Rorschach's Journal #3

Rain falls in torrents. Trying stubbornly to wash away the filth and decay that plagues these streets. No hope for that. The infection runs deep. It spreads through the walls, the brick and mortar, and into the hearts of the weak. There is no cure. The patient is terminal. The Comedian knew this. There's no saving this city. There's no plug to pull so that we might ease its suffering. Nothing we can do.

A bum asked me for money. I tell him to get a job and he flips me off as I walk away.

Nothing we can do. This city is dead. A dollar's not going to change that.

Make it to Dan's home. Old friend. Old partner. Go to kick down his door, but it's unlocked. Lame. For having so much at stake, he was always lax on security.

Walk into house. Lock door. Break window and drop back onto street. Turn around and kick door open. Door splinters. Lock shatters. Fairly amused.

Home is unassuming and tidy. Like a grandmother's house. Down to the heart-shaped pillows. Dan thought he was doing me a favor by being my partner. Thinks I'm a weirdo. Little does he know—taking pity on him hardest thing I've ever done.

Raid his kitchen. Look in refrigerator. Nothing but condiments and Chinese leftovers. Not much has changed in my absence. Only thing missing are his tears and bottle of whiskey.

Look in the cabinets. Nothing but mason jars filled with preserves and cans of beans. Oh, Dan. You sad, lonely man. Take the can of beans and cut them open with knife. Take spoon from his collection on the wall and start eating. Not bad. Certainly doesn't fill Big Mac-sized hole in stomach, but will suffice.

Dan finally gets home. He's bewildered. Wonders what I'm doing here. What does it look like I'm doing? He asks if he can warm up the can of beans for me. Tell him they're fine like this. Not going to take chance that he might feel useful afterward. Toss him the bloody smiley face button. He asks if that's bean juice on it. Reply, yeah, human bean juice. Pause for effect. The crowd goes silent. Pull face back over mouth to hide shame. For thinking he's doing me a favor, Dan doesn't humor me much.

Explain my theory to him. Someone's killing costumed vigilantes. Could be Veidt, but not going to jump to conclusions. People leave bloody fingerprints everywhere in this city. Could be anybody. He doesn't believe me. Didn't expect him to, but disappointed nonetheless.

He's fat anyway. Fatty.

Take off through the underground tunnel and he asks me what happened to the old times. I grunt back, "You quit." That'll get to him. Satisfied. Bottle of whiskey will make comeback.

Off to warn Doctor Manhattan about mask killer. The one person who could see this coming. Must take the chance I've stumbled upon one thing he can't see. Relishing moment when I can rub it in his blue face…