Daredevil #372 * * * "Do you know how many people have come to me recently asking for my help?" ***To Be Continued***
The Man Without Fear
By Robert Payne
Edited by Brian Provow
"Fall Out"
Ever since that fateful accident involving toxic waste my life seems to have been told during the night. Like some cheap costumed rip-off of a film noir classic. The sort of existence that is not unlike a Humphrey Bogart drama of loneliness, criminals galore, and femme fatales.
I once read a book that claimed the lives we adore as children end up forming our own lives as adults.
Loneliness: Despite my more than constant comradeship of coworkers, lovers and fellow masked vigilantes I have often felt an outsider among it all. For one it is no secret I am blind-for all intents and purposes. Secondly, I work alone. And when I am alone I work much better than as a team. The only man whom I ever felt a true connection with no longer considers me an ally. I would never have thought Peter was so loose with the law.
Criminals Galore: I believe this is quite obvious.
Femme Fatales: Elektra, Typhoid Mary and the one who always finds a way to return (or is it I'm the one who finds her) Natasha Romanov, the Black Widow. Her alias alone speaks volumes about my life as the anti-hero in the dark city of New York.
I lay next to her now, our naked bodies painted in the glow of the neon motel sign across the street. I stare at the negative outline of her face and immediately feel as though I am laying next to all of the lovers I have ever had in my life. They are all the same. Caught in the whimsy of lust and obsession. Ridges around the edge of my coin.
Except for one. Karen. She is the tail to my head and the head to my tail. I tell myself she is unfaithful and untrustworthy.
Natasha murmurs in her sleep something incoherent and she rolls over, allowing me to stare at the line of her back and the soft wave of her hip. Like Karen she has turned her back on me and I wonder if perhaps Natasha or any of the women I have been with could possibly be my one true love. Perhaps they were not given a chance.
That is wrong and it always will be. Elektra and Mary and all their kind equaled my passion but not my resolve. Only Karen could ever hope to match my love.
And yet this is the second night I have spent with the Black Widow since Karen left me. Again.
On the balcony I told myself Natasha was not a replacement; not a lust fueled play thing with which to lighten the weight in my heart. The morning after as I dressed for work I realized how wrong I was.
And it did not work. My thoughts continued to dwell on Karen. And her smile. God, I love her smile.
For the most part the day was a blur; I had no meetings until well after one and spent the first half of my day rereading The Catcher in the Rye. The only disturbance came when Foggy's mother burst into my office without knocking or even bothering to check if I was inside.
I put down my book, extremely annoyed. I often feel that way when Foggy's mother and I are in the same room, "Don't you knock?"
"We have a mandatory staff meeting at two, cancel any appointments."
"Perhaps if we had some business-"
"Just make sure you're there. And don't leave early today."
"No chance of that happening, I'm afraid."
"Oh, yes, you're girlfriend left you. Try not to let that affect your work, Matthew."
She slammed the door when she left. 9:32 AM, what a wonderful way to begin the day, I thought.
Foggy Nelson, my supposed best friend, kept his distance from me all morning. Normal days he comes in as soon as I arrive and tells me whatever is bothering him. This usually lasts until noon, at which point we go to lunch. Only at times when the firm has acquired a major case do our conversations become shorter than two hours.
Not being one to stand a large amount of change in a short amount of time, Foggy knocked on my door at 12:01 on the dot. I recognized his hesitant rap...rap...rap...tap-tap of a knock and the high peaks and low troughs of his heartbeat.
"Come in, Foggy."
The door opened and he poked his head inside, clearing away a thick of hair that had fallen over his eyes. A not uncommon action for Foggy, "You aren't mad are you, Matt?"
"Why would I be mad at you, Foggy?"
He slowly stepped into the office, closing the door behind him. Normal days he knocks and then takes a seat. Not today. This was bothering him more than he could handle, "Well, I kept a pretty big secret from you. I mean, I thought you might think... have thought... that I was taking sides. I really didn't want to, Matt. But she made me promise. I mean, she's my friend too and-"
I cut him off. I had to, otherwise he might have continued talking well into next week, "I'm not mad at you, Foggy. Or at Karen."
He took a step forward, his confidence in our friendship returning, "Who are you mad at?"
My voice was much harsher that I had intended, "I'm not mad at anyone." I lied, of course, I was furious at myself.
Foggy caught this and he took a step back and adjusted his tie, "Are you ready to go to lunch?"
Thinking about food now, sliding off the bed, causes my stomach to churn and boil, twisting in on itself. My fingers loosely caress the baby-sized bruise just under my ribcage and suddenly I'm thrown back into the street.
The perp was a forty five-year-old dope fiend, living off his parent's insurance money and experiencing life through the conflicted, smoky vision of an addict. He called himself Darrell the Majestic. Our paths had crossed at least a dozen times before, usually because I caught him shooting up or snorting from a spoon in Central Park or near the courthouse.
Each of those times before he gave a good chase but was easily caught within the first three miles.
This time I caught him actually attempting to steal a television set the size of a small cow. I hid around the shadows before he began to cart the television off into the night. I tapped him on his back and he dropped the set on the ground. It exploded in a daze of circuits and wires and light.
He turned around, fidgeting. He saw my face, screamed and sent a hard punch into my liver. The force and utter surprise of it caused me to pause and recollect my thoughts. A person has not been punched until they have been punched by an ex-body builder on smack.
Darrell gave me a good chase, allowed me to work some of the kinks out of my system. And he might have actually gotten away had he not made the fatal mistake of slamming into the wall at the end of an alley.
As I leapt down from the rooftop I thought to myself of all the crimes going on at that very moment. And here I was, wrestling with an addict-turned-petty thief.
