THE FIRST
By Joshua Epstein
(LEGAL STUFF: Evan Martin is my creation, and I own him. As this is a world that I am creating based on our own, certain real people may end up appearing, but this story is, in now way, meant as libel or slander to them, they are only there when and if the story requires them to be.)
CHAPTER 4: Injustice
Why? The question ran through Peter Anderson's mind over and over. Why did this happen to Martin? Why did I take away his badge, the one thing in his life that gave it meaning? WHY?
Anderson walked the echoing halls of County General, passing by white-coated doctors and blue-scrubbed nurses as if they were nothing but ghosts. They never gave him a second look, a weary man in a grimy brown trenchcoat and stained tie. He walked out into the rain and slowly made his way down the street. He looked around him as he went. The city was rotting around him while he watched. Everywhere he looked, graffiti stained the walls, masonry lay cracked and unrepaired, and broken windows let the rain in. He remembered when he'd been younger, things had been looking up. Broadway was clean and good women could walk in Times Square. It hadn't taken long. When the recession had hit a few years back, the hookers had moved back onto Broadway and the gangs ran the Square. Cops watched their backs with every step, and normal people didn't go out at night. It was as if the city was sinking into another time altogether. It was a city without hope.
He was unlocking his car when he heard the telltale click of a revolver being cocked.
"Wallet and keys, now, buddy."
"You're making a mistake pal."
"Lecture me later, bub, gimme the goods now."
"All right." Anderson reached around behind him and, with a fluid motion whipped the Glock from its belt holster with one hand, palmed the thug's gun with the other, and the positions were reversed. "You want the goods, pal? Here's the fucking goods!" He tore the gun from the thug's hand and hit him in the face with it. The pug-faced crook went down in a heap. Anderson pulled a pair of cuffs from his belt and fastened them to the would-be-thief's wrists. He tossed the thug against the wall, pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed the station.
"This is Anderson. Send a squadcar down to County General. I've got a guy down here for you. Thought he could get the goods from me."
Several minutes later, a couple of uniformed cops took the thug off Anderson's hands and drove off. He slumped in the driver's seat of the car. Outside a hospital. Maybe Martin had his reasons for being the way he was. Maybe his way of working just wasn't good enough in this meaner New York. Maybe.
"But I hope I'm wrong."
By Joshua Epstein
(LEGAL STUFF: Evan Martin is my creation, and I own him. As this is a world that I am creating based on our own, certain real people may end up appearing, but this story is, in now way, meant as libel or slander to them, they are only there when and if the story requires them to be.)
CHAPTER 4: Injustice
Why? The question ran through Peter Anderson's mind over and over. Why did this happen to Martin? Why did I take away his badge, the one thing in his life that gave it meaning? WHY?
Anderson walked the echoing halls of County General, passing by white-coated doctors and blue-scrubbed nurses as if they were nothing but ghosts. They never gave him a second look, a weary man in a grimy brown trenchcoat and stained tie. He walked out into the rain and slowly made his way down the street. He looked around him as he went. The city was rotting around him while he watched. Everywhere he looked, graffiti stained the walls, masonry lay cracked and unrepaired, and broken windows let the rain in. He remembered when he'd been younger, things had been looking up. Broadway was clean and good women could walk in Times Square. It hadn't taken long. When the recession had hit a few years back, the hookers had moved back onto Broadway and the gangs ran the Square. Cops watched their backs with every step, and normal people didn't go out at night. It was as if the city was sinking into another time altogether. It was a city without hope.
He was unlocking his car when he heard the telltale click of a revolver being cocked.
"Wallet and keys, now, buddy."
"You're making a mistake pal."
"Lecture me later, bub, gimme the goods now."
"All right." Anderson reached around behind him and, with a fluid motion whipped the Glock from its belt holster with one hand, palmed the thug's gun with the other, and the positions were reversed. "You want the goods, pal? Here's the fucking goods!" He tore the gun from the thug's hand and hit him in the face with it. The pug-faced crook went down in a heap. Anderson pulled a pair of cuffs from his belt and fastened them to the would-be-thief's wrists. He tossed the thug against the wall, pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed the station.
"This is Anderson. Send a squadcar down to County General. I've got a guy down here for you. Thought he could get the goods from me."
Several minutes later, a couple of uniformed cops took the thug off Anderson's hands and drove off. He slumped in the driver's seat of the car. Outside a hospital. Maybe Martin had his reasons for being the way he was. Maybe his way of working just wasn't good enough in this meaner New York. Maybe.
"But I hope I'm wrong."