[Dark Defender]

 



My story is different. My story is real. As I write this letter to you I hope you understand why I have to do what I am going to do and why I’ve done some things in my life that I am not proud of. The past year of my life, since my escape, has been a blur. As I’m about to tell you, all of you, you’ll see why. My name is ***BLEEP***. I was normal once, even if that seems like a lifetime ago. I had a beautiful wife and an equally gorgeous young daughter. I had a family that I loved more than anything. I graduated from the police academy with honors and at the top of my class. I was the first person in my class to receive his detective’s shield and I was the youngest detective in the department’s history. In hindsight, I probably pissed a lot of people off in my wake, and knowing what I do now…I should’ve just joined the fire department. Behind all of these wonderful things that one would think would make up a storybook life, there was darkness. There were demons. For years I battled an addiction, hiding it from everyone I knew. I would double dip as a cop and as a junkie and I walked a line that shouldn’t have existed. I put my family through hell and failed them when it was time to bring them back. I tried to live that double life as best I could, and I’ll get more into that in due time, but eventually it caught up to me. Eventually I was ousted for who I really was.

At first there was a mass decree of understanding. Everyone wanted to help, including my co-workers. They believed in me, or so they said, and they wanted to be there to help me pick my life up off of the ground. They told me they would stand by me forever, as long as it took, and they did, until that night. When it came down to it, when I needed them most, no one was there for me. No one came to me and stood by my side. No one asked if I did it. They all believed I had. I spent the next seven years of my life coming to terms with that and what had happened that night and what I realized is that I never will. This last year and all of the things I have done, good, bad or indifferent, will never fill that whole that I feel in my chest. All I can do now is hope that what I’ve done, and what I am going to do next, will help me sleep at night since it has been a long time since I have.


It was cold and wet. As he lay down underneath the surface, in a truck load of household garbage, he felt the dampness soak into his orange jumpsuit. He heard the truck come to a complete stop, the loud brakes tightening, and the roar of the engine cutting out. He could hear the driver swing the door open and hop out, shutting the heavy steel door behind him as he trudged through what sounded like a muddy terrain. He shut his eyes and began to count. He told himself he would need to wait fifteen minutes before he could begin his arduous climb out of the sea of garbage. He counted to twenty just in case.

He swam through the sea of garbage as quickly but as quietly as he could. When he got to the wall of the trailer he began to pull himself out of the days old pile of half eaten sandwiches, banana peels, and empty milk cartons. His long, muscular arms reached the edge of the trailer and he slowly pulled himself out, exposing his now fully soiled orange jumpsuit. The rain was still pouring and had now moved on to a steady stream of prickling drops that bounced off his shoulders. He peered over the edge of the trailer and looked for the workers although no one was in sight. He quickly hopped up and pushed himself off of the trailer and down to the muddy ground below.

ZING!

His body tightened as his feet hit the wet dirt. He could feel whatever the foreign object was that he had just landed on, burying itself into his foot. He flinched as he crept, walking slowly toward the trailer-like office just a few hundred yards in front of him. As he moved he could feel the pain emanating from his left heel. He lifted up his leg to see a half broken beer bottle hanging out of his foot. He clenched his teeth as, with one swift motion, he ripped the bottle from his leg. Trying to protect the wound, he ripped a piece of his soiled orange jumpsuit off and wrapped it around his foot. He then set his sights back on the office and moved forward. As he got closer he could hear the voices coming from inside. He quickly ducked behind an old red pickup truck that was parked about one hundred feet away. He noticed a set of dirty, oil-stained coveralls inside. He quickly opened the door and ripped off his soaking wet orange jumpsuit and quietly slipped on the grease covered dark grey jumpsuit that had sat on the front seat. As he got dressed he picked up a ‘Realtree’ baseball cap and slid it on, covering his knotted long hair and then he saw them. Sitting in the ignition were the keys. He slipped into the truck and got behind the wheel. He hesitated for a moment, about to break the law for the first real time in his life, and then turned the engine over, flung the gear-shift into drive, and slammed on the accelerator. The tires spun and kicked up an enormous amount of mud before taking off toward the entrance to the dump. As he hit dry payment he looked into the rear view mirror and saw two men chasing after him. After a moment they disappeared from his sight and sigh of relief had come over him. He looked down to see his bare foot dripping blood all over the floor of the truck and, against his better judgment, followed the sign on the side of the road that said ‘H’.


