The
ballad of two
Part seven
Equal and opposite
vs AgentDash
/ / /
Elsewhen
They say that good things come in three don't they?
Actually please don't bother answering that as it was meant as a rhetorical question; I have never quite understood why it is called a 'question' at all when no answer is either expected nor required but then again it is only one of the many things that I don't understand.
I am not saying that I am unintelligent, or unlearned, quite the opposite if the truth be told. I not only have the luxury of a more than decent education but I have also had many years to cogitate and mull over things. Not just the things that I was taught in the class room, or even by my family and peers, but also simply by observing this crazy little business we call life.
… yes, I realise that I just misused that quote but that is neither here not there and at the end of the day life is the only business that we all share. That we all have in common. As I was saying, though, I am lucky enough to have learned many things over the years, many things about life, but then again I have an advantage, don't I?
Good. You are learning. That was also a rhetorical question. I suppose it is rather unfair of me to have posed a second such thing but adequately answering the first but that is another thing about 'life', you see.
It – life – isn't fair.
To answer the second rhetorical question first, as confusing as that sounds and even though by its very nature of being rhetorical it requires no answer, the reason that I have such an advantage is simply that I don't just have to rely on the knowledge gained in one lifetime, like nearly everyone else does. I am already on my second.
That, though, is a story for another time, another place, and rather than procrastinating anymore with my continued digressions I will simply reiterate that good things, indeed, come in threes.
Point of fact, Newton's Laws.
Isaac Newton was acclaimed as the greatest mathematicians to ever come out of England. I am not so provincial, personally, and think that he was one of the greatest mathematicians. Period.
His three laws of motion …
… oh, sorry, you have a query?
Ah, yes, I understand. You are an observant little wonder now aren't you? Yes, yes, yes, officially this could be classed as an 'irrelevance' and we know that, just like nature abhors a vacuum, so to do certain sectors of our little World abhor an irrelevance. However, I have a valid reason. I am not going to explain it to you, of course, you will just have to trust that I know what I am doing.
… or perhaps, if you prefer, pray that I do?
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. Newton. A wonderful man, someone that I am really proud of actually, and it is his theories that I am referring to when I say that good things come in threes. To be more specific, it is his third law itself that most appeals.
Third of three.
There is something delightfully numerological about that. Feng Shui for the mind almost, but once more – and you really should get used to that – I digress.
"For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction."
There is genius in its simplicity you know. Even the non-scientifically minded can grasp something profound, yet 'right', about that statement. In the wider circle of Newton's peers, of course, it was taken to apply to physics; to 'force' itself. Take for example, the simple motion of sitting down. At least, on the surface, it appears to be simple doesn't it?
… yes, yes, clever you have a brownie point that is another rhetorical question. If you keep preening as you point that out we will never get this finished and while I most certainly have all the time in the World you, my child, do not. Now, if I may continue?
Good.
When you sit down you are actually part of Newton's Third Law yourself. You are part of the firmament of the universe itself. Just by parking your cheeks on something comfortable. You see when you sit down not only is your body exerting a downwards force but the chair itself is exerting an upwards one. There is symmetry of interaction in that simple movement; in each and everything that is ever done.
Action and reaction, you see.
You do see, don't you?
Well … don't you?!
Oh, no, that wasn't a rhetorical question this time. It doesn't matter though as this isn't simply about the physical ramifications of Newton's Law. For every physical action there is indeed an equal and opposite reaction, that is fundamentally true.
That is not the end of it, no, really it is only the beginning.
… or is it the end, even I sometimes get confused by that.
Anyway, that also doesn't really matter. What does matter is the fact that while Newton was admittedly a genius his mind was constrained by his own fragile, mortal, concepts. I mean no offence by that statement, of course, because while an ant will no doubt think itself the supreme intelligence of 'its' World it is nothing more than an insignificant speck to the man who steps on it unknowing.
So, to others, Newton was that ant.
You see his Third Law doesn't just apply to the physical World, to a man sitting down, a fish swimming, a bird flying or even a planet circling a Sun; no, it goes further than that.
So much further.
For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.
Not just 'force', not just the 'physical' World.
To everything.
Birth, life, death … and everything that falls between.
Action and reaction.
Equal and opposite.
Everything.
