.


‘Jerome Hales…’ The mail carrier thinks to himself as he flips from one rooftop to the next. ‘… Everything comes around I guess. Punishment for that “mistake” has been a long time coming.’

Messenger darts across alleyways passing pan-handling Santas and low-hanging wires draped with white Christmas lights.

His surroundings eventually change towards the more sinister. The Christmas caroling kids are replaced by prostitutes and homeless drug addicts. One naked girl clad only in a black hefty bag sits on the corner screaming “CRACK! CRACK!”.

The houses turn to slums, falling apart from the outside. Paint completely chipped away, partially caved in roofs, broken windows, and unkempt lawns and sinking foundations.
The sirens. There are sirens everywhere. The occasional screeching car and gunshot as well. There are so many distractions. So much evil to punish. However, the Messenger is determined to stay focused on the task at hand. There will be other times and other reckonings. Everyone will get their turn.

With a flash of light the specter of Jerome Hales appears in front of a misshapen house with a coiled steel fence blocking it off.

“This is it…”

Messenger lands in the soft, slushy lawn. He studies the entrance of the house.

Looking back, he nods to the spirit that watches over him. “I will save your sister. You have my word.”

A pit-bull in the front yard chained to a post starts growling and barking, foaming at the lips. Even as the dog yanks against his restraints in a desperate attempt to bite at the postman’s feet, he ignores it and walks towards the stoop. When he reaches the front door he raps on it, to the tune of ‘shave and a haircut’.

“Christmas carolers!” He calls out in a jolly voice as he continues to knock heavily.


“You in the wrong neighborhood, homes! No Christmas around these parts. Get the fuck offa my property!” A voice from inside yells back.


“Don’t you want to hear about the glory of Jesus?”


“This cracka’s gonna get his cap twisted back!” Inside, a burly man in a beanie and baggy sweatshirt picks up a mach-10 from a long table.

“Okay, I’m gonna start caroling then!”

The hood shakes his head and curses under his breath. “You about to shut the fuck up in a second, cuz.” He swings the front door open and to his shock finds himself face to face with the barrel of a gun.

“Silent night…” Messenger sings.


*BLAM!*

The man flies back into the house as his head explodes like an overripe melon. He lands on the kitchen floor dead, yet still twitching.


“Holy night…”


Inside are four men at a table in the middle of a card game and drinking forties. All are clad in bandanas, sunglasses and have holsters slung over the back of their chair.

“HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! Dude just blew away Wheels!!” They all scramble for their weapons, like rats scurrying for a block of cheese.

“..all is calm, all is bright…” Messenger whispers as he glides through the room pulling the triggers on two handguns, unleashing bursts of smoke and light.

*BLAM*

*BLAM*

*BLAM*

A bottle of beer shatters as a bullet flies through it. Another bullet hits one of the men in the leg and the last one splatters the top of a hood’s skull across the wall behind him.

“… sleep in heavenly peace… sleep in heavenly peace…”

“You gonna die, man! You gonna fucking pay!” A hulking three hundred pound man in a leather jacket sprays his mach-10 all over the room, tearing up the walls and shattering every window. Messenger dodges behind the kitchen counter. He briefly emerges to throw frying pans and plates at the hood as a distraction while he scrambles through his satchel for a Razor Letter.

“Ow! Stop that shit! Dammit!” He continues to shoot as pots and utensils fly by his face.

Over the blasts of gunshots, the ghostly whispers of the dying and the wounded produce a faint hum.

**BBRAAAAAAPPP***

Bullets continue to shatter the kitchen counter as Messenger hunkers amid the smoke, beneath the ricocheting lead and flying debris.


*click*

“All out of ammo, huh..?” Messenger grunts as he stands, his shoulders covered in plaster and spilled beer. “What a crying shame…”

Like a tiger pouncing on its prey he vaults over the counter and sticks a kitchen knife into the thug’s eye. With a sickening ‘splotch’ it sinks in and the heavyset man crashes to the ground like a felled giant.

Messenger looks around. Blood and bits of pulp everywhere. A couple guys missing half their head. One guy rolling around on the dirty floor, screaming about his leg. He shouldn’t be screaming. He’s lucky. The tally? One wounded and three dead, including the guy he killed at the door. Wasn’t there another…? Yes, yes, there was. Jimmy Jingles, he thinks.

He looks to his left and there’s a rickety door.

Jerome’s spirit appears in a flash of light and nods. As soon as it materialized it fades away again.

“Cellar door…” He whispers.

With a clang, he kicks it open, and a ray of light is shone into the dark, deep pits of this hole. Wooden, creaky stairs lead the way as the postman slowly and cautiously makes his way down, clutching his gun in his hand.


“Jingle bells… Jimmy smells….” The Messenger sings. “All his boys are dead… Oh, what fun… it is to run…”

Messenger glances around with shifty eyes, waiting for them to adjust to the dark.

“… But I’m still gonna feed you this gun. Give it up, Jimbo.”


“Get the fuck outta here, man! I don’t even know you. Got no beef wit’ you, man!” A scared voice rings out from the depths.