There are certain aspects of my life that I’ll never share with you as I don’t believe it is necessary to do so. What I will share with you in this memoir is what I’ve done to bear the burden that I feel today. I’m not a Catholic but my soul feels like it needs to confess its sins. These sins, while justified as they may be to me, will no doubt spurn me in your eyes. You will not feel pity for my story or me when I am done, nor am I asking you to, but this story must be told. The things that I have done, in their names, must be known. But to understand the hateful burden that is now mine to carry, you must understand who I am and why I do the things that I do. For this purpose, we will call her Sarah.

Sarah and I grew up next door to each other. We were childhood friends, the best you could imagine. Although she was a girl and I was a boy, we did everything together. I would sit in on her tea parties and she would be my kung fu master. She was the best friend I ever had, even at that moment. As years came and went, we remained close. Gone were the tea parties and kung fu sessions, replaced by poetry readings and paintball expeditions. I excelled in sports and in academics while Sarah struggled. She would daydream for hours about moving far away from the city she felt a deep disdain for. No matter how much I tried to make her smile, my positive effects eventually faded away. We remained by each other’s side until our high school graduation, when I went away to State University and Sarah…well she got left behind. She went to the City Community College and when I came back home for my first summer vacation she was gone. Without a word to me she had met a man, gotten married, and left the city we grew up in, the urban jungle she hated. As much as I was devastated and alone, I was happy for her. She had found her way out.

After just four years I had returned home, degree in hand, looking to make my mark on our city. I was shocked when I saw Sarah’s house, just next-door, boarded up and in disarray. When I had inquired about it my mother had informed me that Sarah’s father had passed away and that her mother had moved out west to live with sister. When I asked about Sarah my mother didn’t have an answer. No one knew where she was. I felt sad for her and wondered where she might have been, imagining her as a happy housewife in some far away rural county. I moved on and I applied for Law School at the City University and enrolled myself into the police academy. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to one day be police captain, district attorney, and maybe even mayor. I was a ‘golden boy’ as my mother would refer to me, and a useless dreamer as my father would say. Nevertheless I completed the academy with honors and got my first city beat. I was as happy as I could’ve been without her.


When he finally pulled up to the small country hospital, about two hours north of the city he knew, he felt as if half of the blood from his body had been drained on to the floor of that old red pickup truck. He slowly shifted the old truck’s transmission into park and sat back in the seat, letting out a long sigh. He knew that he was risking everything by coming here but he knew if he died in the street all of this would’ve been for nothing. He took another long gasp of air before opening the driver’s side door. He cautiously swung his legs around and stepped out on to his right foot. Trying to put as little pressure on his left foot as possible, he dragged his left leg behind his right as headed toward the Emergency Room entrance. As the doors electronically opened, glass panes moving on their own, he felt his eyes roll to the back of his head. To prevent himself from falling down he grabbed a nearby nurse who screamed when he touched her. His legs buckled and he hit the floor and everything went black.

When he came to he was resting on a cot in a quiet, secluded room. Covered in white subway style tiles, the room was a bit antiquated. The fluorescent light on the ceiling flickered and buzzed as he finally came to. The initial shock of waking up caused him to jump up in the gurney. Gone were his dirty coveralls, replaced by a checkered hospital gown and a wristlet that had the stereotypical ‘JOHN DOE’ printed on it. Thoughts raced through his mind as he frantically searched around the room. How long would it take to figure out who he was? Did they call the police? He remembered his foot and wondered how much blood he had lost. He looked down to see his heel neatly bandaged up with tape and wrap. He spotted his coveralls on the chair across from the bed and thought to himself that this was his only chance. He had to get dressed and slip out of the hospital before anyone called the police. As he went to slide out of the cot the door opened, causing him to freeze in the bed. An attractive young Asian woman dressed in light blue hospital scrubs and a long white lab coat walked in. She carried a clipboard with a hot pink pen attached to it and had a bright brown stethoscope hanging around her neck. Her hair was short, cropped just above her ears, and she wore thick round rimmed glasses that covered her tired eyes. She glanced over her clipboard for a few moments before looking up to make eye contact with him. When she did, she was taken back by the scars on his face and by his tense nature. The two stood frozen in eye contact, neither one saying a word, until the female doctor finally broke the silence.

