A Dark Knight Rises

"The police and the FBI swear to uphold the law," Luigi said to Dr. Park. "They're given the power to do so—but some of them use that power as a shield. And twice, the very people who were supposed to protect me hurt me instead."

"Are you talking about the FBI agent?" asked Dr. Park.

"The former FBI agent. Phillip Stanley. He pretended he was still with them to basically harbor fugitives. The asset to the federal government stuff was a lie."

"You hold him responsible for what happened to Grant," reasoned Dr. Park.

Luigi nodded. "I hold them all responsible. If they'd just left him in peace…"

"The human nature can be—cruel sometimes," conceded Dr. Park.

"Why didn't I suspect anything, though?"

"There was no way you could've."

"I found it odd that they decided to keep the immunity after those dogs attacked Grant and drove him to—do what he did," admitted Luigi. "I just…"

"I know," said Dr. Park. "I know. How are you holding up?"

"Okay, I guess. I'm keeping in touch with his family. And," he smiled briefly, "Leni has a bun in her oven."

"The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away," murmured Dr. Park.

"Exactly. Now they have something to look forward to—and so do I."

"But it doesn't make the anger go away, does it?"

"No," sighed Luigi. "I—I've had urges, Doc. To go out there and personally hunt them down for taking Grant from me."

"Would Grant have wanted it?"

"I'm not sure," Luigi said after a while, unwilling to divulge how the two of them had prowled the streets in the early days of their friendship.

"You know it won't bring him back, right?"

"Right—but the urge is so strong. Sure, the police can charge them with something, but what'll that give them? Sitting around in a jail cell, watching TV, eating free food? Sure, the other inmates can make things a little difficult, but…"

"If we were allowed to do the things you've fantasized doing, then there would be anarchy. Laws and the police exist for a reason, L."

"How can I trust them if they're so easy to corrupt?"

"From what I heard, the Bureau went down hard on those they collared in the corruption probe." Dr. Park smiled. "Hang in there. Wait long enough, and they eventually will get what they deserve."

Oh, yes, they will, thought Luigi.

"Keep attending your support group, and remember to breathe," said Dr. Park. "I also suggest that you start writing in a journal."

"A journal. I like the sound of that." Luigi rose from his chair. "I'll see you next week."

"Yeah. See you."

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Dr. Mario was waiting for Luigi when he left Dr. Park's office. "Hey," he said.

"Hey," replied Luigi.

"Can we talk for a moment—informally?"

"Sure."

A few minutes later, the two men were seated in the cafeteria, sharing a large pepperoni pizza.

"L—I can never forget what you did for me sixteen years ago," said Dr. Mario.

"I went through the same thing in '99—I couldn't just sit around and let them treat you like that," said Luigi.

"One of the reasons why I agreed to take on your case is because I want to help you the way you helped me. Believe me, we have more in common than you think."

"Like what?"

Dr. Mario sighed. "Well, maybe it's time I tell you what you probably knew all along. During the crap I was subjected to, I had—fantasies."

Luigi leaned forward. "Like—the fantasies I've had?"

"Mine were—slightly toned down compared to yours. Whenever someone threw something at me, or said I was a lousy clone, I wanted to just grab them, strap them onto a table and cut them up with my surgical tools—while they were conscious. If they needed an operation, I felt the urge to just—botch it. Or let their infections fester away. Because even after I did my duty, patched them up after a match and treated them when they were sick, they still did and said those things to me, those ungrateful scumbags."

"So—why didn't you?"

"It was against my vows to do so. That's the first thing stated in the Hippocratic Oath—to do no harm."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I want you to know that you're not alone, and there are ways to combat those fantasies. First off, ignore them. They'll get bored and move on. And like Kristy said—write in a journal. It helped in my case. I still have it if you want to read it."

"I—I can't read your private stuff," said Luigi.

"Sure, you can. I'm technically a counterpart of your brother, right? And brothers tend to share secrets."

"Wow. Thanks," said Luigi.