/ / /
Now
"For fuck's sake, Mike, you cannot seriously be asking me to do this?!" Joey Russo said through clenched teeth, his voice raw, his breathing ragged. "Can't you do something, can't you cover this?!"
Mike Silver sat in behind his desk, using it almost like a shield, and tried to hold himself together.
It was the same desk that he had sat behind for more years than he cared to count, because he knew that if he did he would come to the realisation that he wasn't just 'middle-aged' anymore but that he was closer to death than he was to life. Sometimes, when he looked in the mirror first thing in the morning, he didn't recognise the face that looked back at him.
The lines on his face, the skin that was starting to leather with age, the hair that had turned silver … so many things that shouldn't be there. That weren't 'him'. Inside, despite that aches in his shoulders that he knew was the early stages of arthritis, he was still a young man. He still had his life in front of him.
Deeper inside, so deep that he couldn't … didn't have to … hear it a little voice whispered to him and told him that he was only one year younger than his father had been when a heart attack dropped him in the middle of a sentence.
Only one year younger than his own father's age of death.
That sort of epiphany was not one that he was ready to face; another was the fact that the man in front of him – a man who was as close to him as a brother would have been – was 'dying' in front of his eyes. Watching the sheen of moisture that covered Joey Russo's eyes, seeing his own haggard face staring back at him in a blue-tinted reflection, Mike Silver couldn't help but think back to the only other time … just once in twenty seven years … that he had seen the big man cry.
/ / /
Twenty six years ago
"Morning Joey, morning Mikey!"
The woman's eyes shone in the early morning light as he stopped sweeping up the debris on the sidewalk in front of the shop door. Waving to the two young men, their police uniforms pristine, who ambled along across the road as they waved back.
"Morning Mrs O'Shea, nice day for it!"
"Nice day for what," cackled the older woman, her near faded Irish brogue becoming more pronounced, "that is what I would like to know?" Her wink was clearly visible to the two young cops and they couldn't help but laugh along even as they shook their heads. Leaving the sound of laughter behind them they walked along their familiar beat.
"That woman is incorrigible."
"You know, Mikey," Joey said, stopping to stare at his friend, "I would probably agree with you on that." Taking his hat off he swept a hand across his sweaty forehead with a grimace, looking up at the morning Sun and wondering just how hot it was going to get. "If I knew what the Hell it meant, of course!"
"Well if you would spend more time on the books," Mike Silver said with a laugh, "instead of in the ring with that ridiculous mask on, you might just learn a few things!"
"Hey, watch it!" Joey said, glancing around the near deserted street in case anyone was close enough to hear. Thankfully, though, there wasn't. "I would never have told you that if I had thought that you couldn't keep a secret!"
Unlike Mike Silver, whose had inherited enough money from his family to make his life comfortable at least, Joey Russo had found it tough to make ends meet. Going through the academy had been hard enough and even though he was now, finally, earning a salary he still had debts to pay from the last two years. Being a policeman had always been his dream – being broke and barely having enough money to eat one meal a day, however, had not been.
When he had been asked, literally on the street, if he wanted to earn a few extra bucks he had been ready to either arrest the guy or take him into a dark alley and beat the living crap out of him. He was still debating which one to do when the man he had thought was trying to pick him up explained that he was a promoter for a wrestling federation. The look of shock on Russo's face didn't need to be explained – he wasn't sure how he would have explained the fact that he had thought that the man in front of him was a faggot, of course – as the promoter said it was a natural reaction to his request.
"I don't do this often," he had explained to Russo, "but when I bump into someone your size I just can't help myself."
That comment had nearly reduced Russo to apoplexy, a fit of coughing brought on by the fact that if the man had opened with that comment Russo would have definitely answered with his fists. Arresting him would have been a very far away second choice. As it was the small business card that was handed to him did indeed state that Gene Brooks was a bona fide wrestling promoter and the Russo was left staring at it as Brooks walked away. Russo nearly dropped it in the next garbage bin he walked past but then Brook's parting words came back to him.
"Twenty dollars a match"
Maths had never been Russo's strong point but considering that as a rookie policeman he was lucky to clear double figures each month as it was twenty dollars a night sounded like a fortune. All he had to do to earn it was pretend to beat people up.
The card had sat in his wallet for nearly three months. The day that he had gone to his larder and found that even the cockroaches had died of starvation, however, had been the last straw and he had found himself in the ring just two nights later. The bruises to his ribs had been quickly forgotten … nearly as quick as he had realised that wrestling wasn't as 'pretend' as he had first thought … when he had bit into the burger that some of the money paid for.
