Spawn : Enhanced Image # 1 Spawn: Born Again

# 1

by Brian Campo (bcampo@hotmail.com)

This is a work of fan fiction. Spawn and all related characters are owned by Todd McFarlane Productions, and I do not contest that ownership. This story is in no way official and it should not be taken as such. All characters in this story not owned by Mr.McFarlane are owned by me, though I would gladly loan them out if asked nicely.

Warning: This story may contain graphic violence, sexual situations and harsh language. If you shouldn't be reading it, don't.

Little Miracles

New York's Bowery is a place of secrets. Secret people, secret objects, and secret places. In these twisting and turning alleys a wrong turn could wind up with you standing at the gates of heaven, or the gates of hell. Tap the wrong person on the shoulder and the face that turns to you could be that of an angel or a madman. Does that door open into a rat infested store room, or if you open it would you be staring out into the cold expanse of space? Once you become aware of the secrets of this place you start to question every thing you do here. What will the consequences be? What will I unleash? How will I be changed?
There are two types of people that live here in the Bowery's alleys. First, there are those who live in ignorance of the place's secrets. They live out their normal lives, soaking up the booze and scrounging for food in dumpsters, unaware that they are living in a place of little miracles and spiritual turbulence. Every once in a while one of them might stumble across one of the secrets of the Bowery, and if they survive the experience, they tell the tale to others. Most of the time their stories are passed off as drunken hallucinations or outright lies. People can even convince themselves that they didn't see what they actually saw. Most people can't accept the idea that there might be more out there than they have been lead to believe their whole lives. They sleep better at night thinking that the world is a mundane place, predictable and safe.
Then there are those who know it's secrets and they know enough of the world to live here comfortably. They find security in the labyrinth of allies and the barricades of garbage. They use them to their advantage, hiding themselves in the squalor from the eyes of their enemies.
These people can be found, if you know the path to their lairs. If you know which turns to take at what alleys. If you know whether the brick wall at dead end of an alley is really an illusion covering up a trap or a doorway. If you can tell the difference and find the doorway, then you walk some more. If you know to hold your breath and close your eyes when you walk past the old wooden indian. If you know not to step in the bottomless mud puddles. If you know what words to say when you pass under the dumpster that's precariously balanced on the fire escape. If you know all these things and more, then you will find your self in front of a massive set of oak doors.
There is a method to opening these doors. A close examination will reveal that they are covered in carvings. The wonders of the ages are depicted here in this wood, molded by some master artist's hand. Here you can see the great battles and events of history. Not the ones you read about in history books, mind you. No, these are the ones that mattered. The battles where a loss on the side of good would have meant the end of everything. Everything.
The secret to opening the doors is in these carvings. If you know which points of what pictures to touch and in what order to touch them, the doors will open for you. You will find yourself at the threshold of the lair of one Count Allesandro di Cogliostro, known around these parts as Cog.

