MV1 COMICS PRESENTS		#41
	by Locust

(Note to readers: This story contains mild profanity.)

Gage Reynolds tossed fitfully in his bed. Sleep often came sparingly for Gage the week leading up to Opening Night but, of late, he found himself tossing and turning more and more even though the play wasn't scheduled to open for another month.

remember the Tatterdemalion

Rolling onto his left side, Gage reached out for his nightstand and briefly fumbled in the darkness until his hand came to rest upon the small alarm clock he kept at his bedside. Drawing it closer, Gage squinted against the darkness. Three o'clock; what his mother had always called the Devil's Hour. A silly superstition, really, and one he could find little other reference too. Still, not long before he graduated high school and moved to New York to start college, he found himself asking her why.

Like a child reciting a prayer, she quickly blessed herself and then began. "The number three is a mockery to the Holy Trinity," she explained. "Satan has corrupted it with his blasphemy and so three o'clock is known as the Devil's Hour. A time of great evil; a time when spirits roam the Earth."

Had Gage been a spiritual man, he may have found himself believing his mother's tale. But there had to be something more to his insomnia than some half-remembered wives tale. Strange things had been happening at night, not the least of which was his inability to fall asleep. When he finally did sleep, he did not dream and he often woke feeling as though he had spent the night exercising. And then there was the voice. Or at least Gage thought it was a voice. It could have been anything--a flashback or a dream or even a hallucination--but there WAS something more. Something that tickled at the edge of his consciousness like a feather, but would vanish like smoke whenever he tried to focus on it.

remember the Tatterdemalion

What was it that kept him awake at night?

The ceiling offered few answers, no matter how long he stared at it. He even toyed with the idea of watching television but the thought of enduring either test patterns or infomercials quickly lost its appeal. Finally Gage slid from his bed and shuffled down the short, darkened hallway to the bathroom to relieve himself. As he washed up, he caught a glimpse of himself in the tiny mirror above the sink. Although he had left the light off when he came into the bathroom, the battered blinds hung in the window beside him filtered in enough light from the street for Gage to see his reflection clearly. And he did not like what he saw.

Passing a hand through his thick, dark hair, he tried unsuccessfully to smooth it back into place. Tossing and turning in bed for half the night had worked his hair into an amazing bundle of twists and tangles and he quickly abandoned any thoughts of getting it back to normal. A brief, morning shower would be more than enough to take care of whatever the night could throw at his hair. But it wasn't the dishelved state of his hairdo that concerned him. Instead, it was the face watching from the mirror that caused Gage to stop and stare; a face he barely recognized as his own. Even in the meager light, Gage could see how pale his skin had become. His cheeks were gaunt and drawn. Dark hemispheres beneath his eyes provided the only contrast to a face the color of raw chicken. He looked and felt drained. Tomorrow's rehearsal was going to be brutal, especially if he didn't get to sleep soon. With a resigned sigh, Gage shut off the water and returned to his bedroom to wait for sleep.

Outside, Gage could here that it had begun to rain. He listened as the storm crescendoed and decrescendoed, twice, before sleep finally came.

Gage Reynolds did not dream.

Another smile touched his lips. A half hour before most of his colleagues even woke up and he had already finished his work for the day. Of course, he could only think of a handful of his colleagues who even made housecalls any more and none of them would think of being in this neighborhood at this time of the night--not to see patients, at any rate. But Dr. Wilson was used to it, having grown up in the Bowery. He'd lived through many of the same hardships and struggles that these people were forced to live with. He'd gone to sleep hungry more than once, he'd lived without heat or electricity for weeks at a time, much the same as the people he now served. But these were the same people who supported him when he decided to attend medical school. These were the same people whose money put his two daughters through college, paid for his house and cars, and supported his small cocaine habit over the years. These were his people, and, more importantly, Dr. Wilson was these people. It was just something his colleagues, who'd spent their entire lives Uptown, could not understand.

