Nightmares

Catchphrase

Cole was really wishing he had more seriously considered a gun. Or at least a bow. At the age of sixteen, acquiring a gun would be difficult, and guns are easily traceable, but he could have at least considered a bow. He'd sunk nearly as much money into knives, and now, sitting in a fork of a tree ten yards away from his target his aversion to being linked to established fictional vigilantes like Arrow seemed silly.

The tree sat at the edge of a park. There was a cast iron fence below him, the little spear-shaped points glowing in the orange hue of the old street lamp that was giving its all in the losing battle to light the area. Cole knew this was a frequent place for illegal transactions, and, as the stars indicated the passing of time, he was pleased to see his efforts rewarded.

Cole realized that ten yards was a large distance across the open grass of the park. But this was of no consequence. As he watched the deal taking place in front of him, he decided that he may as well take the plunge. He jumped down to the grass below and flung a four inch blade at the non-targeted individual. The buyer was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. The blade struck just below the knee, and the unidentified person crumpled to the ground, in too much pain to even scream.

"Joseph McKissack, do you fear death?" Viper hissed. The dealer reached for his sidearm, a mistake that was met with quick action as he discovered what eight inches of serrated steel felt like when sheathed in his lower abdomen. "I guess so," came the soft hissing voice again, chilling Joseph deep inside.

"Who are you?" Joseph asked in a shaking voice.

"Viper. Where are you getting these?" The question was clarified with the wave of a hand toward the packages of drugs lying on the ground where the unfortunate buyer had dropped them.

"I... if I tell you he'll kill me."

"You know what hurts worse then eight inches of serrated steel going into your stomach? Eight inches of serrated steel coming out." The point of the statement was made more clear when Viper, who by this time was very close to Joseph, clutched the hilt of the blade and gave a small tug that was met with a strangled gasp.

"Now you can give me what I want, or I can take it from your bloody, pain-wracked mind, as your last breath rattles from your lungs. Your choice." Viper was quite proud of the hiss he had managed to use that whole time, and could see that it was affecting Joseph.

"I don't know a name! Just... ah... a place. Third Street and Pearl Avenue. 1 AM every Tuesday. Please just let me go!"

With a smirk, Viper did just that. He released Joseph, but with his hand still on the knife handle, as the man tipped backward, the blade began to pull out. The pain was made evident by the wretched cry. Hoping to silence the noise, Viper kicked the middle of the dealer's chest, causing the blade to be let free for a quick slash across the neck.

The man was shocked as the blood poured from his body. In a show of just how pathetic he had become, with his dying breath on his lips he reached for one more high, but was never able to take the pill, his eyes glazing over as he went still and the blood stopped flowing.

Viper turned to the person who had been buying drugs had passed out not long after the blade had entered his leg. Pulling the knife out woke him, and, seeing the faceless shadow in front of him, he whimpered.

"Tell your druggie friends that the Viper is hunting." Was the only thing he heard. Opening his eyes, which he had clenched shut as the figure had leaned in to whisper that order, he looked about to see... nothing.

Viper had beat a hasty path back to the tree, and swung himself into the branches to insure his order would be carried out. After the drug addict had left, Viper followed him, making his way across the low roofs of the slums. Seeing the druggie stumble into a run down shack, the vigilante determined that the whole thing was now out of his hands, and, therefore, he made his way home, slipped in through the window, and disrobed. He stuffed the outfit back into the tattered bag and shoved it into the back of the closet. He cleaned the blood from his blades before slipping back beneath the covers, and glancing once more at the awful red glare. It now said "3:17." He shut his eyes and all was dark.