Cog shuffled through his lair, navigating through the piles of junk while he strained under the weight of the book he carried in his arms. The book was a three thousand page volume, full of image plates and heavy paper and weighing a little over fifty pounds. This was his journal, a record of his studies over the last seventy five years. He had dozens more of them hidden away here in his lair. Contained in these books was knowledge that had overthrown governments, toppled religions, and vanquished devils. They were not to be taken lightly.
He approached his work desk and took note of the white, long haired cat that was sleeping there. He smiled and slowed his steps, tiptoeing slowly the last ten feet to the desk. The cat's ear twitched and he stopped in midstep. It remained asleep so he took two more quiet steps, bringing himself right up in front of the desk. He hefted the book, raising it shakily to shoulder level. He took a deep breath and dropped the book, letting it fall to the desk. The book landed with a loud WHUMP!, instantly getting a reaction out of the cat.
It jumped two feet vertical, claws extended and hissing. It's fur puffed out making it look twice as big as it actually was. When it landed back on the desk, it took in it's surroundings and spotted Cog, who was at this point cackling and pointing his finger at the cat. The cat fixed him with one of those hateful glares that only cats can do and then it slunk off of the desk and into the shadows.
When his laughter had calmed down to chuckles, Cog opened his book seven eighths of the way to the end. He flipped a few more pages and found where he had stopped writing the last time he had worked on the journal. He reached over the desk and picked up a feather pen, which he dipped in an inkwell and dabbed on an ink stained rag.
Next, he turned to his left, to a tall flat object covered in cloth. He pulled off the cloth, revealing a full length mirror with a gilded frame. The glass of the mirror was dark, providing only a dimly lit reflection of the man looking into it. He stared at it for a few seconds before turning back to his journal. Crossing his arms over his chest and tapping his chin with his index finger, he read the last couple of lines he had written and considered them. In a few moments, he made a decision and turned to face the mirror.
"Mirror." he said. "If Pudervrag were to take over the sixth level of Hell, how would the rulers of other levels react?"
The glass of the mirror clouded over, lighting up as the same time. The swirling clouds began to form into shapes and reveal images, scenes of battles involving demons and hellspawn. The images shifted and then focused on secret meetings of devils and demons. The images changed again, with different devils pairing off and forming armies.
Cog knew that the mirror wasn't showing him the future, it was showing him glimpses of possible futures based on what he had asked it. He wrote in the book while he watched the mirror, taking notes and composing theories on what it was showing him. To anyone else, all these random images might be useless. To him, they were a way for him to map possible futures, and to prepare for them. He'd stayed ahead of the game for centuries by doing this, by knowing at critical moments which way the tide of a battle was likely to go or to know which angel was having thoughts of going rogue. It helped him to know who to make alliances with and who was most likely to be dead next month or next year.
Cog was a shrewd old man, a little mouse who had managed to stay alive in a battle with lions. He had snuck his way down through history, using his tools and tricks to hide from those who might recognize him for the threat that he really was. He hid away and gathered his magical objects and he practiced his magical skills, and he waited for the time to take action.
Lately, his instinct was telling him that the time for action was near. The apocalyptic wars that he glimpsed in his mirrors and crystal balls and magic pools didn't seem to be distant events anymore. They seemed to take place in a world that looked a hell of a lot like the one right outside his door. Cog knew that he should trust those instincts, that the end times were here.
In the mirror, a flag waved in the middle of a burning fortress. Bodies lay in piles on the ground, and misshapen forms were tugging, pulling, and gnawing at them. The look of the place said hell to Cog, but he wasn't sure what level. He leaned in toward the mirror, trying to get a better look at the symbols on the flag.
There was a flash of white on the mirror, and it took Cog a moment to realize that it wasn't one of the mirrors images. It was a reflection of something in the room with Cog.
"Over your little tissy already?" he said as he turned, expecting to see his white cat sitting there on his desk. He didn't even get halfway turned around. Something heavy struck him from behind and he was knocked head first into the mirror. The glass yielded him before him like water, and then sprang back into place when he had passed through it.
In the mirror's reflection, Cog rolled over a couple of times and then came to a stop. He got slowly to his feet while he looked around and took in his surroundings. His gaze came round to the mirror and a look of horror appeared on his face. He ran towards the mirror and began to beat against the glass. The glass stood solid, and when Cog began to shout in rage, there was only silence.