“Oh, but we do have ‘beef’. Let the girl go. Let Diane go, Jimmy and maybe I’ll just break your legs and spare your pathetic life.”

“Oh, so you want the bitch?! The bitch?!? This is what this shit is about?!” Jimmy breaks into a nervous laugh. “Holeee shit! I thought you super fucks fought terrorists and aliens and shit like that! Must be a slow day, huh?”


“I punish evil in all its forms, Jimmy. I make no distinction between a terrorist cell trying to destroy Parodiopolis landmarks, an alien race trying to decimate Earth… or just some punk ass low-life who kidnaps a girl for his own sick purposes. In the end, they all face the same fate. I am judge…”

*ping*

A bullet ricochets by Messenger’s face. He puts on his laser sight and aims it downward into the darkness. He continues to descend the stairs. “Jury…”

*zing*

Another one. He continues to march downward. His feet touch down on the soggy cellar floor. “And in many cases… executioner.”

“Show yourself, kid.”

The red dot from Messenger’s gun bounces around the darkness. It finds its way to two figures.

“Shit…”

Jimmy is standing there using Diane as a body shield, holding a gun to her head.

“You let me go… Or I blow this bitch’s brains all over you.”


“This is how you want to go out? As a coward? As someone who hides behind beaten women? Someone who can’t face his fate like a man? You’re not a man… You’re still a scared kid, aren’t you?”

“Shut up! Just lemme go!” Jimmy’s voice cracks. The gun in his hand trembles. “I’ll do it, man.”


Messenger just stands there holding his gun steady. “I don’t think you want to do it though, Jimmy. You’re sweating bullets. And if you don’t let the girl go, you’ll get one in the head. That’s a promise. So I’m going to give you an ultimatum… By the time I count to ten you let her go, or I crack your head like an egg.”


“Please don’t let me die…” Diane whispers. She is beaten, her face swollen. Jimmy’s arm hangs tight around her neck.

“YOU DEAF, MAN?!? SHE KNOWS WHAT’S UP!! I’LL FUCKING KILL HER!!!” Jimmy screams.



“… One…” Messenger says, the laser sight falling on Jimmy’s head.


”YOU HEAR ME, MAN?! I’M GONNA KILL HER!!”


“… Two…”


“Stop it! She’s gonna die! Gonna die! And then what?!”


“…. Three…”


“Then what will you do?”


“…. Four….”


“You think I’m a joke? You think I don’t have the balls to do it? I’m gonna do it!”

“…. Five…..”


“Oh god. Stop it.”

Jimmy’s hand becomes even more unsteady. Tears start to trickle down his eyes.


“…. Six….”


“C’mon man..…”


“…. Seven….”


“…. Just let me go….”


“…. Eight….”

“I don’t wanna die…”


“….. Nine…..”


Jimmy drops the gun. It skitters onto the grimy floor. He falls to his knees.

“Don’t kill me…. Please…..” He begs, looking up at Messenger.

Diane runs off to the corner, screaming. Messenger twirls his gun and stocks it in his holster. He walks over and then punches Jimmy hard in the jaw. The hood lays on the ground, missing a couple teeth and blood streaming from his mouth.

“I don’t wanna die… I let her go, man. I did what you asked.”

Diane looks at her abuser.

“KILL HIM!! He- He would come down here and hurt me… Him and his friends. All the time! Please, kill him!!”

Messenger sighs and takes out his gun. He points to Jimmy Jingles’ head.

“Puh- Please, man… I did what you wanted. You said I could go. I would be all right, you said…”

“KILL HIM!!” Diane screams, her voice becoming hoarse.

Messenger shakes his head and looks down at the scared, bloodied man. He can’t bear to look the postman in his eyes. He scampers away, and then in a stutter he whispers:

“So is that it, man… You gonna let me rot in Hell…?”

The Postman is suddenly hit with a flashback to Jerome Hales all those Christmas nights ago. They both had the look of a deer in headlights.


“No…” The Messenger finally replies in a soft voice. “I would rather see you rot in jail.” Messenger twirls his gun around and knocks Jimmy out with the butt of his gun.


“FUCKING KILL HIM!” The girl screams. “No…” She sobs as she collapses in a heap. “Oh god… You don’t know Jimmy. He’ll find a way to come after me again.”

Messenger slings the unconscious man over his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Diane. But you have my word you’ll never have to worry about this piece of shit again… Come on… I’ll take you to a hospital…”

Diane wipes her eyes and dabs at a bloody nose. “It- It’s okay. I’m good to walk and Saint Vincent’s is only a couple blocks away.”


“Suit yourself.” The Postman grimly replies as he leaves the cellar with the girl beside him, and Jimmy still dangling from his shoulders.


"But... you need to tell me..." she says in a strained sob. "Jimmy's gonna get released one day. How are you so sure that he won't come after me again?"



Messenger opens the front door and the frosty, golden sunrise of a new Christmas welcomes him. “Because…

...


... Jerome told me so.”




The End.



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