As he turned off the side streets and into an alley, the doctor smiled for a third time. This time his smile was sly, wolf-like, almost predatory. Certainly not the smile of a man whose thoughts were in the past. No, this time the doctor smiled because he couldn't believe how clever he'd been. Although he'd been forced to walk four blocks to where his first patient lived--in a brisk downpour no less--although he paid one hundred and fifty dollars to a night watchman who stunk of cheap booze, he was, indeed, clever. Afterall, he'd just bought that new Lexus, and spending nearly $65,000 on a car made one cautious when parking it in this neighborhood at this time of the night. He was these people, but that didn't make Dr. Wilson stupid.

"Hey, old man, you look lost. Need someone to walk you home?" A voice from the head of the alley, the direction he had just come, brought Dr. Wilson back to the present.

Without looking back, the doctor replied, "No, I'm fine," and then quickened his pace, not wanting to be trapped in the alley should the first voice have an accomplice. One thing he had learned from his childhood in the Bowery was that these urban predators rarely traveled solo.

As if to confirm his suspicions, a shadow filled the far end of the alley, cutting off his escape. "Yeah, old man, need someone to walk you home?" A voice ahead of him echoed the first.

Fear paralyzed the doctor; he was trapped and he knew it. The alley was narrow and dark, much too small to consider running even if he hadn't spent the last few years indulging in the "good life". Fronted on both sides by warehouses abandoned long ago by their owners, he knew he would find neither refuge nor assistance within their silent walls. He couldn't go forward and he couldn't go back and going up was certainly not an option. There was no escape and, to make matters worse, the rain began to fall harder.

"Come on, old man, let us give you a hand. It's dangerous out here at night for people like you." The voice from behind was advancing. "You'll be safer with us as your bodyguards."

Now less than twenty yards away, Dr. Wilson could see his assailant clearly. Taller than the doctor, he was also several years his junior and, from the look of his thick arms and bulging chest, he was in much better shape than the older man. Any thoughts of escape that may have been lingering in the doctor's mind evaporated with each step he took. At the opposite end of the alley the other man shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other but showed no signs of advancing.

"I have money," Dr. Wilson began weakly but fear quickly closed his throat around the words.

"Oh, I know you do," the man behind him said, "you also have jewelry and a bag full of painkillers." He paused then and, when he spoke again, the smile on his face was evident in his voice. "And there's a special painkiller in your breastpocket too; a little baggie of powdered, white painkiller."

"Take it; take all of it, just don't hurt me. Please, don't hurt me."

By now the other man had reached the middle of the alley where Dr. Wilson cowered in fear against the rain soaked wall of one of the abandoned warehouses. "Oh, don't worry old man, I wasn't asking for permission."

The young man produced a knife from his backpocket, it's thick blade gleeming brightly despite the darkness around them. "Hell, I don't think I need to ask your permission, old man, I have this." Unable to contain his terror any longer, Dr, Wilson's bladder released, sending a stream of warm urine slowly down his leg.

"Danny, get over here; the old man's pissed himself!"

"Yeah, Gary, I'm coming, but we gotta hurry this up; the sun's almost up and we should be scarce before then."

"OK, Doc, we're on a tight schedule here. Time to hand over the goods." As if to emphasize his point, Gary pressed the cold steel of the knife against the doctor's cheek, hard enough to draw a trickle of blood where the blade touched flesh."So hand over the wallet, watch, rings, and that little black bag of yours."

enough A voice called from the darkness. Or at least it seemed like a voice, but both men looked around the alley and saw no one who could have spoken. this ends now.

"Danny, you messin' with me or what?"

Out of breath from the short jog from to the center of the alley, Danny looked around suspiciously. "No, Gary, I heard it too. What the hell is going on?"

this ends now The voice spoke again, sounding nearer than before.

A figure stepped silently from the shadows directly in front of the three men. Dressed in dark, torn clothes, he glided across the alley until he stood among the three men. Tall and lean--perhaps gaunt was a better description--the newcomer towered above the others. He wore a tattered, blue fedora, pulled tightly against his head. A ratty, red scarf concealed the rest of his face from view. Only a pair of cold, inhuman eyes were visible above the scarf and he focused them directly on the doctor.

"Oh thank you, God," Dr. Wilson whispered, "thank you."

