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.
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.
Like this? Then try the other stuff I've written at my homepage Bad Monkey Comics!!
