So-Called Hero

Chapter 1: Washed Up

Third-person pov:

It's been what? Five months? Five years? It all toke by within a heartbeat.

Hoyt was lost. No wife, no children. Living in a torn-up, cockroach infested apartment. All of his money gone down the drain, all thanks to his drinking and alcoholism. No mental support clinics out there, no one to turn to. He was all alone. Depressed and infamous has-been.

He had just lost his job a few years ago, and has been struggling to get back on his feet. Shifting between crappy part-time jobs, starting bar fights for apparently no reason. It was almost like he was drifting through life without a purpose. 

The vicious routine went on...

Hoyt was sitting all by himself, drinking his sorrows and traumas away. It felt like pieces of his soul were diminishing by the second, with each sip. The liquor burned his throat as it slid down his esophagus. He set the bottle down and started to pant heavily from the lack of oxygen he was having.

He started down at the counter with dark bags under his eyes. His hair was well unkempt and his skin was pale and scabby. It was like his body was going into a dismal state.

The bartender approached him, suddenly. "Eh-yo, Hoyt. Chill the fuck out will ya?" The bartender said with his Italian accent.

Hoyt looked up at him but still kept his head down. He didn't even want to look at him, because he was so ashamed. "Sorry, man. That's the only shit that gets me through all this..." Hoyt said, softly.

The bartender took his glass and started to clean it out with a rag. "Look. I know it ain't easy, but you got some serious, fucked up problems. No offense to you, my friend." The bald, Italian bartender informed Hoyt.

Hoyt just curled his lip in reflection and shook his head slightly, looking away. "Whatever... Just get me another drink, will ya?" Hoyt muttered.

"Alright. But this is the last one. I'm cuttin' ya off after this." The bartender said, walking away. 

"If you say so." Hoyt added on, looking away with his melancholic expression. 

He looked at the clock and it was 11:58 pm. Almost midnight. Hoyt sighed and looked down. It was getting late. He was starting to feel tipsy, he was starting to feel sore, he was starting to feel exhausted. He just wanted to go home and rest his head.

It surprised him in a way. He used to be one of the top police officers back at the NYPD, but now, he's just a fragile, broken man with nothing else going for him. He never felt so worthless in his life.

If only there was an opportunity. An opportunity where he could do a good deed for someone.

(Time-Skip) 

Hoyt was walking home after his late night drinking session. Though he wasn't buzzed out of his mind, he was still able to walk home safely. Sure, he felt tingly, but that wasn't enough to stop him. 

Hoyt had his hands in his pockets, walking home in the dark, cold, lonely streets. Thank God there weren't any junkies around. That'd be a massive pain. Hoyt looked down at the ground with his worn out, tired, melancholic expression as he continued walking.

That expression was an expression that almost really suited him. He couldn't smile, he couldn't laugh. And hell, why should he? It was almost like he deserved to be put in that position. Though it was never really his fault. He wanted to get everything done, the old fashion way.

His moment of peace was then interrupted by someone screaming in a nearby alleyway. "HELP!!" Someone exclaimed.

That caught Hoyt's attention. Sure, Hoyt was a little washed up, but that didn't mean he couldn't scrap. Hell, he scrapped when he was blind out drunk. 

Wasting no time, Hoyt ran over to investigate the noise. He turned a corner and Hoyt was inflamed at the next sight.

There were two thugs, rubbing a poor old chap. He was on the ground, while two broad men were kicking the living shit out of him. 

Hoyt clenched his fists in rage and yelled, "Hey!" to grasp their attention.

The two men stopped and turned around to see who shouted at them. Hoyt stared at the men with a menacing death stare, while the men stared at him back. "Who the fuck do you think you are?" One of the thugs asked.

Hoyt continued to clench his fists in anger whilst glaring at them. He didn't respond. He just stood there, stoically. The men started to slowly approach Hoyt aggressively. "Who the fuck do you think you are?" The thug asked again, stepping closer.

Hoyt sneered at them. "I'm your worst nightmare, asshole." Hoyt said, smugly.

The thugs then stopped towards him. The first guard came at him with a punch, saying a final time, "Who the fuck do you think you-" The thugs was then cut off by Hoyt smashing him in the face before he could, knocking him down.

The second thug came at him, punching Hoyt in the left cheek bone. That did nothing but anger Hoyt more. Hoyt then grabbed the thug's coat and flipped him over his back, slamming him to the ground.

The first thug then got up and came at him with another swing. Hoyt blocked it with his left forearm and hit the guard in the face again. He then threw the first thug on the second guard, knocking them back down.

The thugs got up and immediately became more aggressive. Hoyt stood there with his hands ready, prepared for anything. One guard then pulled out a knife. Hoyt was caught off guard, but he could still handle himself.

The first thug with the knife came at Hoyt with a jab. Hoyt knocked his arm away, and the thug came at him with a swing. That put a slice on Hoyt's upper chest and blood drew. Hoyt put his hand on the cut and grew more angry.

Hoyt was in pure wrath at this point. Hoyt screamed with such rage as he grabbed the thug's arm that was holding the knife and punched him so hard in the head, so much so that the thug's light was able to get knocked out.

The thug fell on the ground unconscious, while the second thug came at Hoyt, trying to get a hold of him. Hoyt grasped him back and headbutted the thug. The thug was stunned and Hoyt took that advantage to throw him on the ground and stomp on his face.

That surely knocked the last thug unconscious. Hoyt started to pant heavily from all the rage and exertion he was feeling. It was like he had become a legit monster. His heart was pounding and thunder struck. It began to rain as Hoyt continued to catch his breath. 

After a few seconds, Hoyt sighed and began to calm down a bit. Hoyt fixed up his coat and looked at the victim. "You okay, buddy?" Hoyt asked him.

The victim was in awe for a moment before snapping out of it. "Y-Yeah... I think..." The victim replied, still shivering.

Hoyt walked over to the victim and lent out his arm. "Here. I'll help you up." Hoyt said, beckoning his hand.

The victim grasped Hoyt's hand and Hoyt pulled, assisting the victim back on their feet. The victim dusted themselves off and exhaled. "Whew. I don't know what would've happened if you hadn't come along," the victim said with such gratitude.

Hoyt smiled at him, warmly. "Eh, don't mention it. Low-lifes are not the only thing crawling around here," he replied, as the victim walked away.

Hoyt looked at the victim and smiled with pride. He hadn't felt like a hero in so long. It felt strange to him. Sure. Hoyt was a little buzzed, but that didn't mean his skills had left him. He continued to give a melancholic smile, while looking down at the ground. 

"Heh. Not bad for a washed up ex-cop..." Hoyt muttered.