True story. In 1968 two children were playing in an abandoned tenement building in New York's Bowery. In one of the garbage strewn rooms they found the body of a man who had been dead for several weeks. The police came, bagged the body and took it away. An autopsy revealed that the man had died from heroin over dose. They tried several different methods to identify the man but had no luck at it. He was just one of a hundred such cases that they got each week. He was tagged as a John Doe and then buried under that name. One year later his fingerprints were finally matched and the nameless corpse was given an identity. It turns out that the man was named Bobby Driscol. As a child he had done quite a few movies for Disney, most notably the voice for Peter Pan in the animated feature.
Nothing defines these alleys as much as that story does. That's what these alleys do, they take innocence and they start to beat it down. They soil it, they kick it, they rape it, they hook it on some chemical and when they're done with it they leave it lying behind some dumpster to cool.
The process that leads you to this place of discarded people is gradual. It's not like you become a homeless person over night. It takes you more than twenty four hours to get to the point where you will eat food out of a garbage heap that you just fought a dog for. It's little steps that bring you to this place.
Maybe it's starts when you and your wife split up. After child support payments and alimony you don't have a lot of money left, so you take a run down little apartment down town that you can afford. That was one step. One day you wake up and your car has thrown a rod and getting across town to work gets to be a challenge every morning. Another step taken. You manage for a little while, but then one day you get mugged in the subway. Your rent money is gone, and there's nothing you can do about it. If your lucky, the landlord has a heart and lets the rent go until you can pay him again. You're getting closer, now. You get sick. So sick you can't go to work. The land lord's charity runs out and you take what little money you have and rent a cockroach infested hotel room even farther down town. You're getting close to the alleys now. If you open the window you can whiff the stench of it. The garbage rots in the narrow corridors below you. The reek of urine, shit, and booze nauseates you the first time you smell it. In another month you don't even notice that you smell like that. By then you're lying on a stack of newspapers and a Kenmore washer box is your only cover from a dirty rain that smells like it's laden with chemicals. No one notices that you've disappeared from the face of the earth except for your ex wife, who is now telling your kids that your a deadbeat.
This is a dismal place, full of people either waiting for things to get better, or waiting to die. Dying wouldn't be so bad. There would finally be an end to that gnawing in your belly and the chill in your muscles that you can never seem to get rid of. You start cursing when you wake up in the morning and find that you haven't died in your sleep.

Spawn awoke from a light sleep, the sound that had awoken him still ringing in his ears. He sat still upon his throne of garbage and listened, hoping to hear it again.
A moment later, he did hear it again. It was laughter. Strange laughter, though. A joyful laugh. You didn't get many of those around here. You might hear a drunken guffaw, maybe a sadistic chuckle, but the sounds of joy were a rare thing indeed.
The laughter continued, and now Spawn could hear other voices joining it. Someone was clapping and shouting out, "Go, boy! Go! Look at that boy go!"
His curiosity was piqued. Spawn got to his feet and stepped down off of the pile of refuse before heading out to investigate the source of the laughter he was hearing. He followed his ears through the twisting and turning corridors, trying to determine where the voices was coming from. He got closer and closer, and the voices of the men became more distinct. He recognized Bobbie's voice, and that of Frank Harrell. They were encouraging somebody to do something, what he could not tell.
He turned another corner and came upon them. He stopped just shy of stepping out of the alley and just stood there watching quietly.
The center of their attention was a man named Jeremy Patnum, one of the many homeless bums that lived here in the alleys. Jeremy had a badly deformed left leg that made walking without a crutch impossible. At least he used to. He was hopping and skipping in circles around Bobby and Frank while they clapped and cheered him on. He stopped and did a clumsy little jig, which elicited another round of laughter from his two person audience.
Spawn had seen enough. He cleared his throat and the laughter died instantly. The three bums turned and spotted him standing in the mouth of the alley.
"Hey, Al." said Bobby. "We didn't see you standing there."
"What's all the ruckus?" asked Spawn. He stepped forward, and the bums gave him plenty of room to move.
"It's a miracle." Frank told him. "There's this fella that's been preaching here in the alleys for the last couple of days and he healed Jeremy's leg and made it good as new."
"Hmmm." growled the hellspawn. His eyes narrowed into slits and he looked down at the bums leg. Jeremy lifted his right leg and rested all his weight on the what used to be his bad leg. "Who did this?"
"His name is Timothy Rice." said Frank. "He's been healing people left and right all day long. Remember how bad Carl Payne's teeth were? This fella Rice touched him on the jaw and all of his teeth straightened out and cleaned themselves. They look like a pair of dentures, they're so perfect. I saw him heal one guy of cataracts. Just cleared his eyes right up. I swear, Al, it's something to see."
Spawn stayed quiet and let them talk.
"I have a bad ringing in my right ear." said Frank. "I'm thinking about asking him to pray for me."
"Hey!" said Bobby, suddenly having an idea. "Maybe you could go see him, Al. Maybe he could do something about your face."
"Or maybe a personality." Jeremy muttered quietly.
Spawn ignored that comment but raised an eyebrow at Bobby. "You too? I would have thought you were too level headed to fall for this nonsense."
"Seeing is believing, Al." said Bobby. "I watched what this Rice man did, and it's for real. I believe that God is using that man."
Bobby wasn't the kind of guy to get suckered into a line of bullshit. He had a good head on his shoulders and could usually smell a scam from a mile away. Spawn wondered if there wasn't some truth to what they were telling him. If there was, he wasn't sure if he liked the idea of anyone with holy powers, benevolent or otherwise, running around in his alleys.
"I think that I would like to see this "Miracle Man" for myself. Which one of you wants to show me the way?"
"Now, just hold on a second here, Al." stuttered Bobby. "Mr. Rice hasn't done anything to anybody. You're not going to go down there and rough him up or anything, are you?"
Spawn fixed Bobby with a stone faced stare and said, "Since when do I have to run my plans by you, Bobby?"
"I'm not trying to tell you what to do. I'm just trying to say that this Mr. Rice is a good man. He's only trying to help people, that's all. You don't see a lot of those kind of people around here, and it would be an awful thing if he was to get hurt when he's just trying to help people."
"Have I ever hurt anybody that didn't have it coming?"
Bobby shrugged. "No, but you've been known to over react, Al. Not everybody who comes down to these alleys is your enemy, you know. You always expect the worst from people."
"And most of the time those people deliver."
"But not everybody is out to get you. Take us bums for instance. You trust us. Don't you?"
"Well, it's like you said. Seeing is believing. Show him to me. If he's not doing anything wrong then he'll never know I'm there."
Bobby looked at Spawn, more than a little suspicious. "Really? You'll leave him alone?"
Spawn nodded and said, "Just lead the way. If he's everything you say he is, he's got nothing to worry about from me."
Bobby hesitated for a moment more and then he said, "I'll take you, but you have to remember your promise."
Spawn agreed and followed Bobby off to see the Miracle Man.

