A Chance Meeting

Chapter Two

Williford Manse put the finishing touches on the sketch he was working on. A beautiful design showing the opulent gardens on the hospital grounds. As he worked, he thought about the name, Williford Manse, not the one he was born with, but the one he used nonetheless. He worked in a little dove perched on a bush in the bright sun, and slid it across the desk.

Manse was powerfully built, nearly seven feet tall. His hair, once brown, now held no color at all, just an unruly mass of grey curls. His eyes were grey, too, beady and piercing. A pair of small reading glasses perched at the end of his downhooked nose.

His left hand rubbed the cleft of his chin, and his right effortlessly twirled the pencil in and out of his fingers, like a magician playing with a coin, as he awaited judgement from the man across from him. The man who now controlled his destiny.

He was short and slim, with salt and pepper hair. His white coat stood in bright contrast to all the dark cherry furniture that filled his office. His walls were lined with diplomas, certificates, and awards.

"Your sketches just keep getting better and better, Williford. They've been really therapeutic to you during your stay with us, have the not?" Manse simply nodded and thought about using one of those trophies to dash he mans brains all over those cursed diplomas. 'It always pays to have a backup plan.'

But it proved unnecessary. "Mr. Manse, I have thoroughly reviewed your records, and I see no instances of relapse in the past few years of your stay," he continued.

"I owe it all to you professor, and.." Williford began, but the professor cut him off abruptly. "You should really thank Dr. Morris. Give credit where credit is due, I always say".

The old man thought about Dr. Morris. He'd have to pay her a visit after he got out. Really make sure that whore suffered for all she'd done to him these nine long years.

"…really feel that there's no need for you to remain here any longer. We're releasing you into the care of your uncle with a clean bill of health".

'Uncle,' he thought to himself? Better not to question his good fortune though. He shook the doctor's hand and went off to sign his discharge papers.

His 'uncle' was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. It was Max, who had been his handler for nearly ten years of his tenure with the NSA. The old bat hadn't aged a day, not that you could say he was ever young. The sun still shone brightly off his baldpate, and his back stooped as impossibly far as ever. He held his cane in his gnarled, liver-spotted, right hand and that pathetic blue bowler hat in his right.

With a spin and a flourish, he put the hat on his head. "Long time, Will," he said. "Too long," Manse responded. The old man turned briskly and began shuffling toward the black stretch limo. The driver opened the door wordlessly, and waited for the pair to get situated in it's opulent interior before closing it once more.

Inside were a TV, a CD changer, a mini-bar, and three steel attaché cases. Manse set about fixing himself a gin and tonic as Max began, "Your country needs you once more."

"A local crime lord who calls himself Profile, has taken many of the local gangs under his control. All this extra manpower has turned into extra operating cash. Money he is using to buy influence in certain political circles. We need him stopped."

Manse ignored Max's continuing diatribe, and began to inspect his gear. The first case held his work clothes. A brown pullover emblazoned with a dove flying over a yellow field, white bell-bottom slacks, and blue boots and gloves to round out the discotheque fashion nightmare. At the bottom of the case was an odd shaped, sort of triangular pistol. Manse held it up, and looked at Max dubiously.

"They don't make .44 auto-mags anymore. That's a nine-millimeter Calico. Accurate to three hundred feet, high payload and capable of fully automatic firing," the old man stated flatly. "And the suits' not Kevlar anymore. It's made from the new spidersilk they're getting from those God forsaken goats. The techs said the cut was too retro. They were going to change it, but I said you wouldn't approve."

The second case contained a newer model jetpack, and the last made him smile. Within it was a silver helmet, styled like a Pharonic headdress. It also bore the dove insignia, and contained all the controls necessary to operate the jetpack.

Manse stroked the helmet like a long lost lover, "It's been a long time old friend." Mistakenly believing the comment addressed to him, his handler replied, "Yes it has. Yes it has."



The party was in full swing. The plain, white, two-story house was desperately in need of new paint, but was abuzz with activity nonetheless. Deep bass throbbed from within the darkened flat. In the privacy fenced back yard several lights had been set up, illuminating the cheap green tables and chairs that were set up haphazardly anywhere the disheveled bushes and overgrown lawn wouldn't bother the guests overmuch. Two kegs and several buckets of beer on ice were the hottest spots in the yard. Some fifty people milled about.

If anyone saw the black clad intruder creeping slowly atop the fence like a tightrope walker, they were too drunk to care. There was only one way in that wouldn't require waltzing right past the party goers and going inside, the second floor deck. It would be a hard jump, but not impossible. Vigilante steeled himself.

Like an uncoiled spring, he launched himself over the raucous crowd. Vigilante hit the side of the deck hard, grabbing two of the rail supports as he did. 'Home free,' he mused to himself until one of the supports came loose. He dangled there for a moment, cursed his stupidity, and swung up onto the deck.

'Rookie move,' he thought as he checked the door, and pulled a set of lock-picks from one of the pouches on his belt. 'Need to be better than that.' Inserting two of the slim tools and twisting them oh so subtly, he felt a surge of pride as the lock clicked open.