Nothing had ever tasted so good.
The weeks had turned to months, and the months eventually had turned to years, and he still found himself wrestling on a regular basis. He was no longer in as much debt as he had been but still wasn't as comfortable as Mike … probably never would be, he knew with only a small trace of jealousy … so even though he knew that he could be fired for the moonlighting he couldn't bring himself to stop. The only thing that he had done, to try to protect his 'secret' was to wear a mask every time he fought. That wouldn't help, he realised, if Mike wasn't able to keep his mouth shut.
"There is no-one around, Joey," Mike pointed out, his face earnest as he reached out and squeezed his friend's shoulder reassuringly, "you can trust me you know."
Joey knew that he could trust him. They may have only met each other a few years before but there was a bond between them that was as strong as steel. Partnered together at the academy their differing backgrounds – backgrounds that should have been a divide between them – almost seemed to bring them together even closer. Mike helped Joey with the bookwork and Joey helped Mike get into shape.
"I know that I ca …"
The sound of the single gunshot cut off whatever it was that Joey had been about to say as both men instantly went on alert. A scream, high-pitched and obviously terrified, rang out and without any sign of conscious thought both men sprinted towards the sound. Turning a corner Joey nearly tripped over the small form that was lying on the pavement in front of a pawnbroker's shop; Mike wasn't quite as agile – even though he looked like he should have been – and teetered precariously close to falling over.
Joey's eyes tightened as his mind took in everything in front of him almost faster than his brain could analyse. The door to the pawnbroker's shop was open, the glass frontage cracked and broken. Mike was falling. A woman was kneeling on the sidewalk, her hands coated in blood as she cradled a small form to her chest. Mike was falling. The small blond child – a girl Mike thought to himself – was staring, empty-eyed, into the sky above her, the pool of blood underneath her still form slowly growing larger. Mike was falling. The man in the alleyway beside the pawnshop, the man that Joey only saw thanks to the gleam of sunlight that reflected off the gun that was now being pointed directly at them, had a moustache. Mike was falling over and he didn't see the man. He didn't see the gun.
Joey tried to move but he knew, as soon as he saw the flash from the muzzle slightly before the explosive retort hit his ears, that he wouldn't be fast enough. Still, though, he tried. Thoughts of Christopher Reeves in the famous red and blue costume danced in his mind, a ludicrous image at that time he knew, as he hoped that he too could be faster than a speeding bullet. He knew, though, that he wasn't. That he wouldn't be able to push Joey out of the way. Still, though, he prayed … for the first time since he was a child … that he would be fast enough to get between the bullet and his friend.
He wasn't.
The splash of blood hit him in the face just after his shoulder collided with Joey's back. A split second too late. He barely noticed as Mike spun around on his feet, the force of the bullet's impact negated by the force of Joey himself.
Immovable object met unstoppable force. Except for the fact that Joey could be moved; the bullet couldn't be stopped.
His vision went red and he didn't know, didn't care, if it was from Mike's blood that he could feel running down across his eyes, that he could taste – hot and salty – on his tongue, or from the anger that was rising throughout every iota of his body. Ever since he had been a young boy he had been taught to contain the anger, to cage the beast that lived inside him. He had always been big, had always been strong, and his mother had taught him to always be in control simply so that he wouldn't hurt anyone inadvertently.
He wondered, as he stared directly into the barrel of the gun that was now pointing at his face, what she would have taught him about 'advertently' hurting someone. He felt the grin on his face, his cheeks pulling against the bone against his will, as he realised that he didn't even know if that was a real word.
Bringing his own gun up he calmly pointed it directly at the man in front of him. He didn't even blink as the man … sweat running down his face and a dark patch appearing on the crotch of his jeans … pulled the trigger and barely even realised that nothing happened. His mind had processed the fact that he was still alive, it had realised that not only had a bullet not hit him in the face but none had even left the gun. It had even subconsciously counted the three clicks as the man repeatedly pulled the trigger on the now empty gun.
… what his mind didn't do - as it still heard the mother's tortured cries, as it still saw Joey falling to the ground, as it still tasted his friend's own blood – was stop his finger from pulling the trigger.
