Previously on The Renegades...

“Why must the weak perish while the wicked continue breathing?”

“Well, it’s just that, when you first got here, I never thought that a Wayne would be dedicated to his work.”

“Well, it’s not who I am underneath, but what I do that defines me.”

“Tell me ‘bout it Doc, take your eyes of the street for one Goddamned second and all Hell breaks loose"

"You mean the Punisher?”

“She’s lucky to have you. Sometimes I believe the only thing that keeps her going is the fact that there’s still someone in this wretched world who still believes in her.”

“Well nopony ever found out who he really was, but the bat-ponies called him the Dark Knight.”

“Tread lightly, Thomas. In this day and age, being a white knight is more a fool’s endeavor than a noble cause.”

“I am whatever the people need me to be.”

“Brotherhood means laying down your life for somebody, really willing to sacrifice yourself for somebody else.” – Tim Hetherington

Episode 3: The Brother

“I said I was out of the game.”

He gasped, feeling the splashing water’s bitter chill like vipers sinking their fangs into his nerves. Hunching over, he narrowed his coal-colored eyes at his own reflection on the shattered looking glass. His chest heaved with a heavy sigh. His gaze soon trailed to the small, crumpled piece of paper wedged between the mirror frames.

Penned crudely in red ink were the words, The Roman, 8 A.M.

“Hey, yer the best, don’t matter what anypony says. I’m tellin’ ya now, he’s willin’ to part with a shit ton of dough to get this done.”

He ran a hand down his clean-shaven face, flicking the last bits of water from the tips of his fingers into the stained porcelain sink before stepping outside. The lamp bathed the room with a flickering amber glow and the stale, musky scent of cigarette smoke mixed with mold in the air. He groaned, ruffling the strands of his dark brown hair as he sat himself on the moth-eaten mattress. The springs creaked in protest.

“How much we talking about?”

“One grand, cash, straight up.”

Grabbing one of the loose cigarettes that littered the nearby night stand, he fished out a silver lighter from the pocket of his navy green cargo pants and lit it. He took a long drag, eyeballing the shifting slits of a hideous cat-themed clock upon the wall as they shifted back and forth like a metronomes.

The stallion was taking his sweet time.

Keeping the lit cigarette in his mouth, he glanced over to the black leather mask and a pair of aviator goggles lying next to him – the tools of his trade. If there was one thing he’d learned after all those years, is that a man’s identity is his most valuable possession. Especially when it involves dealing with the underbelly of society, both human and pony.

Transportation is a simple and precise business. There is point A and Point B. The key is getting there without getting shot in the face. From the mob, crooked cops and shrewd politicians, everyone had dirty little secrets packed away in neat little cardboard boxes. Since the golden age, they ran contraband the only way they knew how: armed escorts and hired muscle. Though, after The Secret War of Twenty-six, they needed something new.

Enter the Couriers or as he preferred, Runners. Agile, athletic young men who were sharp, quick on their feet, and knew silence was worth its weight in gold, literally. Today was no different, a simple pickup and a drop off, no questions asked. In fact, the less you knew, the better. The upside: Benjamins enough to take you to the moon and back. The downside? The mortality rate. Yes, the risks were high, but no one said the life of a runner would be an easy one. ‘Sides, he would make more money in a single run than a whole year running the counter at the neighborhood grocery. As far as he was concerned, it was just another day’s work.

He cleared the last bit of smoke from his lungs, curling his lips at the half-smoked butt clenched between his fingers. He made a promise to himself that he would quit, but then again, so was never coming back. What in God’s name was he thinking? What kind of a moron would even consider striking a deal with Manehattan’s most notorious crime lord?

“Three.”

“Whew, yer breakin’ my balls here. A’right, two, final offer.”

He gasped, snapping his eyes to the door seconds before it burst open.

“We’ve been made! Somepony sold us out!” cried a brown stallion. “You gotta get out of here! Get out of– UGH!”

The gunshot thundered into the air, catching the stallion in the neck, soaking his tie and the carpet with a splash of crimson as he tumbled to the floor. The hallway erupted into a hail of fire and lead, ripping the plastered walls to shreds.

“Holy scrap!” he cursed as he stumbled to his feet. Keeping his head down, he rushed to the stallion’s side and dragged him inside.

Once out of harm’s way, he rushed to the door, kicking it shut. “Bucking Hell,” he yelled, shielding his eyes from the splinters as the bullets began ripping through the wooden frame.

“Hold ya fire! I said hold ya fire ya Numb-Nuts!” a disturbingly familiar hollered from over the gunfire and it came to an abrupt halt. “I’m the one givin’ the orders here! Who the fuck told ya palookas to shoot?”

His breaths were deep and ragged, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. In his line of work, a slipped tongue was like a bucketful of chum and it was only a matter of time before something big, mean and nasty came looking for free lunch. The pages of his mind unfolded like an old leather journal as he ran the name of his employer against every rival gang from here to Gotham. The Maronis? No, too much heat. The Bertinellis? Unlikely, if Frank had a decent pair, they would have ventured out of Starling years ago. The Nostras? Hell, they were bat-shit crazy, but not suicidal.

“I know yer in there ya piece of ass-wipe! This is the M.P.D.C. We got the whole fuckin’ place surrounded. So come on out with yer hands up!”

“And then there’s that,” he groaned. “Cops, Goddamned fracking coppers. Of all the slimy sons of bitches. Why the Hell did it have to be cops?” he cursed under his breath.

“Kid…”

He turned to the stallion on the floor. From the tone of his voice, he was fading fast. The Kid applied pressure to the gaping wound in an effort to stop the bleeding. “Try not to talk. Look, hang in there. We’ll get you some help.”