“You gave us a pretty good scare there.” Her voice was soft, much softer than he was used to, and he tried to loosen up. “You cut yourself pretty bad. We were able to remove any broken glass and close the wound but it looks like you may have lost a lot of blood. Do you have anyone you can call? You probably shouldn’t drive for the next 48 hours or so.” He stared at her for a long moment before shaking his head just a bit, indicating a negative response. “Well I can probably let you stay here tonight if you like, on the count that you passed out on Nurse Williams and all. But I can’t in good faith let you drive out of here.” She was kind. She had a genuine look in her eye and for the first time in years he felt as if someone had even an ounce of interest in him. She walked around the bed and went to go sit down next him, which made him flinch when she got close. “I didn’t mean to…I’m sorry. I just wanted to get a closer look at those scars. May I?” He didn’t stop her as she reached her hand towards his face. She gently grazed her fingertips across the deep scars on the lower half of his face. “Do they hurt?” He nodded. “It looks like there may have been some nerve damage. Who was your doctor?” He lowered his eyes down when she asked him. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t…” she let her sentence trail off as they caught eye contact again. “What’s your name?” He stared for a long hard moment. He wanted to tell her but he knew he couldn’t he searched his mind for a response and let the first pseudonym he thought of slip off of his tongue. “Damian.” He didn’t expect her to believe him, and she probably didn’t, but she never showed it. She just smiled at him. “Well, Damian, I’m Dr. Hung. It’s a pleasure to meet you. A nurse will be in here shortly with some food and to change that dressing on your foot. If you need anything you let me know, ok?” She smiled again as she stood up and left the room, this time leaving the door cracked just a bit.

He felt comfortable with her. He didn’t know why but he felt a connection with her for some reason. He waited a few moments before breaking his new found trust with his new doctor. He slipped out of the room and headed down the hall. As he turned the corner there were two policemen, which immediately forced him to turn back. He stood with his back up against the wall, breathing heavily, waiting for the police officers to walk down the hall. When they did he turned the corner, ducking into a staff locker room, which was a complete accident. The room was empty save for a row of tall green lockers against the far wall. He darted toward them and began trying to open them one at a time. The first four were locked shut with combination padlocks and the fifth was unlocked, but for good reason as it was empty. The sixth however was unlocked and full of clothes. He ripped off his hospital gown before taking out the black cargo pants and slipping them on. The black boots were a perfect fit. The grey hooded sweatshirt was a bit tight but it did the trick. He politely left behind the owner’s wallet, save for some cash, and other personal belongings. He quietly slipped out of the locker room and headed down the hallway toward the exit. His foot hurt but it was manageable. No pain was worse than whatever he had already endured and this was nothing compared to what had lied ahead of him. As he reached the end of the hallway he peered into the main lobby to make sure there wasn’t an army of police waiting for him. Much to his disbelief, there wasn’t. As he was about to step into the lobby something caught his right eye. He turned his head and took notice of a supply cart that had been temporarily abandoned. He quickly rifled through it, grabbing new bandages for his foot and medical tape. As he picked through the cart one final time drew his attention. He looked down and saw a surgical mask. He picked it up and gently pressed his fingers to the front of it, contemplating on whether or not he should take it. He held it up and as he looked at it, something in his brain clicked. He had an epiphany. He shoved the mask into his pocket and walked through the lobby and out the front door. As he walked out side there were two police officers looking over the red pickup truck. Standing there with them was Dr. Hung. They were looking for the scarred patient Damian that had just mysteriously walked out of his room, not ***BLEEP*** the escaped felon. Still, the truck was stolen, and he wasn’t medically cleared to leave. He turned the other way and headed down the state highway and back toward the city. He was coming home…and hell was coming with him.


”My journey has led me here. My blood war has brought me to Sin City Wrestling. Someone here knows who I am and someone here knows why I’ve come. It certainly isn’t to fight some C plus midnight Cinemax action movie bit player like Thaddeus Stone. I understand the contract that I’ve signed. I understand what it is I have to do here, both in Milan and the rest of the world, but make no mistake…I am here to find you….and you know who you are.”

“So I will go along with this charade, just as you have, and I will fight everyone I have to just to get to you in the end. The problem for Stone is that he just doesn’t get it. He mocks my name, a name I didn’t give myself, and likens me to some comic book character. He tries to attack my creativity when nothing about what I am doing is creative. Nothing here is fantasy. So when he tweets to the world and to his eleven fans, he thinks he’s insulting me. He thinks his childish insults, calling me ‘Batboy’, actually resonate with me. Unlike Stone, I don’t need SCW to validate who I am. I’m not some failed movie star who pretends he’s an award winning ‘star’. He’s nothing. He’s a failure, and quite frankly he’s a waste of my time.”

“Just because Thaddeus Stone gives himself a laundry list of generic nick names doesn’t mean he’s made himself important. In actuality he’s probably done the opposite. His gimmick is tired, bland, and it’s ordinary; so ordinary that he’s actually a second rate copy of someone who’s already here, even going as far as stealing someone else’s taglines. But again, ‘Batboy’? I’m going to take a moment and talk directly to you Thaddeus so your laymen brain might have a better shot of understanding what I am trying to say. Try looking in the mirror, Stone. Try taking a hard look at yourself before walking into a situation you know nothing about and waving your finger around as if you are above anyone. The cold hard truth about your story is that you’re going to fail here. Just as you’ve failed in your dream of becoming a star, you’re going to stick that tail between your legs and march straight back to England where you came from. Returning home a failure and a forgotten son. You’re destined to be a nobody in this life and coming to Sin City Wrestling will only prove that. Luckily for you, we’re touring in Europe so you won’t have to pay for a trans-Atlantic flight.”

