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Thunder King

Late Night Patrol

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Bedlam City, 11:57 PM, May 20th, 2017
John was sitting in a corner. He had a brown bag bottle in his hand, but it was just water. He wore an old rayon jacket over a stained t-shirt and a pair of tattered, holey shoes. He kept his head down. He was just one more homeless man, one more bum. This face was an older man, graying, paunched, haggard. Looked like a man with a hard life. 

 

He didn't even look up when he heard the car stop, or the men get out of the car. There were two of them, one was noticeably heavier than the other, had heavier steps. He didn't look up when he heard the shuffle of footsteps heading into the alleyway. He didn't need to look up, he just sipped his brown bag water. There were more people in the alley, come from the other side. They were talking in hushed tones. This one was a gun deal. Someone was selling a couple of handguns to someone else. This one was important. 

 

His hearing was so much sharper than it used to be. He could hear the rats in the building behind him, skittering in the darkness. More importantly, he could hear the voices, the gun deal. The seller and buyer were easy to discern. He'd follow the buyer, first. Get the guns.

Edited by Thunder King

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The sellers were on the same side of the alley as he was, left their car all alone. Too far from the alley to keep an eye on it, or even to hear it well. They really should have paid more attention.  Should have parked closer, should have kept it close. Big mistake.

 

If they had bothered to pay attention on their way out, they would have seen that the bum across the street was now gone. He was already on one of the buildings, watching silently as the buyers headed out of the alley. The sellers weren't going anywhere for a while. 

 

He watched the buyers from above. They were actually close to the alley.  Two men, one had the guns under one arm, not the most convincing act. 

They reached the car, and he crouched to jump. He felt the wind in his coat, and waited. As soon as he saw they were ready to get in the car, he leaped.

 

He landed behind one of the men and knocked his legs from under him. The other man turned around to see his friend, on the ground, out cold.

 

"What the..." he felt the hand around his throat as he left his feet, gazing down. The eyes could be anyone's eyes, the mouth, anyone's mouth. That coat, though.
 

Edited by Thunder King

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"You know me." He said, a grim smile on his lips. "Good." Then he simply knocked him unconscious. Both buyers were out cold right in front of their vehicle, and John had the guns. A handful of handguns, off the streets, out of their hands. Not much, but every little bit helped. Fewer weapons, not a cure, but a treatment. 

 

The sellers were easier. John came around to the other side of the building as they stared incredulously at the open hood and the missing battery. He almost chuckled. They really sucked at this job. He mused that, in a better town, these thugs would have been arrested a long time ago, in prison. Not Bedlam, in Bedlam the law sucked.

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"Sucks, doesn't it." He said, landing on the other side of the car. "Feeling lost. Feeling stuck." His voice was cold. They were nervous. Very nervous. That was good. Shaken people rarely focus, rarely think straight. Or shoot straight, for that matter.

 

The seller pulled a gun. A snub nosed revolver. Classic. Six shots. Held it in one shaking hand. Lousy shot. John slid over the hood and kicked the wind from him, sending him sprawling to the ground. He groaned ineffectually, but John didn't have time to waste on him.

 

The other man pulled his gun, held it in both hands. Much better shot. John dropped and kicked his legs from under him. As he lay groaning on the ground, John punched him in the forehead, knocking him cold.
 

Four men, on either side of an alley, unconscious. Probably had records, didn't matter. Even if the cops did catch them red handed, there wasn't much hope to it. 

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He searched both men for the conspicuous bag of money from the sale and pocketed it, and both of their guns. He placed the guns in the same bag. He already had a plan for disposing them. Take them back to his motel room. Disassemble them, destroy them. He was familiar with the guns, similar to what police used. Wasn't anything too dangerous, too big, but whatever worked.

 

John knew his chances of fixing Bedlam didn't exist. The problem was it's soul. Beyond the crime, beyond the violence. It was a city without hope, without ideals. If these guns didn't get to kill any kids or help in any liquor store robberies, if they weren't used in a drug deal gone wrong, well, John mused. That was good enough for now.

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