The alleys are a place of legends. There are the stories of the bag lady that was hit by a car. When they dug down through her shopping cart of junk they found brown paper bags filled with cash. She had lived out of the garbage and all the while was pushing around thousands of dollars with her. They say that she used to hide some of her bags of money in abandoned buildings, and there are those bums who are always looking for her treasure. Is the story true? No one knows for sure, but there are some older street urchins who claim they used to hear that same story back in the fifties, only the woman pushed around a baby carriage back then.
There are the legends of rats that escaped from a local research lab and they live in the alleys now. These rats are as big as a small dog and they hunt in packs. Usually they feed on stray cats, but every once in a while they will catch a bum alone and they overpower him and tear him to shreds. Sometimes, rat gnawed corpses are found in the alleys and some consider this to be evidence that the legends are true.
One legends says that the government has started spraying the dumpsters of the alleys with poison, hoping to solve New York's homeless problem. Sometimes a bum will get food poisoning from some rancid food that he had eaten and there are always those that nod and say, "See? They're trying to kill us off."
Spawn started off as just another legend. A few years back people started talking about a dark figure that they had spotted creeping through some back alley. Over the coming months, the sightings began to get more and more frequent. The old timers would say, "Oh, these alleys have always had boogie men. Not one of them was real." This boogie man was persistent, though. He started to make his presence felt all over the Bowery. He seemed to be attracted to violence and evil men. He showed up when someone was in danger and killed their attackers. Where ever he appeared he left death and destruction in his wake.
The predators of these alleys tried to convince themselves that this boogie man was just a legend, or just something the bums had cooked up to scare them off. If they kept trying to apply their muscle in the alleys, however, they were quickly proven wrong. There was something lurking in the shadows of the Bowery and he didn't hand out second chances. If you crossed his path, you disappeared, never to be heard from again.
Gradually, Spawn's territory became defined. The dealers and the pimps knew where the lines were drawn, and they steered clear of them. The gangs knew to take their shady dealings elsewhere. The bums from surrounding neighborhoods began to migrate into this little corner of the Bowery, seeking the protection of whatever was haunting this place. Even to this day, many of them had never actually seen Spawn. But they believed he lived here. They had faith.
To them, he had moved past legend and become a reality.