"I'll have it waiting for you in your room, shall I?"

"Okay."

"Things are going to get better," Dr. Mario assured him. "It doesn't look that way now—but they will."

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At the next support group meeting…

Giulia's face bore no emotion as Luigi sat down next to her. "Hello, L," she said crisply.

"Hey," he smiled. "I brought you something I think you'll like."

"And what's that?"

Luigi slid a box of black-and-white cookies into the officer's lap. "A little birdie told me that these are your favorite cookies."

Giulia cracked a small smile. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Well—the last time we talked, it ended kinda—badly," said Luigi. "I didn't know what I was thinking, and I knew you just wanted to look out from me and keep me from falling off the deep end, but I'm not a child. I don't need people looking out for me. Maybe it was the anger talking. That's one of the seven stages of grief, after all."

"Hm," said Giulia. "It's funny you should say that, because not too long ago, four men washed up on a beach, barely alive."

"Wow. That's interesting."

"They turned out to be Howard's friends. And as for Howard himself, he's gone missing, and we don't think he'll be found alive. Oh, and Gil Huph, Grant's former boss? He's languishing in a hospital as we speak? The cherry on top? Still no word on the whereabouts of ex-Agent Phillip Stanley."

"I heard about him," Luigi said nonchalantly. "It's a shame that he abused his power like that. That's why I'm so reluctant to trust law enforcement. But why share all of this with me?"

"Because," Giulia said wryly. "It appears that these men are linked to Grant's attack and subsequent suicide. Mr. Huph was bribed into firing Grant. The four washed-up guys participated in the attack. Stanley secured their immunity under false pretenses. Perhaps—someone close to Grant had it in for them."

"Or maybe someone higher-up was involved in this mess and attacked them to remind them who was calling the shots," shrugged Luigi. "Trust me, a lot of conspiracies work like that."

"And who do you think is calling the shots?"

Luigi dropped his voice. "Crazy Hand. I think Howard and his friends helped him escape, and in exchange, he got them to work for him. Ask my friend, Val. He's done a lot of digging on the side." He winked.

"Okay. I'll look into that," said Giulia. "Thanks for the cookies."

Dr. Thorpe then walked into the room, followed by Donald. Gasps arose at the latter's appearance.

"Donald!" exclaimed Verne. "What happened?"

Donald's face and limbs were black, blue and bloody, and judging by their limp, their polo shirt and jeans concealed more horrific injuries. Tears seeped from their swollen eyes as they began to tell their story.

"I was on my way to have my surgery when a group of people came out of nowhere. They dragged me into an alley and held me down. Each of them took their old sweet time doing—things—to me. They beat me, kicked me, stomped on me—and that's the milder stuff." They lifted their polo shirt to reveal the battered body beneath. "I ended up rescheduling the surgery. Maybe I shouldn't do it at all."

"Don't say that," said Caroline. "These attacks shouldn't stop you from being yourself."

"Did you file charges?" asked Giulia.

"I did, but they were dismissed," sighed Donald. "According to the defense, I was a masochist who propositioned them. Idiots!"

"Indeed," grumbled Eric.

"They—actually believed those maniacs?" balked another attendee named Simon.

Donald nodded. "I was basically laughed out of the courthouse."

"Donald—they want you to retreat," said Dr. Thorpe. "They want you to feel ashamed about yourself and of the fact that you feel like a man in a woman's body. But you can't let them win. You should go through with the surgery."

"Yeah," Luigi chimed in. "Look at the LGBT figures in our history who overcame such hate to get where they are now. Look at me. Look at us. We're still standing. And we're gonna support you."

"Yeah," chorused everyone else.

Donald smiled. "Thank you. I think I know what I have to do now."

"Dr. Thorpe," said Luigi, "do you think we should start jotting down our thoughts into journals?"

"If you think it'll expedite the healing process," replied Dr. Thorpe.

The group session continued without incident. When it was time to leave, Luigi sidled over to Donald. "Hey."