Vigilante quietly opened the door, crept in, and surveyed his surroundings. He stood in a hallway leading to an open landing. Inside, the place was just as disheveled. The intruder was trying to decide whether to check one of the two doors on the left or the door on the right when the music stopped. He froze and frantically scanned the hall, wondering if he'd been caught, when he heard voices wafting up from downstairs.

He crept slowly to the railing. Below he saw the two thugs he took on in park a few days ago, Blow and Jolly, he believed. They were seated on a garish plaid couch with their backs to him. Across a much-abused pine coffee table from them, sat another black man. He was about Vigilante's height and of average build. He was immaculately groomed, bald with a moustache and goatee, and dressed in a brown sports suit and brown gloves. Beside him sat an Asian man of indeterminate age, short and rail thin, his hands steepled before him as if he prayed or was lost in private thought.

Three guards dressed in baggy jeans, sweatshirts, mirror shades and ball caps, also looked on. One sat on the sill of the three windows to the right of the front door, and two sat on a love seat below the staircase on Vigilante's right.

"Profile, it ain't like that. This Power Ranger lookin' dude come outta' nowhere and bum rushed us. Shot me and took Jolly out with that chopsaki crap. No offense, Mr. Masuuki," Blow said, nearly crying. Profile placed his feet on the table and ran a head over his slick skull, lounging back as he did so.

"Between the 'Black Ranger' and that commando the feds sent to take out the casino this morning…Hell, I can't just let this slide. It was one guy. You two can't stop one damn guy!" He was leaning forward now, with both feet on the floor, snarling in rage. "Blow, next time, KILL HIM!"

Blow was visibly shaking, "How? We already tried! He's too damn good!" Profile jumped up from his seat and pulled a nine-millimeter pistol from his belt, "Like this." He emptied the entire clip into Jolly's chest, and the stunned henchman fell forward from his chair.

Vigilante leapt up, pulling his .38 Caliber Service-Six from it's holster and training it on Profile. "Drop it," he growled in a voice harsh and gravelly. The killer smiled as he threw the spent weapon onto Jolly's corpse. Just as he'd hoped, the would-be hero watched it fall. Grabbing Mr. Masuuki, he dove over the back of the couch.

The music resumed, louder than before. Gangsta' Rap this time, presumably to cover up the shots. The three guards were now firing pistols at the intruder. He dropped low behind the railing. Knowing this wouldn't last long; he leapt over the railing.

Vigilante grunted as he hit the couch hard and bounced, firing twice before his feet even hit the floor. One of the guards went down. He swung the weapon left and fired twice at the thug in front of the window, the impact of the power rounds throwing him backwards through the glass.

As the third guard tried frantically to change clips, the hero pistol-whipped him hard, sending him to the floor. He fired his last two shots at Profile and Masuuki as they fled, catching the open door with both.

As Vigilante disengaged the spent cylinder and inserted a speed loader, he realized Blow had regained his courage and was charging. Thinking quickly, the intruder kicked him hard in the sth. Th. The thug cried out, and the front of his shirt was stained crimson by the reopened bullet wound. The hero swung the pistol hard to the right to lock the cylinder and gave chase.

Expecting an ambush, the intruder avoided the door. With arms folded in front of him and head down, he dove through what was left of the shattered window. The hero lurched forward into a somersault and rolled to his feet. As his legs slid wide apart in the gravel driveway, he saw several men surrounding the door, but the one with the shotgun held his full attention.

Vigilante fired three quick shots. The first two hit the porch, but the third one passed through his target's knee. Assessing the four remaining men, he saw that one was armed with a broken bottle. The second had a board and the remaining two held knives. The hero snapped his Service-Six back into its holster and pulled his new numchuks from the back of his belt. With a cautious stride he advanced.

In the red Nissan Xterra parked across the street, Profile raged, "Who in the hell is this punk?" Masuuki eyed the hero intently. "They call him the Vigilante, and if he is half as skilled as his predecessor, no amount of untalented thugs you send against him have any hopes of prevailing. This calls for professional help. I shall arrange it."

"Thank you, sir," Profile responded. Looking back out the window he saw that the last of his guards lay defeated and Vigilante was charging at them. "Go! Go! Go!" As the SUV sped away, it was snapped at several times by .38 power rounds.




Tana wove her way down the corridor towards the canteen. Classes were particularly rough this morning, and she was more than ready for lunch. The deep bass, and haunting melodies of Blue Oyster Cult swam through her iPod. As she entered the canteen, she couldn't help but smile as she saw Paul's handsome face. Tana was growing quite fond of him.

As she walked up, she noticed he was staring with concern at his laptop. "What's wrong?" she asked as she sat down and turned off her headset. His face was grave, "Don't you watch the news."

"I didn't have time last night. I was just going to get a paper after school. Why?" she asked. Paul didn't answer. He merely turned the laptop towards her. Tana stood up and the chair fell over backwards, but she didn't care. Her face flushed with anger, she turned to leave, but Paul seized her around the elbow. "It's not live. It happened yesterday morning," the boy began.

"Hey, you're bleeding," Paul remarked at the growing red stain where he had grabbed. "It's nothing. Bad dismount during practice yesterday," she responded, but her attention was obviously on the scene of the laptops news-feed. "When the hell did they let him out," she stated flatly as she stared at her father's killer. Peacemaker was back. "Let's go out tonight, Paul. I need a drink."