"Can you feel him here with us?" asked the preacher in a voice just a little above a whisper. There were a couple heart felt amens from the crowd of bums around him. "He's here right now, and he's asking for you to open your hearts and let him in."
From a second story broken window, Spawn watched Timothy Rice talk to the hundred or so bums that were gathered in the vacant lot around him. Rice looked like he was in his mid twenties, clean cut with a midwestern wholesomeness to him. He wore a white, short sleeved, button up shirt with a black tie and black, neatly creased slacks. He held in his left hand a white leather-bound bible, the kind that had a zipper on the side so that the pages inside could be protected. He wielded the bible like a wand, waving it in the air and jabbing it at his congregation to emphasize his sentences. He was, for all appearances, very fired up about God.
"Do you think that this is how God wants you to live? Do you think he wants you to be hungry and sick all of the time? He loves you. You're his children. Would you want your children to live like this? Neither does he. He wants to help you, but you've turned from him. You've put your faith in other things. Alcohol. Drugs. Sex. He's waiting there with open arms, but you're too busy with your vices to notice him.
How many of you believe that the Lord can you pull you out of this mire that you've trapped yourself in?"
There were some murmurs of agreement from the bums. One older woman raised her hands in the air and said, "I believe, Lord."
Timothy skirted the crowd and made his way to where the old lady was standing. As he got closer to her his expression turned to one of pity.
"Dear Lord." he said to her. "I sense that you are in a lot of pain, ma'am."
"It's my back." she replied. It was obvious that it was her back. She had such a bad case of osteoporosis that she could only look at the ground in front of her. Timothy dropped down on his knees in front of the woman so that he could look up at her and see her face.
"The Lord doesn't want you to be like this. You know that, right?"
"I know." said the old woman and she gave him a smile. She had to cock her head a little to the right so that she could see him.
"Do you believe that he can reach down here and touch you right now?"
"Yes." she said, and she let loose with a sob.
Timothy got to his feet and dusted off the knees of his trousers. Then he laid one hand on the middle of the woman's back, and the hand that was holding his bible he placed in the middle of her chest. "Dear Lord." he said as he closed his eyes and started to pray. "I know you can see what this child of yours is going through, and we ask that if it is your will that you will reach down here and deliver this woman from her pain. In the name of Jesus, we pray."
Total silence fell across the crowd of people as they waited to see what would happen.
"Yes, Lord." said Timothy. "I hear you, Lord."
The old woman gasped and jerked, like she had been shocked.
"Yes, Lord." he said again.
The old woman began to laugh, a happy little cackle. She slowly began to straighten herself and stand up to her full height. "Oh, Praise Jesus." she said. "There's no pain!"
"See what can happen when you put your trust in the the Lord?" he said to the people gathered around. "He wants to heal you. He wants to help you. All you have to do is believe in him and ask him to come into your hearts."

Spawn had to admit, he was impressed. Timothy Rice was for real, there was no doubt about that. When he had healed the woman Spawn could feel power moving through the area. The man was definitely tapping into some force or another. He watched Timothy move through the crowd below healing people, and he wondered what he should do about this situation.
Up to this point he had never tolerated anyone with any kind of powers running around in his alleys (with the exception of Cog). Without fail, they had all ended up trying to kill him. His first instinct was to give Rice the boot, but he had promised the bums that he would leave the man alone. And honestly, the man wasn't doing anything but helping these people. Al didn't like the religious shit that Rice was spreading but he was backing it up with good deeds.
In the end, he decided that he would let the man stay for now, but if he slipped up and hurt somebody... Well he'd better be in tight with God, because that was the only one who would be able to save him.