For a moment time seemed to stand still. Joey pulled the trigger and then nothing happened. He thought, for a moment that could have been a nano-second or an eternity, that his gun was empty too; that he hadn't taken the safety off. Then the man's face exploded.
Years later that image would still haunt Joey; he would awaken coated in his own sweat and still see the shards of bone literally explode out of the back of the mans head in a rush of vibrant red. He would never forget the Rorschach like web of blood and brain matter that painted the wall behind the man. That, though, was all in the future. At that moment, as he watched the man's life end as suddenly as a candle being snubbed out – even down to the small wisps of smoke that wafted up from the end of his gun – all that Joey felt as he witnessed the carnage that he himself had wrought, was satisfaction.
"… Joey?"
The tears had started to flow from Joey's eyes, unstoppable, as soon as he heard his name whispered. He didn't need to turn around to know that it was Mike; Mike who he had through was dead. Turn around, though, he did, and through the rainbow sheen of his own tears he saw Mike trying to get up. Before he realised it Joey was on his knees, cradling Mike's blood soaked torso to himself and keening in time with the woman by his side; a mirror-image of her own grief. She cried for her daughter's death, of course, while Joey cried for his friend's life.
"Joey," Mike repeated, his voice hoarse, "his gun …"
Mike looked up into his friend's face and saw himself reflected and refracted many times in the tears that coated his blue irises. The moment passed between them, unspoken, and as the sounds of sirens grew closer both men knew that they had another secret to share.
/ / /
One week ago
"Do you want to know a secret?" Ember croaked, his throat raw and closing as Russo's ham-fists squeezed the life out of him. "You were so close, you know, my friend, so close to the truth." Ember's barely audible words drifted up to Russo and Russo alone, and for a split second he relaxed his grip. That second was more than enough. Twisting his legs up and under him, Ember pushed Russo backwards and then grabbed his jacket, pulling himself up close enough to whisper into his ear.
"I am not Jay Phoenix," Ember said, his tongue brushing against Russo's ear, "but you were nearly there. Just a few seconds of difference and you may have got it right. I am not him, just his brother … just his brother."
Russo reached up and grabbed Ember by his shirt and, even sitting down on the ground, had enough power to launch him away from him. Before he could, though, Ember managed to spit out one last retort.
"… and just because I KNOW that you can never prove it," Ember snarled, "I will let you drown in the knowledge that I killed him … I killed Jay Phoenix!"
As he landed in a heap a few feet from Russo Ember heard three things at once, he saw two things happen at once, and he realised something too.
He heard David Johnson shout out to Russo as he held a cell phone to his ear.
"Joey, they have found a body … they think, no they are sure … it is Phoenix's!"
He saw a figure barge into David Johnson and reach behind him, coming up with a gun held in one shaky hand.
He heard the figure call out, in a small and broken voice, one poignant word.
"JAY!!"
He heard David Johnson, as he looked up in horror at the figure holding his gun, cry out to the man.
"Mr James … Rick … don't!"
He realised, as he stared directly into the never-ending blackness of the gun barrel from only a few feet away that one other man had heard the words that he had whispered to Russo, that he had intended to be heard only by Russo.
He saw a flash of light, the dappled beams of sunlight coming through the window to one side to hit the gun and reflect of in a myriad of colours like a crazy disco-ball. He was dazzled by it, entranced, and for a split-second forgot that it was the barrel of a gun that he stared at, completely caught up in the mirror-like gleam. His chest contracted, his breath completely taken from him as if two large hands had clamped them in a giant's embrace, and a stab of pain exploded between his eyes. For a second he thought that he had been shot but then he realised that if he had been he wouldn't be able to think that thought and instead realised … while realisation was till his … that when people said that many things went through your mind as you faced death they were telling the truth. Admittedly, he thought with some irony, in this sort of situation the last thing to go through one's mind would probably be a bullet but also the memory of one's life was also very possible.
… but someone else's life passing before the eyes?
"JAY!!"
"JAY!!"
"JAY!!"
"JAY!!"
"Jay … JAY … are … you ….. o………… k………………" Rick's voice faded away, as if he was being pulled into the distance, as the mirrored sign from above the bar's door, which had somehow become dislodged, slammed into Jay Phoenix's head and knocked him to the unforgiving concrete sidewalk.
"Of course I am ok Rick, but I still don't think that the 'duck' joke was very funny" Jay said then trailed off as he looked around him.