"Who the hell is this?" Gary whispered to his partner. Danny shrugged. The tall man did not appear to notice either of them, and Danny certainly didn't want to draw any undo attention to himself or Gary until he knew exactly what they were up against.

Dr. Wilson, on the other hand, couldn't have been happier, and lunged forward to embrace the stranger. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," the doctor began blubbering into the stranger's shoulder. "Thank you so much for rescuing me from these criminals." Before he knew what happened, Dr. Wilson found himself flying through the air, flung from the stranger's grasp.He hit the wall behind him hard.

what crimes have these men committed? The stranger's voice was like the rustling of leaves in a breeze. Dry and harsh, the voice came from every direction at once. Were the words being spoken or were they only in his mind? Dr. Wilson had no way of knowing; he could not see the other man's mouth.

poverty is not a crime. The stranger continued. it is you who are guilty of a crime: the crime of greed. they steal to survive but you take more than your share and then look for more! As his words became more intense, the scarf he wore around his neck began to dance and sway as if caught in a stiff breeze. But nothing else moved in the alley and the alley itself was strangely silent. Not even the falling rain made a sound.

you are guilty The stranger repeated. you are guilty and you deserve no mercy. Suddenly his scarf leapt to life, quickly winding itself around Dr. Wilson's mouth before he could make another sound. As he struggled, the scarf wound itself tighter, wrapping his entire head in its length. And yet it also remained wrapped tightly around the stranger's face, concealing his identity as well as it did when he first appeared.

The stranger watched as Dr. Wilson's struggles became weaker and weaker until finally he struggled no more. Only then did the scarf release its grip on the doctor, allowing the body to tumble to the alley floor.

Gary and Danny both gasped in unison. Turning to face them, the stranger acknowledged their presence for the first time. no crime shall be committed while the Tatterdamelion walks the Earth. And, with that, he was gone.

Minutes passed as the two would-be muggers could only stand and stare, open-mouthed, at the corpse lying in the middle of the alley. Finally Danny shook off the shock. "We'd better get out of here before something else happens."

"Yes, let's," Gary agreed. "And I think we'd better tell the Boss about this one too."

"Thanks for noticing," Gage replied dryly. Truth be known, he did feel like crap. "I couldn't fall asleep again last night and I got up late this morning. Didn't even have time to shower."

"Yeah I can tell." Klara smiled, waving a hand in front of her nose in mock disgust.

"Smart-ass!" Gage said, playfully slapping her arm.

Klara caught his hand as he tried to slap her a second time. She turned it over and gently traced the lines on his palm with her finger. "I really should cast your lot again," she said, "there's something going on with you, Gage, and I'd like to help you out if I can."

Gage shook his head as he drew his hand away. "You're a good director and an even better friend, Klara, but you know I don't believe in that stuff. I'm just nervous about the play; that's all it is."

remember the Tatterdamelion

"I know that's all you think it is," she replied, studying his face with her intense brown eyes. "But I've never seen you this bad before. This is the thrid time this month you've come to rehearsal looking like Death warmed-over and I refuse to believe it's just butterflies." Klara shook her head. "But I won't force the issue. I just don't want to see anything happen to you, Gage, especially if I can do something about it."

"Don't worry so much, Klara, I'll be fine." Gage tried to make his smile reassuring but only succeed in drawing another concerned look from Klara. "Really."

Shaking her head again, Klara consented. "OK, fine, I'll drop it--for now." She paused to check her watch, then continued, "But right now we'd better get things set up. The others will be here soon and, even if my star isn't ready, we do have a play to rehearse for."

The rest of the morning passed uneventfully, though Gage found himself yawning more often than usual. Rehearsal ended shortly after two and, after twice turning down offers to join the rest of the cast for lunch, Gage Reynolds returned home. Sleep was foremost in his mind as Gage climbed the three flights of stairs to his apartment but his body had other plans for him and he found himself stepping into his bathroom as soon as the entry door shut behind him.

The bathroom's flourescent bulb struggled to life, but, by the time it filled the small room with its soft glow, Gage no longer need to relieve himself. On the mirror, the same mirror Gage had stared into sleepily hours before, someone had scrawled a message in blood.

remember the Tatterdamelion

It begins.

To be continued...