Because I Enjoy It
There's a kind of peace in it.
My kicks and punches land with a rhythm that reminds me of watching my father fight.
The very sound is sure, and solid.
One. Two.
Wham.
Three. Four.
Crack.
Five. Six.
Turn. Kick.
Seven.
Punch. Block.
Again.
It isn't the sweet peace of dreamless sleep, nor the deep peace of kissing someone you like, but still, peace, of a sort.
I grab a two second respite against a shattered doorjamb.
Then one of the men I just knocked down gets back up, and is coming for my head.
Right. Left.
Grunt.
Recoil.
There's a kind of serenity in hearing the sliding sound of a man's breath when he is well and truly knocked unconscious.
There's a sort of security in the crack of tendon and bone when a knee is kicked sideways.
There's a cold, yet enduring comfort in bruises, stitches and cracked ribs.
It's like power, but not as corrupting.
When you throw yourself against the world, pain isn't your only reward.
You get self-respect too.
Whirl.
Kick.
Punch.
Left. Right. Right. Left.
All seven of them are bleeding now - I can smell it.
All blood smells different.
As I rest for another two seconds, against a wall this time, one heartbeat rises against the rest, not in anger or retribution, but in fear at the noises he hears, and doesn't know what they mean.
And underneath it all there is an almost inaudible plea for "Daddy. . . please. . ."
I don't need any more motivation.
Spin. Punch.
Crash.
Now three of them are unconscious.
Two gut punches later, and four of them are.
I vault against the wall, desperate for leverage. My kick only takes out number 5 for a second. Number 6 teams up with him and for the first time, I'm in trouble.
Balance.
Use the pain to clear your head.
I push against the wall, countering clumsy brute strength with precisely applied blunt trauma.
Back.
Forward.
Spin. Crash.
I flip once. . . twice. I land on number 7.
I'm on my back, on the floor, panting and in pain.
But one more push, and I will win.
Left.
Right.
Grunt.
Right.
Left.
Quiet.
I carefully step over number 7, and find my way to the room these thugs are using as a prison.
I smell like street warfare, and I'm pretty sure I look like Death. Black mask and all. I hope I don't frighten the kid.
But he calms down at the sight of me, and with only a few words, we're walking out into the night air, free.
There's a version of this where I don't let any of the bad guys live.
But that's not the kind of fight that brings peace.
This, right here, now, a kid in my arms, and seven bad guys who need medical attention, this is the kind of fight I want. The fight between my conscience and my convictions. The battle between my honor and my pride. The clash that comes when my heart wars with my mind.
And in that fight, there is a sort of peace.
It's the kind of peace that only comes when the small kidnapped boy trapped in a cold, dark room, suddenly doesn't have to be afraid anymore.
The kind of peace that won't rest until some part, any part, of this wretched, broken world is put to rights.
Some part of me is mad, of course. Certifiably crazy. Anyone would have to be, to attempt something like this without Stark's money, Hulk's strength, or Cap's patriotism. I don't have anything but my Catholic conscience, and little bit of the Devil.
Me? I don't want to save the world, or avenge it.
You can believe me or not, but I only do this because I enjoy it.