“I won’t torture you here, Stone. I won’t keep reminding you about how useless your life really is. I won’t keep talking about how much you’ve failed in your life. Not just in your pathetic straight to DVD action movies but also wrestling in the independent scene. After being trained by such a great group of teachers and doing nothing with it, you must be their biggest regret. They must look at you as their biggest disappointment in life. How someone who should have such natural athletic ability could be such a loser must be hard for them to swallow, let alone you. I won’t keep touting your ridiculous attempt at being an alpha male. Trying to run in on your first week and be a ‘top dog’ by running your mouth at me and everyone else. Trying to tell everyone who would listen how much better than them you are and coming off as if it were a pleasure that you have ‘arrived’ in Sin City Wrestling. All the while pretending to be the second coming of the biggest fan favorite in this company. The cold hard truth is you have no fans. There are no supporters, and there is no ‘Stone Nation’. There is just a sad six foot tall man who has lived on this planet nearly twenty seven years and has nothing but a collection of terrible direct to DVD films as his legacy. I pity you Thaddeus. Not because you really are talentless. But because you’re pretending to be something you’re not. Because all of this energy you spend trying to prove to the world that you are in fact the ‘King of Cinema’ is causing you to waste away. Take a piece of advice from this ‘Batboy’. The sooner you embrace who you really are the sooner you will thrive. The quicker you come to terms with the person that actually lives inside of you the quicker you will be able to shed that loser label. The longer you pretend to be a fan loving movie star…the longer the list of your failures will grow. It’s time, Thaddeus. It’s time to stop lying to yourself and everyone else. It’s time to be the real Stone.”


That first city beat was brutal. It was in the heart of the ‘Hell Zone’, which was the name us cops had given the northern neighborhood of Westfield. It was a dirty place, filled with dealers, pimps, gang bangers, and prostitutes. I would walk Third Street up and down from six in the evening until about two in the morning, five nights per week. It was usually the same business every shift. A drunken homeless person screaming over something, a young dealer caught selling some dope. After about a year on the force, the days started to blend together. I would punch in and out for my shift and feel like I hadn’t accomplished much of anything. I was a young cop working in the most dangerous neighborhood in the city and I was bored. Imagine that? I was making arrests twice, sometimes three times per night and I still felt as though something was missing. I was yearning for something, anything, to happen to me. There was a whole inside of me and I didn’t know how to fill it, at least not at that point anyway. Nothing ever changed and nothing was ever different. Nothing before that night anyway.

I had been working a particular alley the past couple of weeks. It seemed to have been a hot bed for crack addicts and hookers. It usually meant an easy arrest if there was someone in there when I walked in. It was a cool March night. I remember it as if it were yesterday. I had already made one arrest from the alley that night and it wasn’t even eight o’clock yet. I stopped for dinner at the burger joint on the corner of Third Street and American Ave and had their “Bazooka Burger”. A half-pound of deliciously greasy ground beef, topped with pepper jack cheese, jalapeno peppers, thick-cut bacon, and some sort of spicy mayonnaise. All of which was shoved on to the most delicious bun. I remember this only because for some reason I ordered a Sprite with it. I was a religious Coca-Cola drinker but for some reason, on that March night, I craved a Sprite. After finishing my burger I headed east on Third Street toward the alleyway. I stopped along the way to check on another site I knew but there was no activity there. Sometimes I look back and wish there was. How different my life might have been. By the time I got to the alleyway it was about eight-thirty and darkness had fully set in. I heard some noises coming from the shadows so I quickly drew my flashlight and shined it as far as I could, just in time to watch a young girl buy some crack. As soon as the light flashed the dealer was gone. It was as if he had vanished into thin air. This left me all alone with his customer. She tried to take off as well but I was too fast for her. I grabbed her and threw her down on a pile of garbage bags. She tried to kick me off of her so she could run again so I was forced to use some of my strength to hold her down. She struggled for a bit before she screamed out at me.

“Stop it! Please get off of me…I’m pregnant!”

As soon as she spoke I knew who she was. I would know that voice anywhere. Sarah wasn’t a housewife in a far away rural county. She was a pregnant junkie and she was right here, in the city, in my alley.

To be continued…