Donald turned. "Yeah?"

"You knew your attackers, didn't you?"

"Some of them," nodded Donald.

"Wanna go for a drive with me?"

"That would be nice."

An hour later, Luigi's car cruised down the freeway, Donald savoring the peace and quiet until the plumber turned to them.

"What do you need from me?" asked Donald, a knowing gleam in their eye.

"Just tell me everything you remember," said Luigi.

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That night…

The man downed his seventh shot of tequila and surveyed the nightlife around him. His eyes focused on one particular patron, tall and thin, wearing a bright green shirt and blue coveralls, a green hat with an "L" on it on his head. He was sitting there innocently, nursing a Poppin' Purple Tanqueray. His blue eyes were not yet dulled by alcohol and exuded kindness, accentuated by a wide, friendly smile. Laid-back, trusting, naïve. The perfect victim, the observing man thought.

He watched as the man in green rose from his spot, drink still in hand, as the dance music began to boom through the club. There was noticeable confidence in his gait as he stepped toward the crowd on the dance floor. The other man's eyes tracked his every move, a dark smirk playing on his lips. Stealthily, he began to head toward him.

And then the green-clad one began to dance, a sensual, shimmying and grinding movement which won approval from the crowd. The patrons formed a circle around him, raising their drinks and whooping in encouragement. The dancer's eyes were closed, an exhilarated expression on his narrow, angular face, his dance steps growing increasingly energetic. His body spun, rocked, dipped, swayed and undulated while the music built; it was as if he was gathering energy and tension. The man paused in his approached and watched with a wolfish grin. He couldn't wait to sink his teeth into this one.

When the beat dropped, the dancer released his pent-up energy, to the crowd's delight. They'd never seen such a dancer in their lifetimes. The way he twirled and whirled, the backflips he sometimes sprinkled in, the rad breakdancing moves, and especially the way his hips rolled, ground and gyrated. Sweat shone on his face, and his eyes flashed open, reveling in the energy he sensed from his fellow patrons. Everybody seemed to love it when he danced, whether in a club or in the Smash Lounge, when he took that floor, all eyes were on him as he let everything go, his primary way of de-stressing. Even during the mission he was on now.

After breaking down his body through a litany of songs, Luigi noticed the man approaching him in the crowd. He finished his drink, ordered one more for the road and slipped outside.

The man followed him.

Briskly, Luigi headed toward a bus stop, taking occasional sips of his drink, occasionally glancing at his peripherals. The man was still there, still keeping up pace. Whenever the man in green walked faster, so did the man. His suspicions confirmed, Luigi took out his cell phone and dialed three numbers.

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?" asked the dispatch.

In a low, calm, voice, Luigi stated his name and location. "I think someone's following me," he explained.

"Assistance is on the way."

"Thank you," Luigi said before ending the call and throwing an elbow strike, smashing into the nose of the approaching man.

The man fell backward with a grunt of pain, and then Luigi delivered a swift, brutal kick to the ribcage before straddling him and punching him over and over and over, and then forcibly prying his jaws open until he heard them separate.

Breathing heavily, Luigi climbed off of the man and picked up a two-by-four with nails sticking from one end.

"You picked the wrong person to attack tonight, Mr. Durden," he spat before swinging the two-by-four.

The board connected with Durden's body with such force that ribs cracked, and as the man's eyes teared up in agony, Luigi raised the board and brought it down over and over using the side with the nails, ripping through Durden's clothes and leaving tears and gashes on his skin. He hammered away at his trunk and groin before dragging him out of sight and continuing his assault until Durden was nearly a pulpy mess.

Luigi knew he had to end this quickly. Yanking off Durden's bottoms, he rammed the board into his cavern, made several hard, quick thrusts with it and then lodged it inside as deep as it would go.

"I'm only going to say this once," he spat when he was finished. "Stay away from my friend Donald."

And he darted off into the night as the police sirens wailed.

Please R&R.