Member
Half Pint
Simple Unicycle
Izurich
nightmare medx
Morden Man
Sep
PatientBean
DocTachyon
Fogwell's Gym
Hell's Kitchen, New York
the rain pitter patter pitter patters as a rainstorm, a torrential downpour, the hardest weve had all year runsoff through the shoddy insulation around the windows
My lungs flap frivolously as I feel my bird chest exploding. For just a moment, I take a single breath, stretching for the rafters encased in darkness, save for the dim streetlight at the windows edge, before being whisked away by the rhythm of the bag’s shallow gasps. I know what I’m doing. I hear the sound of my own heavyweight hands jogging up and down every inch of faded yellow leather, sinking into the soft spots, my shoulder recoiling against the tougher clusters. But I can’t really picture it. I don’t know what it looks like to throw a punch firsthand. These greasy muscles of mine barely feel like my own. When I’m like this, it feels like I’m sitting on my own father’s shoulders, like I’m listening to him beat this thing down. And that’s how it’s always felt.
the rain pitter patter pitter patters as a semi truck rolls by as a pair of men are saturated in the curbside spray
Barreling forward, I grab the heap in a bear hug, feeling the five o'clock shadow on my neck scratch against the seam as all two hundred pounds of blind fury take it for a ride. I hear something inside the bag click and clap as I land behind it, the chain suspending it squealing like a schoolgirl. It doesn't matter. Nothing here matters. I'm here to hit it until one of us collapses and all I have to keep myself off the ground are my own two feet. As the minutes roll on, I taste the air that I've already exhaled. My shoes don't hug the mat the same way they did before it was covered in sweat.
the rain pitter patter pitter patters as a defeated man stomps in soggy sneakers when hed rather be at home
And then I slip. It's been happening more lately. I'm not the young buck I was when I started. There's no wise old janitor around to beat me until I get back on my feet. No stupid old fool to tell me to stop hitting the bags and start hitting the books. I hit the ground. And I remember that this extremely used body isn't my father's. I never saw him this tired. Then I'm up again. Panting and drinking liter after liter waiting for my head to stop feeling lighter.
the rain pitter patter pitter patters an old man swears as ssssstip the rain clips and creeps in through the front door
"Excuse me, Mister Matthew Murdock," said a quivering voice, that of an experienced career criminal, "I apologize for the disturbance." Keys, loose change, a cell phone. No gun in his pocket.
"The gym's closed, Turk. Or did somebody leave the lights on for me? I never can tell," I lied, and the slumbering halogen bulbs declined to buzz a word to the contrary.
"I know, sir. I have something important for you. Mr. Fisk said you'd be here."
"Huh, well isn't that interesting. I appreciate the gesture but the anniversary of my first time refusing to represent him isn't until next week."
"No, nothing like that, Mr. Murdock. He says he has something he needs you to look after."
"Mr. Barrett, your employer seems either to have confused me for someone else or has misconstrued the nature of our relationship for one more amicable. I'd imagine that's a troublesome habit in his line of work, not that I'm alleging he is presently anything more than a paragon of civility."
"He said you'd say something like that. But I'm gonna plead the fifth here and let your keepsake speak for itself." He turns his back, "Take care of yourself Mr Murdock."
the rain pitter patter pitter patters against the glass as a younger mans feet fall against the floor
When the door shuts, I hear the yawn of a much slighter man, higher pitched and pubescent. By now, I've caught my breath. I've underestimated Turk before and it made for what arguably might be the worst day of my life. Arguably. Somehow I suspect that the time when I was nine years old, blind, impoverished and constantly physically bullied was probably technically the best time in my life. So, now standing upright, dismissing my exhaustion, I slink over to the newcomer.
"Hello there, and who might you be?" I ask, catching a whiff of cologne.
"Samuel Fisk?" he asked, youthfully, over notes of sea breeze and raspberry, probably too much raspberry. "My grandpa says you're family?"
"And your grandfather is Wilson Fisk?"
"Yes, sir. He said I could stay with you since his apartments were in upheaval. I'd hate to intrude," his voice cracked. "I'm sure he could get me a hotel until my parents can pick me up."
"Samuel, as far as I know, Mr. Fisk and I have no blood relation but I'd hate to think that he'd have anything less than your best interests at heart. I know Vanessa's passing crushed him and I'd hate to add to that. Don't worry. There's no need to get a hotel. You can stay in my apartment. I don't have a television or anything but I'm sure we can sort this out and have you taken care of." My jaw tingles when I taste a note of thyme. Then it hits me. It's the cheap cologne that the Fixer used to wear: Alessandro Della Cucina, defender of the people of the kitchen. Message received.
Matt's Apartment
Hell's Kitchen, New York
"You're pretty strong, Mister Murdock but Turk says you're a lawyer. If you weren't blind, do you think you'd be a boxer?"
"Maybe, who knows? I might be a lot of things. I've never really thought about it," I say as we cross the threshold into my apartment. "Make yourself at home. What's mine is yours, just as long as you remember to put things back where you got them. I might look smart with these glasses but they're just for looks. I could never cut it as a detective."
"Thank you, Mister Murdock. Have you had dinner yet? I can cook you something if you'd like."
"I'm alright, Samuel, really. I appreciate the offer but don't worry about me. I'll likely be busy for the rest of the evening trying to get in touch with your grandfather. Do you have any idea what actually happened this evening or what your original plans were?"
"Well, I've been spending the week at grandfather's penthouse and decided to go to see a game but halfway through, Mister Barrett arrived with grandfather's handkerchief, telling me that I had to go stay with a relative because his properties were in upheaval. He took my cell phone, broke it, and walked me down to the gym where you were practicing for the last hour. I don't know what's happening with my grandfather but I'm every bit as concerned as you are."
I'd say that the first order of business is to get in contact with Samuel's parents but if he's with me, a "relative", then I'm fairly confident in assuming that they've been compromised. The ball's in my court. I don't know what's happening but I'm going to find out. I get the feeling that this is no time for phone calls or paperwork. Look out Wilson, here comes Daredevil.
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