I pull on a clean pair of boxer shorts and step into my second self. The red skin carves itself against my body. I feel more like myself in this Halloween costume, gliding through the stars, than I do in a suit and tie, walking down the street.
"What are you doing?"
Her voice is always soft and unsure in the early morning, the true exposition of her real self.
I turn and walk back to the bed. The darkness of the room means nothing to me. My radar sense draws the outline of her naked body, resting against the headboard, as if all the lights in the world shone upon us.
Her legs move, twisting away from the edge, clearing a spot so that I may sit near to her. And I do, placing a gloved hand under her chin. She leans her cheek into my touch. We mock our situation by performing the acts of true lovers.
"I have work to do," I try to say with a comforting smile.
"I thought you only worked at night." Now that the sleep has begun to drift away from her eyes she is bringing the force back in her voice.
A bend over and kiss her cheek, smoothing out the rough knots in her hair, "Maybe that's a problem."
"Should I come with you?"
This causes pause. Karen would never have wanted to join me on my past midnight before five excursions. Nor would I have allowed her to. And in that instant I realize I cared and still care about Karen more than anyone.
I stand, "No. I should be back in a few hours."
I don't let her respond I simply walk out of the bedroom and head for the roof.
The night Karen left me I allowed a woman to die. Her blood still lingers on my suit. That same night I allowed Natasha back into my life and we made something not quite like love. I called her.
The day after we awoke and went our separate ways. I had no idea what she felt and to be honest did not care. The man inside my head, the voice of inner monologue, my father, told me Natasha was simply something to mend my outer shell.
Karen and I could not make love anymore and my body needed something, a release. The Black Widow provided that.
At the staff meeting my mind wandered. It was nothing important. Figures, stocks and bonds, wins and losses. These things really do not matter. The soft feel, tiny imperfections and dimples on Natasha's stomach.
Only in her sleep does she remind me of Karen. Karen is love and home.
Nevertheless I wanted the Black Widow. She had indeed poisoned my soul.
Despite the warning Foggy's mother gave me that morning I went home right after the meeting. Foggy attempted to follow me but gave up when I climbed in the taxi.
I regret not telling my best friend the demons that plague my heart. I know he must worry. But these are thoughts I do not wish divulged. I ignored him.
As I climb out of the stairwell and out into the brisk and unclean air of the city I want only one thing. Peace of mind.
I clear my head and shoot the billy club and drop. My eyes closed and my senses shut off save for my hearing. John and Jane Doe would be quite surprised to know how much one can accomplish with only his ears, tuned to a frequency higher than bats.
Wind and air rush by at different proximities, heart beats sound different between individuals and each scream for help sounds different with the amount of danger involved.
I am surprised I have not run into Peter lately.
After work I finally ate the pot roast Karen had fixed for me the day before. It tasted even bitterer than I had expected.
Not too long before seven I had exchanged my brown suit for the red one I wear now. And I leapt into the evening telling myself I was ready for whatever it had to offer.
My run in with Darrell the Majestic sent me home sooner than I expected. In search of pain pills I found myself dialing Natasha again.
This time she was to be a distraction. Something to keep my mind off two pains while at the same time giving me pleasure.
I do not condone my actions.
They are wrong and controlled by a desperate man.
And now we're caught up. Except for one minor problem, something that has been nagging at me since my defeat at the hands of Bullseye. But there is a man I must see first.
I stand in the office of one of my greatest enemies. A man who is as large as our past, Wilson Fisk. Throughout our demented relationship we have both destroyed each other on numerous occasions. And yet this morning I came to visit him to ask for help.
He saved my mother's life, despite having contracted her killer. And for that I will always be grateful. And he has also given money to the rebuilding of Hell's Kitchen, my life long home.
I came here asking for his help because of all this and I do not like where he is taking the conversation. I stay quiet.
"Hundreds! Possibly even thousands if I were to count the ones not allowed past security. Each and every one of them asks for money. My money that I earned."
"Illegally," I add.
He ignores this, "A man came in yesterday practically begging for $500,000. I asked him why he possibly needed that much in cash. And he said it was so he could fund an inner city youth organization. What do I care about this city's youth? The more troubled teens there are the more employees I shall have in the future. Needless to say I threw him out. Right out of that window," he motions to the balcony I arrived in. It looks beyond the city, passed Lady Liberty, over twenty stories high.
"All these misguided fools come to me and beg. And before I toss each one of them out I ask them where they will go to next, now that I have denied them funds. More often than not they all say this is it. They give up! Lazy imps! Because of all these distractions I have not had a chance to complete any work. Which I'm sure you might appreciate," he turns to me and smiles.
"Do you know why all of these fools come to me? Do you have any idea," I do not answer. I do not need to, "Because I supposedly grew a heart. Because I felt I needed to make amends for the threat on your poor nuns life. Do not get me wrong, Murdock, I am glad I did. But now you ask for my help. A man who was ruined my life more than once. To be fair I gave you good reason. You want my help, my pocket book to save you?"
I cannot answer to this. I should not have come here. I should have known this man was beyond reform.
He sighs and sits down at his desk, "My answer is no, Murdock. You will not get my help and frankly I am appalled that you would sink this low. I thought there was more to us than that."
I nod and turn; my heart despite my brain is solemn. I will have to do this alone. Again.
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Writer's Soapbox
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Well, here we are again. The end of another issue. I hope you all enjoyed this one as much as the first. It's not quite as long, about two pages shorter, but it should still be a good read. Or, I hope so.
Now, some of you may be wondering, "Since when was Matt so damned contemplative? Where are the big battles?" and all that hoopla. Or, "What the hell is he planning? Why did he need Fisk's help?" Yadda, yadda, yadda. Well, you shall find that out next month! Along with the return of Karen Page!
So, Stay Tuned and remember to email me at gathmalok@aol.com if you have any questions or concerns.