Just moments before he had been standing in a busy city street, talking to his friend and trying to find something for dinner. Now though he was … somewhere else. Where he was though was most definitely an interesting question. If total and utter darkness could be defined as the total and utter lack of light then Phoenix found himself in a place where shadows never got a foothold, where darkness was a concept that would never be understood.
Stark harsh white was the only thing that could be seen everywhere that Phoenix looked. Three hundred and sixty degrees of whiteness surrounded him, all encompassing. Directly above him and directly below him was made up of the same unending white.
Reaching up to his forehead, suddenly disorientated as he realised that he didn't know if he was standing on a surface or hanging upside down … not even being able to rationalise what WAS up or down … Phoenix did the only natural thing.
He threw up.
Kneeling down … though not even thinking about just how or on what he could be kneeling … Phoenix held onto his stomach as he emptied the little food that was left within him until nothing but dry retching noises came from his throat. Standing up … or at least becoming vertical again … he wiped a hand over his mouth, his face pale.
"Well that was pleasant" came a sarcastic comment from out of the aether.
Spinning full circle Phoenix came face to face with a full length mirror that did nothing to help his disorientation as it seemingly hung in mid-air, unsupported. His face shocked at the sudden appearance of an object that had not been there moments before, Phoenix kept looking for the source of the voice, even going so far as to … gingerly, until he realised that he COULD walk on this surface… walk completely around the mirror itself. Coming back to the front of the mirror he stared in confusion at his own reflection.
"Dammit, what is going on?" he muttered to himself, wiping a hand across his eyes as he tried to clear his head.
"Well all I know is that you are currently making some rather colourful changes to this place, though for me I would have gone with a nice throw rug instead of the pavement pizza my friend" came the sarcastic … yet somehow familiar … response.
Phoenix dropped his hand from his face in shock, looking around him once more and still not finding the source of the voice.
"Not very quick on the uptake are you?" came the voice.
Staring into the mirror Phoenix suddenly realised that his reflection was not doing what was expected. It did not stand the same way he did, it did not move the same way he did, and it most certainly seemed to be speaking for itself. Stepping back away from it, Phoenix's mouth gaped open as he realised that no matter ho much he moved his legs he didn't place any difference between him and the silvery surface. Either he wasn't moving or the mirror was keeping up with him.
"Close your mouth Jay, you look like a fish out of water!" his reflection sneered at him.
"Wha … what it going … who are … where a …" Phoenix stuttered.
"For fuck's sake man get a hold of yourself, anyone would think that you had never talked to yourself before … or perhaps it would be better to say that you had never talked to your BETTER self before!" the reflection snarled, pointing a finger at Phoenix who reeled back in shock again, which elicited a mocking laugh from his mirror image.
"Well it seems that you have the swooning and angst ridden worrying down pat at least Jay, so we can be proud that you are good at something … but I spend most of my days throwing up too. Mostly because I am sick to the stomach of being part of you!" the reflection shouted throw the glass, hammering it's hands against the surface from the other side.
"I don't understand …" Phoenix started to say softly as he played with a ring on his right hand's third finger, rotating it round and round.
"I see that you still have that annoying habit of playing with Mom's wedding ring whenever you are worried Jay … whatever next, are you going to start sucking your thumb, or asking for your blankey perhaps?" grinned the image, as he held his left hand up to show the selfsame ring there.
"No … I .. " Phoenix started to say, but was again interrupted by the image in the mirror.
"I don't care what you were going to say 'Little Flame' it doesn't matter to me, all that matters is that for some reason I am able to finally meet you face to face so to speak. I have spent my whole life … OUR whole life … looking out at you and seeing what a waste of life you are, seeing what a worthless piece of shit you are and wishing that I could grab you by the throat and spit in your face as I force the air out of your lungs. You have wasted EVERY opportunity ever given to you, you have backed down, you have played the nice guy, you have never wanted to rock the boat!" the image ranted at a stunned Phoenix who stood as if the only reason he didn't fall over was because his brain had shut down beyond even that action.
"Always doing what is right, always so concerned about your fans and their expectations … never reaching out and taking what you … WE … fucking deserve. Oh no, Mr high and mighty has to walk the straight and narrow. No drinking, no smoking, no swearing … just being the perfect man for your retard of a grandfather!" it continued, the volume rising as the venom exploded from it's mouth, it's hand pressed flat against the other surface of the mirror.
