DEPRESSION COMICS #1
Every year it was the same thing. October the 25th was the day where 911 rang for hours without a single soul allowed to answer. Hal always had a feeling as soon as vigilantes and genetic altering were outlawed the government would soon enact one of the many crazy fucking plans in order to “stop” crime. 24 hours without any punishment. A day without any police, hospital or fire brigade at all. It was a day for your neighbours to finally jab garden shears down your throat because you didn’t say hello some Sunday morning.
Through the CCTV monitors he could make out a large group of neighbours outside. They were gathered in a crowd at his front garden, maybe twenty of them. One of them stood above them all, on the hood of a car. She was in charge of the small group based on the fact everyone seemed to be listening to her.
After years of casual unrest and the occasional brick thrown through his window Hal understood what was happening, they were sick of the fact he could kill them all without much effort, they were sick of the fact there sons were still reading about him, they were fucking disgusted by the fact he had a nicer house then all of them just because he got mutated into a comic book hero.
They were getting ready to jam there shears down his throat.
Hal stood up slowly. His back aching as crumbs from a half eaten pizza fell on the floor. This wasn’t like the olden days he thought to himself. He hasn’t moved out of his office chair for at least six hours except for the occasional piss. It was a mockery really, being surrounded by dozens of front page newspaper articles about him. Storeys about his first days as a back alley vigilante “Angel” then continuing to his work in the super hero team dubbed by the media “Hells Angels” and then only one paper, about the jobs in Israel. No one liked to discuss what happened there.
Then he faded to obscurity as the law started getting enforced. A few times his names popped up in documentaries and studies on heroes but after five years of protecting his country Hal was swept underneath the rug, except for the exposé done on him in the tabloids after his ex wife done an interview with anyone who’d give her money. He respected the move, make money where and when you can, especially if your husband was a piece of shit most of the time.
He ran his hands through his wispy white hair. Hal realized he might die tonight, as he heard the front door be smashed down. As he looked at the monitor the last of the crowd outside ran into his front door. He heard them scrambling through his nice two story home. Hal heard something crash into his expensive flat screen. He heard them run through the hall. As one of them wrapped their hands around the office door Hal accepted something.
Hal was okay with dying.
The first attacked opened the door and was taken aback slightly. Through the balaclava he could make out an old skinny man in a stained wife beater and shorts sitting in a dark room with half eaten food. Not the superhero they all thought they were going in there to kill.
Hal didn’t hesitate and flew at the man, with his fist outstretched. As the punch connected Hal could feel the bone crushing beneath his weight. The first attackers head exploded, brain tissue and skull plastered the Hal and walls around him.
This is what power felt like. Not getting ranked number one in a match of Call of Duty or getting all the answers right in a game of family feud. Down the hall a group of three stared him, throughout their childhoods they watched his Saturday morning cartoons and played with his figures. Now they saw him punch a man’s brain out of his head in seconds.
As Hal wiped the blood from his face one of the assailants came to their senses and charged, with a large knife in hand. He was the mailman. Hal readied himself as the mailman attacked with two faces he didn’t recognize following closely behind him. Both women each were holding a sharp kitchen knife. The mailman slashed as he reached Hal. Barely missing as the old man stepped backwards. Hal grabbed the man’s arm and snapped it cleanly. The sound sent familiar chills down his spine. The mailman fell to the ground and Hal stepped over him to deal with the two women, one young, one old. They both slashed at the same time, one aiming for the stomach and another for the forehead. Something told Hal this wasn’t there first attempted murder that night.
Hal grimaced as he ducked underneath the first knife and let the second one shred across his shin. Blood seeped from the cut and ran down his leg; it soaked into his cheap sports sock. He panicked at the sight of blood and sent out a wild punch in the direction of the older one and connected with her shoulder. She sprawled to the floor, with at least one of her arms out of use. The younger one snarled at swung again, this time only barely missing his throat. As she readied herself for the second swing Hal grabbed onto her shoulders and prepared himself. It’s been a while since he’s bothered doing this.
Hal lifted her above his head and flew directly above him into the ceiling. As the woman connected with the ceiling he paused for a second and listened. The knife dropped into the floor as breath left her body.
Hal dropped to the floor and as the corpse crashed behind him he looked at the bloody imprint above him.
“Flying is the fucking best”. Hal smiled as he walked towards the older woman who was sat with her back to the wall, her eyes looking through Hal, at the younger woman dead behind him. The retired hero limped over to her, his shin still bleeding. Calmly put his hands on wall and breathed.
Then put his foot through her head and the wall.
His living room was where the majority of the gang were waiting. All of them had some sort of weapon on them, mostly just household objects but through the crowd Hal could make out a few guns. They’d have to be dealt with quickly.
What followed was a blur. The attackers put up a decent fight but it wasn’t anything compared to what Hal could do. In the small house swinging was difficult and firearms were causing more harm to themselves then to the person they were trying to kill. Hal himself relished the fight. Maybe it was the past twenty years of watching action movies he relished to finally do something interesting. Back in the days of Hell Angels and even when he was solo he never hit this level of ferocity, before Afghanistan he might’ve killed maybe four or five people. After tonight it was definitely in the dozens.
Susan wretched once again as she watched The Angel kick the head off her milkman. There were maybe four of them left. At least two of them were hiding amongst the corpses, posed as dead bodies. She was sat on a stool, not out of choice but before her legs was stamped into smithereens a few moments ago. She couldn’t help but feel it was her fault for what was happening. She was the one to rally them all together and give an emotional speech on top a car outside a house. There wasn’t even a reason for the actions other then she wanted to someone to die. Susan never hated heroes; she was only ten or so when they were being kicked out of society.
The Angel stumbled after a young man, trying to escape but was treated to a fist through the torso. Susan never paid attention to Hero politics but now she understood the ban on any more genetic altering. All it took was for one of “Heroes” to get old and desperate for any sort of attention turn them wrong.
The closest known hero she knew about was at least a few miles away and the casual civilians out rioting tonight were not prepared for The Angel. Not until someone with a gun and quick aim finds him he will keep going till the 25th is over.
The Angel turned around from the young man. The man’s body still skewered onto his arm. Susan and The Angel made eye contact.