The bums sat and listened to Timothy all day long and into the evening hours. Around sunset he told them that he was going to have to leave. They groaned and asked him to please stay. They even offered to build a bonfire to provide light and keep everyone warm. He thanked them for the offer, but said, "I can't. I really have to go. I'll be back tomorrow, though. I'll be right here a little before noon, so everyone be sure to be here, and bring a friend or two with you."
"God bless you." said the little old lady that Rice had healed.
"He already has." Rice replied with a smile. "Look at the friends he has given me."
He left then, shaking hands with people as he passed through the crowd and listening to their words of encouragement. He thanked them and continued on his way. A few tried to follow him, but he asked them nicely not to. "I'll be back tomorrow." he told them once again. Reluctantly, they let him leave on his own.
Spawn watched him as he left, and then he raced ahead so that he could catch Rice on the way out of the alleys. He wanted to talk to him alone, lay down some ground rules.
Rice was making his way through the alleys and out of the Bowery when he heard a voice like grinding gravel call his name.
"Timothy Rice."
He stopped in his tracks and looked around. "Hello?"
"We need to talk, Timothy." A shadow under a fire escape moved, and there was a faint rustling sound. Spawn stepped out of the shadows and into the dim luminescence of the street lights. He gave Timothy time to get a good look at him.
Timothy looked him over and said, "You must be Al."
"Someone told you about me?"
"No, no." Timothy replied. "Your friends are tight lipped folk. It's just that I've heard them whispering about you all day. They seemed concerned that you were going to hurt me." He paused for a second, thinking about what he had just said. " Is that what you intend to do?"
"Actually, I was going to let you know that you have my permission to come here. I won't hurt you. BUT. If you hurt any of my people I will kill you and leave you hanging up to dry. Am I clear?"
Timothy put his hands behind his back and bowed his head. Spawn couldn't tell if the man was praying or just thinking about what he had said. Timothy looked up at him and said, "Well, thank you, I suppose. But I don't really need your permission, Al. I believe that if you ever tried to hurt me, my Lord would protect me."
Spawn's eyes narrowed into slits, and he glared at Rice. "I own these alleys." he said. "Don't try me, Preacher."
"The one I serve is the one who made the land that these alleys are built on, and he told me to go forth unto all the world and spread his word."
Spawn did not like the confidence that this fellow had. Most people he just had to threaten and they would agree to whatever he said and beg for their lives. Rice, on the other hand, didn't seem all that concerned with him. He would have to make sure that Rice understood just what he was dealing with. He took a couple steps closer to Rice, hoping to use his size to intimidate his opponent. He towered over the little preacher by at least eighteen inches.
"You've worn out your welcome." said Spawn. "It would be best if you were on your way."
"I think that you are scared of me. Why is that?"
Spawn started to laugh at that. "Scared?! Of you?! You're out of your goddamn mind."
"Are you really scared that I am going to hurt the people here? Or is this just good old fashion jealousy? Maybe you're not getting the kind of attention that you think you deserve. Maybe you're afraid the bums will stop doing as you say."
Spawn's chains snapped out from under his cloak and grabbed Rice around his ribcage. He threw the man backwards and slammed him into a wall. Spawn rushed forward until he was right up in Timothy's face. "No more games." said Spawn. "Leave, or I tear you to pieces and leave you for the rats."
"I rebuke you." said Timothy in a calm voice. "I bind you and I cast you out, in my Lord's name. Be gone, Devil!" Rice raised his bible and smacked it down in the middle of Spawn's forehead.
A jolt of energy rushed into Spawn. The chains went limp and fell away from Rice's body, allowing the man to fall to the ground. His body stopped responding to him. His arms and legs locked up, paralyzed. His symbiont hung off of him, completely useless.
Timothy stood up straight and took time to straighten his tie and to press some of the wrinkles out of his shirt. When he was satisfied with his appearance, he looked up at Spawn, who was still standing perfectly still.
"This will wear off in a few hours. Please remember all of this, Al. The spirit that moves through me is stronger than the spirit that moves through you."
He walked past Al and started down the length of the alley. After a few steps he stopped and turned around.
"I'll pray for you." he said.
And then Spawn was left alone.

to be continued....

Welcome to the first issue of my three issue Spawn mini that I am writing. I hope you like it, and I hope you stick around for the next two issues. If you have any comments, complaints, critiques, or cursewords, send them my way by e-mailing me at this addy bcampo@hotmail.com I'm a big boy and can handle it if you have problems with a story. I only ask if that you tell me I suck, you tell me why I suck. Tell me what's wrong with the writing. I may not agree with you, but I will listen to you. Thanks for reading, see you next issue.

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