Better to Die a Hero

by Michael van Dagger

  Steve had emptied his savings account and purchased a 300-pound Olympic weight set and heavy-framed lifting bench. Both boys had benched a fully loaded barbell with surprising ease. Steve estimated that he had only used a third of his strength and guessed he could probably press 900 pounds. Bryan still planned to ask his mother for the money to buy more iron plates. Still, 900 pounds of weight lifting plates in the garage would be hard to explain to his uncle. Maybe they would explore other ways to test their full potential.

  The three had decided to keep the powder and their new abilities secret. This was the opportunity of a lifetime and Bryan was right, once the secret got out some government agency would take the powder away. Steve wanted some time to enjoy these incredible gifts and secrecy seemed the way to go. Nora had mentioned something about being caught in a media circus and Steve looked forward to it. Eventually their secret would become public and they would have their 15 minutes of fame. Best of all, he had dropped twice as much weight in one week as he had the entire time he’d taken up jogging. The second best thing was the money their impending fame would bring. Steve pictured product endorsements, maybe nutritional supplements or exercise equipment. He pictured himself holding up a can of protein powder in a slick magazine advertisement, in a tank top—tucked in of course.

  Steve pretended to display a container. “Mega Protein Mix isn’t the magic powder my friends and I discovered, but it’s the closest thing on the market I’ve found to it.” He drew his arms in and scanned the barren streets for witnesses to the fantasy endorsement.

  His embarrassment was quickly replaced by an electric euphoria that burst from his skin causing a tingle from head to toe. This must have been what it was like to win the lottery. Exhilaration consumed him as an intense feeling of well-being incased him. How lucky he was to be part of this miracle. To have superhuman strength and endurance was a dream come true for any teenager, but to a gamer, daydreamer, and comic book buff—it was bliss.

  Steve stopped at the top of the moss wall and admired the pattern of sweat developing across his fleece top. The clean smell pleased him, as did the definition developing across his chest and shoulders, their shape more prominent when the wet material clung just the right way.

  The drenched teen looked over the fence. Two men sat at the bottom of the wall, homeless judging from their disheveled appearance. He was in no hurry to attempt a jump anyway. The drop was intimidating as hell and he was content to rest against the short fence letting sweat drip. Every few seconds the night breeze would hit just right bringing a wave of relief from the heat. He couldn’t help but notice the activity below.

  One of the men tied surgical tubing around his biceps, clenched the tubing with his teeth, then repeatedly slapped his forearm. The uncommonly hard slaps made him sick to his stomach and so did the injection that followed. The latex snapped away and the man’s mouth fell open, his eyes rolled up white. Pop… Pop… Pop… echoed against the granite as the addict’s mouth worked furiously like a goldfish on the carpet.

  Steve cleared his throat.

  The second man looked up and showing no concern over a spectator, pulled the syringe from popping man's arm. He drew into it from a spoon and injected as the first had done, minus the popping.

  He turned away and his thoughts moved to the costumes Bryan had asked him and Nora to create. By Friday, all three teens were supposed to have their costumes ready, but Steve had given no thought to the necessity of a construction impenetrable to blood. Nora planned to hide her identity by feline face painting, a gray tabby, like the dancers in the Broadway play, which offered no protection from splattering blood. He’d thought this face painting an excellent idea, because it allowed unrestricted breathing. He also found it erotic; however, infected blood splattering into the mouths of his friends was a real concern and he wondered if he should initiate a conversation.

  All he wanted was to foil one or two assaults, just enough to get in the papers and then take the credit when going public. That would be enough to secure some fame and a little fortune. What he didn’t need is for him or his friends to get HIV. The more he thought about it the dumber this idea, to patrol the park, started to look. All sorts of things could go wrong; one of them could end up shot.

  Below, the first man stopped popping and was being helped to his feet by the second. They crept to the cement stairs and dragged themselves upward. Steve leaned back, his butt pressing the cool metal fence, head pointed strait, but eyes straining peripherally, watching the two addict’s every move. His fear of confrontation was realized when they turned and walked toward him. He hoped they’d walk past, but the two made no course correction that would put them anywhere but right next to him. He remembered the mental note he had made at school—not to be so quick at moving out of the other guy’s way—and turned to face the men.

  “Porky Bastard!” the more alert man shouted in what sounded like a poor imitation of a drill sergeant.

  Their somewhat muscular build surprised Steve. Both men, with shirts open, looked like deflated body builders. It was as if someone had stuck them with a pin, or needle and the muscle leaked out leaving behind a husk that pointed to better days. The lines in their leather faces were deep and intimidating like the depth of the moss wall.

  “Take out your wallet and give us a dollar,” the leader said.

  Steve stared into the man’s eyes, desperately searching for something witty to say. Surely, Bryan would have retorted with a one-liner by now. The man’s hand flinched. Steve recoiled, raised his arm high, and slapped his palm down hard on the man’s head. Visions of an orangutan performing the same move in a motion picture played colorfully in the youth’s mind. The addict crumbled to the ground. Steve stepped back as roles reversed and popping man labored helping angry man to his feet. Popping man steered his dazed cohort in the opposite direction and moved away from the teenager.