"Even forgiving that piece of shit Vampir Nosferatu for taking away the one thing that would have made your worthless life meaningful … at least if you had won that title the first time you may have been corrupted enough to fuck some of those bimbos that would have thrown themselves at you. Now when you are given a second chance at that self same glory you are more fucking worried about how your little girly friend Hurst will feel when you beat him than you are about winning this thing for yourself!" the tirade continued as the reflection's face become sweat-soaked as if he was under immense pressure, though it seemed that he only leant against the mirror himself.
"I can tell you this I would have forgiven Vampir, I would have cut his head off and shit down his throat for what he did to you … to us … but someone beat me to it didn't they? I must remember to thank Hessian someday for that. Another thing that I can tell you is that I wouldn't be worrying about Dave Hurst and his little plastic piece of shit, I would be going into the ring to beat him … to hurt him … to break him!" the image suddenly stopped speaking, relaxing into a small smile that brought a gasp of shock to Phoenix himself as he realised that it was his own smile he saw.
"You see, one thing that you have never known, never realised, is that without me you are nothing my friend … my twin … without me, without my anger, without my hate, without my strength you would BE nothing. Sometimes, not very often but normally when you really need me, a little of me slips out into YOUR World you know. When you are in the ring and you need that little extra to win, that is me you know." grinned the image as it leant on the surface, arms folded.
" … but that little isn't enough, I want more Jay, I want everything that you have, everything that you have wasted … ARE wasting … with you posturing and whining … I want it Jay … I want YOUR life!"
As he spat the final words towards a stunned Phoenix, the reflection in the mirror suddenly threw itself towards the surface and unexpectedly … unbelievably … it stretched and strained like wet material. It's hands reached out through the silvery surface towards Phoenix who stood rooted … like a rabbit caught in the headlights … to the spot, his eyes unfocused in shock and his breathing shallow. The fingers of the reflection stretched out further that would have been humanly possibly, their ends becoming clawed, and as one latched onto Phoenix's arm the other scraped across his face, opening three bloody gashes across his cheek.
The pain of these wounds suddenly seemed to awaken and galvanise Phoenix, who suddenly reached up to fend off this waking nightmare, punching and striking out at it with more force than he had ever used in training or combat … almost as if his life depended on it.
… and it did.
With a mocking laugh the reflection ignored all the blows, holding on to the struggling Phoenix like an adult calming a child throwing a tantrum and inch-by-inch it brought Phoenix towards itself, towards the surface of the mirror.
With a shriek that was filled with despair and inhuman pain Phoenix threw back his head, his mouth wide open, as his body touched the surface of the mirror. Instead of stopping, instead of meeting an immutable surface of silvered glass, Phoenix screamed as his journey continued on and into the mirror itself. Becoming one with his own reflection, merging with it … melding with it … moving into it and then through it … slowly but surely, inch-by-inch, molecule by molecule, Phoenix and his reflection passed through each other.
With a final shriek of all consuming agony … harmonised with one of eternal and triumphant glee … everything suddenly went quiet.
Phoenix reached up a hand and winced as his fingers traced the lines embedded into his face, staring in shock at the blood that covered his fingers when he pulled them away. Then with a grin he put his fingers to his mouth as his tongue snaked it's way out of his mouth to flicker against the scarlet liquid.
"Mmmmm … tasty!" he snickered to himself as an almost orgasmic shudder played across his body.
Staring into the mirror, the grinning figure watched as it's reflection curled up into a foetal position … arms wrapped around legs, head ducked into it's chest … and started to violently shake; dry, racking sobs coming from it's unseen face, like a lost and frightened child.
"Pitiful Jay, really pitiful, but don't worry about it you will have plenty of time to get used to this … and just think how much fun Jay Phoenix is going to have now that I am in charge of things!" the standing figure smirked as he looked around at his white and featureless surroundings, marred only by the floating mirror.
A small look of consternation passed across the figure's face, which was quickly replaced, by longing and understanding.
"Time to go now Jay, but I'll be seeing you in the shaving mirror my brother … but for now … GO TO HELL!" the figure snarled as he reached out and punched the surface of the mirror. With a deafening explosion the mirror seemed to implode in on itself, shards of swirling silver glass spinning around and around, like some new born cosmos, until … simply … there was nothing.
Nothing but whiteness.
Nothing but the figure standing in the whiteness and grinning.
Nothing but …
… the swirls of silver caused by the sunlight hitting the barrel of the gun gleamed with metallic grace and Jay Phoenix found himself wondering just what had just happened. He remembered the meal with Rick – just moments before, wasn't it? – and Rick shouting at him just before immense pain had swept over him. Reaching up he felt the back of his head, wondering why he wasn't bleeding, wondering why he was wearing mask – wondering, as his mind finally registered the fact that his best friend was standing in front of him, tears streaming down his face as a gun trembled in his hands … a gun that was pointed right at his head … just what the Hell was going on.
"… Rick?" he asked tremulously, his voice sounding harsh to his own ears. So many things happened at the same time that he wasn't quite sure what they all actually were. He saw Rick's eyes widen in shock, recognition and confusion … the differing emotions vying for dominance on his face … at the same time that he saw his friend's finger tighten on the trigger. He heard someone scream out, harsh and unrecognisable as an actual word, and saw a young black man reach out for Rick. He felt something hit him, square in the chest, and knock him spinning across the floor and barely caught a fleeting glimpse of the large man – more fat than muscle – who threw himself on top of him as the deafening blast of the gun firing rang out.
He felt – barely – his head snap back to impact against the unforgiving floor before everything went black and he neither saw nor herd, felt nor noticed, anything more.
/ / /
Now
"Cover for you?" Mike asked, his voice soft, "do something?" He ran a hand over his eyes, as much to try to wipe his own burgeoning tears away as to wipe away the image of his friend's own tears starting to well up in his eyes. He heard Joey cough gruffly, and when he looked back up the tears were gone. Wiped away on the back of his hand though their memory was still plain to see. At least to Mike, who knew that he would be as haunted by this moment as he was by one from twenty-six years ago.
"I have done all that I can for you Joey," Mike said in resignation, "it took everything that I could do just to keep you out of jail!"
"But it wasn't my fault …"
"For fuck's sake Joey," Mike said, sharper than he had intended as he watched Joey step back slightly like a whipped puppy, "you attacked someone in public, you assaulted someone in front of many witnesses, and because of your actions you let someone else shoot him!"
"… that wasn't my fault, Mike," Joey said quietly, "I didn't know …"
"You didn't know what Joey?" Mike almost snarled, his emotions running away from him. "You didn't know that people were watching? You didn't know that that guy was going to take David's gun?"
"What didn't you know?!"
"I saved that fucking creep's life – that is what I DO know!"
The two men stared at each other, neither one backing down for a few seconds and then Mike Silver sighed.
"Yeah, Joey, you did," he admitted with another sigh, "you saved his life but it was because of you that he was in danger in the first place."
"… but he admitted that he killed Jay Phoenix!" Joey spat spittle onto the desk, where it lay ignored. "He told me that he did it!!"
"… and we can't touch him," Mike stated simply, "not now. There is no judge in the land who will give us a warrant for anything to do with that Ember guy now Joey, because of you. Because of what you did."
"So … that is it?!" Joey's body deflated, his six and a half foot frame suddenly looking small as he sank into himself.
"His lawyer has him in a private clinic where he is 'recovering' from his injuries," Mike said quietly, "we have Rick James in custody for attempted murder and he is saying nothing for some reason, and you …"
He drifted off, his eyes haunted as he stared at his friend.
"Let me save you some time, Mike." Joey's voice was strained, but controlled. He squared his shoulders as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small black wallet. Reaching under his jacket, into the waistband of his trousers, he pulled out his holstered gun and placed it on the table between them. Flipping open the wallet, he stared at the gleaming detective's badge inside it. With resolution he snapped it closed and placed it on the table as well, pushing both objects towards Mike who reached out to grab them and for a moment both men's hands touched.
"I'm sorry Joey," Mike whispered as he took the gun and badge, "but there is nothing else that we … that I … can do."
The two men's stare, and unspoken connection, was interrupted by the assured voice from behind them.
"Maybe not, but there may be something that I can do."
Staring around Joey's large frame as he turned around, both men looked in slight amazement at David Johnson, the rookie detective, who stood grinning at them. Holding up a small clear plastic bag in front of him, he swung it back and forth, the Starbuck's cup inside it clearly visible.
… and so, on the edge of it, was the stain of black lipstick.
/ / /
To be continued