  Steve looked at the moon and a self-loathing fell upon him. Of all the martial art movies and action films he’d seen, not to mention hundreds of simulated hand-to-hand combats played out at the gaming table, when push came to shove, when his safety was truly at risk, his self-defense reflexes brought about an orangutan type slap to his opponents head. If it weren’t for the powder that pathetic move could have gotten him killed. It was best, he thought, not to tell Bryan or Nora about the incident. It would only fuel Bryan’s adolescent dreams of crime fighting and most likely put the three of them at greater risk. It would also save him from having to fabricate a lie about how he defended himself.

  Several minutes passed before the junkies staggered out of sight and by then Steve felt good again, on top of the world even, but peering down the twenty-foot drop did bring a queasiness. How did those two find the courage for that first jump? Steve looked down the distance his strong heart pounding. He had witnessed superhuman leaps by his friends, whose landings ended without consequence. His strength being equal to or greater than Bryan’s, he knew the jump should go fine, but stubborn legs refused to budge. He moved to the staircase and stepped down half the distance. That was better. He swallowed hard and jumped. The solid landing made him aware of every muscle from calf to chest as raw power rippled through his body, even the abdominals that lay buried several inches under belly fat. Without hesitation, he sprang upward, holding back no effort, attempting to copy the feats witnessed a week earlier. He approached the top fence faster than anticipated and slammed chest first into the cold metal, arms moving almost too quick to see wrapped around the metal to stop a fall backward.

  “Son of a b…” Steve scrambled over, dropped to the grass, and rubbed his chest. He scanned the area relieved to see no spectators. The coast being clear, he stood up and leaned over the edge less nervous than the first time. The full level of heightened strength lasted about twenty hours as best Nora and Bryan could estimate. Not a very scientific approach but the best they could come up with.

  Less than half that time had passed since his last dose, so again, theoretically the jump
should be safe. It occurred to him that maybe they should keep a log as to when they “powered up” as Bryan had come to call it. From his own experience, he felt just as strong on the down side, but a quick test after school on the new weight set had proven those sensations wrong. If one of them lost track of time the result could get them killed. Obviously, the powder wasn’t perfect, which added to his apprehensions over patrolling the park.

  “I may be as dumb as a box of rocks, but here goes.”

  He leapt outward over the fence and stomach acid stung his esophagus. A tingle surged through his scalp and the ground rushed up to meet him. A tickle shot up his nostrils. His eyes closed as steel like legs absorbed the landing.

  “Hachooo!” The sneeze echoed off the wall. “Holy crap! That felt good.” He wiped spit from his chin and looked up to see where he had left his stomach.

  Steve wasted no time practicing his jumps upward. In two hours time he could complete a half turn on the way up, throw his legs over his head and vault off the railing, landing several feet from the edge. His grace paled in comparison to Nora's and any somersaults or flips would have to wait for the future; still he impressed himself. After a series of just one more jump, he started the run home.

  * * *

  New York Journal:

  “Hello, I'm Michelle O’Donnell and welcome to another edition of New York Journal. Still the top story tonight in New York is reputed crime boss John Savini and the two gang-style massacres that took place yesterday. Harlem saw its worst ever gang related killings when a rundown tenement building was besieged by what witnesses describe as a small group of commandos dressed in black and toting automatic weapons. Carnage broke out in the building as the mask gunmen exchanged fire with African American gang members. At this time, the death toll stands at twenty-six, twenty-one gang members and five innocent tenants. Although it is suspected there were wounded among the assailants none were left behind at the scene and no identification has been made as to who they were. Police did, however, find a large crack cocaine operation in the building and are speculating that this assault was an attempt by a rival gang to eliminate competition.”

  “Across Manhattan in Chinatown, at about the same time, a drive by shooting took place outside Chin Lee's Oriental Restaurant. Killed were Martin Pang, a crime boss in the Chinese Mafia and two of his associates. There are no clues as to who is responsible for this attack and it is not known if the two incidents are related. At this time police officials say there is no link between John Savini and these killings.”

  “However, New York Journal’s sources say that the Italian Mafioso is law enforcement’s unofficial suspect. The problem our sources tell us is that these assaults were executed so cleanly they doubt any evidence will surface incriminating Savini or the Italian mob. In the studio with us today is Michael Densmore, a school Psychologist at Benjamin Franklin High, and he has a few things he says the public ought to know about John Savini. Thank you for coming in today Mr. Densmore. You are currently employed in the public school system, but were previously employed by the Excalibur Private School for Boys, is that right?”

  “Yes, that is correct. I was employed there when John Savini entered the institution in his sophomore year in high school and graduated with an associate degree in philosophy.”

  “So, the Excalibur school offered a high school degree and a two year college degree.”

  “That is correct and John completed the five year course in three years. I measured his I.Q. at 160.”

  “Wow, that's some I.Q. What else do you know about him?”

  “I believe this man is a sociopath and a murderer.”

  “First Mr. Densmore, tell our viewing audience what a sociopath is and second do you have any tests that bare testament to your beliefs?”

  “A sociopath, also known as psychopath, is a person that has failed to develop a conscience. There are many more in our society than people realize, but most are not violent. They range from the petty thief who doesn't care about the losses his victim’s feel, to the CEO who thinks nothing of causing a negative impact on his employees or the environment. The worst sociopath is the one who develops violent tendencies. Without guilt or a conscience, this person's violent behavior is left unchecked. I believe John Savini is one such person. There are a number of tests that look for this type of personality disorder, however, John was much too clever for these to be any good.”

  “How is that Mr. Densmore?”

  “Within seconds he knew the structure and design of a test and could give socially acceptable answers and responses, thus concealing his true personality traits.”

  “I see. Now, you said you believed Savini is a sociopath and a murderer. Who do you think he's killed?”

  “There have been two unsolved killings on the Excalibur campus. Both murdered boys were known to have harassed John a great deal over his albinism and obesity. It is known that both these boys were bludgeoned to death by the same person and I believe that person is John.”

  “So, in your opinion John Savini is a dangerous person.”

  “I believe that a genius, violent sociopath is finding great power in organized crime. I believe he could be the most dangerous man in America.”

  “These are very serious accusations you’re making tonight Mr. Densmore. I suspect it might be prudent to worry about repercussions.”

  “It is never prudent to worry, but it is always prudent to act. I am an old man with serious health problems. There is nothing John Savini can do to me. So the prudent thing to do, the moral thing to do, is speak the truth.”

  “Thank you for your insights Mr. Densmore. Well, there you have it. Is Savini the most dangerous man in America? Tune in tomorrow when we'll have a mob informant, currently in the witness protection program, tell all he knows about John Savini.”

  * * *

  Amber stepped up to the curb, leaned out, and looked to the left then to the right. No limousine in sight. She stepped back and cinched her coat; the temperature was dropping. She hoped that it wouldn’t be too much longer. She’d have preferred being picked up on the street she worked. This wasn’t the kind of neighborhood for her type of business. The men that dropped her off never once cautioned her that the situation called for discretion.

  Discretion was the word most commonly used when an interested party arranged a date for a celebrity or a politician. It meant they were looking for a girl that could keep a secret and they never used the word or any similar word. Although Amber had accepted a few assignments that called for discretion, the john never turned out to be a famous celebrity or politician. He always turned out to be some no-name executive with an exaggerated sense of importance. No scandal rag was going to pay for a story about some CEO spending an hour with a hooker.

  Now a high-profile personality, that was different. If the john was a celebrity, it meant a large tip to keep the secret. And if this guy didn’t tip big, well they didn’t use the word discretion. A story without pictures wouldn’t be worth much. Maybe she’d manipulate a second date, a date that could be caught on film. That meant real money.

  The limo pulled up. She had been so busy thinking about the money, the car caught her by surprise. Amber stepped up and the driver got out and walked to the back. This was promising. Everything about the driver, his haircut, his suit and the way he walked, said professional. This was not a rented limo; the passenger had money.

  Amber smiled at the driver as he opened the door for her. A real professional all right, his gaze never left her face. She slipped past him and entered the vehicle gracefully. She was a professional too and she knew how to get into a limo. She leaned in excessively to give the passenger a good view of her cleavage, and then as she sat down adjusted her skirt to show off her legs.

  She shook out her hair, looked across at her customer, and gave him a small smile. There would be no pictures and no secrets told. The men who arranged the date didn’t have to use the word discretion or any similar words. Even with the lights off,
Amber recognized the crime boss; he was bigger in person. She knew what was good for her and she knew when to keep her mouth shut.

  “Would you like some wine?” Savini asked.

  “Yes, thank you.” She watched him pull the bottle from the ice bucket. The sight of his fingers disturbed her. They were longer than a normal person’s fingers and his nails were shaped like a weapon. She didn’t remember seeing that detail on the television.

  “Here you go,” he said, handing her the glass.

  She took the wine from his deformed fingers and felt sick. Everyone knew the man was an albino, it was common knowledge, but the news never mentioned his hands. Maybe they had and she just missed it.

  Amber took a sip of wine and studied the man’s round face. Savini placed his hand over his chin and moved his jaw back and forth. His jaw popped and crackled and he pulled his chin downward. His face elongated exposing a gaping mouth full of sharp teeth. She was positive no one had mentioned that.

  * * *

  “Anyway, I’m thinking we need to keep working on our costumes. Make them impervious to blood.” Steve looked to Nora hoping for constructive feedback.

  “I really don't see us hitting anyone,” she said. “Maybe you can hit them in the stomach and then we'll call the police. I don't think there's going to be any blood.”

  Bryan yelled from behind the bathroom door. “She hasn't read many comic books, has she?”

  “Actually,” Steve said, “I could soften my fighting techniques, make them less lethal. I’ll switch to a soft kung-fu style called Angry Orangutan.”

  “I’ve heard of kung-fu styles White Crane, Tiger, Snake, even Monkey, but I’ve never heard of Angry Orangutan.’

  “That’s because it wasn’t developed in the East. It was developed right here in New York. It mainly consists of palm strikes to the head. It is quite effective and doesn’t cause bleeding.”