The stallion gave a dry laugh. “Heh, nice… one, Kid. I’m… a sucker for… a lotta… things… but I… I sure ain’t born… yesterday,” his voice faltering with every word. The stallion’s gaze shifted to the bloodstained fedora lying next to him. “My hat.”

His eyes trailed to the stallion’s hat, catching sight of a small package nestled within. It was about the size of a human fist, wrapped tightly in a black cloth.

“Don’t… be… late…” were the stallion final words.

The Kid bit his bottom lip. Crying through clenched teeth, he slammed his fist in to the floorboards. He may have been just another goon, and though he was no stranger to death, he would never get used to that sick, twisted feeling in his gut from watching someone die. People romanticize what they do not understand, such as a life in the mob. The money, the women, the fame, which mono wouldn’t want that? But truth be told, there was nothing romantic about it. Just a castle of glass built upon broken bones and blood money, ready to come crashing down at any given moment.

“Ya hear me asshole! I said come out with yer fuckin’ hands up or we’re comin’ in after ya!”

Coming to grips that there was nothing he could have done for the sorry sod, he snatched the package and made a dash for the bed. He slipped it into his makeshift backpack before zipping up his jacket up nice and tight. Throwing on his black leather gloves, he then slung the backpack over his shoulder but as he made a grab for his mask, he balked. His gaze narrowed upon his own reflection on the pitch black surface of his aviator goggles as it glared right back at him.

Shutting his eyes, he took a long, deep breath. “Remember why you’re doing this. You’ve come too far, there’s no going back now.” He grabbed both the mask and the pair of goggles before pulling them over his head.

He crept his way to the door, trying to be as nimble as possible as he snuck a peek through one of the many bullet holes. There were at least a dozen or so beat cops sardined along the entire length of the narrow hallway but his gut was telling him there were more. The M.P.D.C. were like wolves, they hunt in packs and judging by their enthusiasm, they were armed and they were hungry.

What stood out among the sea of navy blue was the stout, middle-aged butterball in the matching grey trench coat and fedora who was two cheeseburgers shy of a heart attack. The Kid scoffed, backing away from the door as he prepping himself on one knee, ready for the run of his life. As much as he respected the honest, hardworking men in uniform, he would gladly see them in a hospital before spending the next twenty years behind bars.

“Alright boys, catch me if you can,” he said, drawing a smirk behind the black leather mask as he pulled the hood of his jacket over his head.

“That’s heavy… even for him.”

“Hey, you know Carmine Falcone. He don’t mess around. I’m throwin’ you a bone here, Parker… come on, for old time’s sake.”

“Alright… I’m in.”

Several hours ago…

It was just another sweltering night at the downtown precinct, and even with the windows wide open, the arid summer air lingered with the stale stench of burnt tobacco and cheap whiskey diluting in ice. Even with the tip-taps of fingers dancing upon a seasoned typewriter and a pair of leather Oxfords squeaking upon the polished floors, things were actually calm for a change.

With that new law in town, the phones had been ringing off the hook with countless reports of hate crimes and senseless violence by the local hooligan squad. If that wasn’t enough, rumor has it that America’s favorite skull-bearing, gun-toting, trigger happy psycho is in town and he’s been hunting. So, with unspeakable chaos threatening to bite them in the ass at every turn, even the most hardened of lawmen needed something to take the edge off. Besides, with society going to the dogs, they would have better luck striking gold at the slots than gaining a moment’s peace.

Oh, fuck me sideways.

Those were the first words to go through his mind as he was jolted from his near comatose state by the incessant ringing reverberating in his ear canals. Between the numbing sensation in his cheek and the crippling migraine gripping his head like vice, he was beginning to regret emptying that last bottle of bourbon. Throughout his career in law enforcement, the only thing that grinded his gears more than those nosy Sallies down at Internal Affairs was pulling the graveyard shift. In fact, he would give anything to be in the comforts of his own Murphy bed with a bottle of gin cradled in his arms at this very moment.

He groaned, keeping his head buried in the crook of his arm while he made a grab for the phone on his desk, knocking a stack of manila files to the floor. Several scattered stationary and crumpled documents later, he finally succeeded in getting the thing to his ear.

“Bullock here and someone had better be dyin’ or so help me God…” he garbled as he scratched his dry scalp. He rubbed his fingers together, disgusted by the oily sensation from the grease that matted his jet black hair.

There was a pause, even though he could clearly make out someone breathing on the other end of the line.

“Look pal, I ain’t in the mood for this shit so if this is some kinda sick, fuckin’ joke, I’m gonna…”

“Detective.” A refined voice interjected and from the tone, Harvey could tell it was male and possibly in his mid-forties. “I have received word from a very reliable source that you have been looking for a certain masked individual called the Spider.”

Harvey lifted his head, snapping to attention at the mention of the name. “The fuck? Who is this? How the Hell did ’cha get this number?”

“Who I am is no concern. All you have to know, all you need to know, is that I am in possession of some rather valuable information. Information which I am willing to part with.” Harvey gnarled at the unmistakeable slurp came afterwards. The smug bastard was drinking over the phone and as to what, he could only assume it was as prissy as his accent.

“In a few hours from now, the Spider will be making a run for the Aureus. Now, learning from your previous blunders, he would most undoubtedly outrun M.P.D.C’s finest, so I would strongly suggest leveraging on the element of surprise. Fortunately for you, I have his exact location.”

“Heh, ya puttin’ me on? Ya think I was born yesterday? The Spider’s gone. The guy pulled a Houdini on us and ain’t no one’s seen him in years!” Harvey hammered his fist on the table, drawing the attention of everyone within earshot of his desk.

“Temptation vexes all men, Detective, such as a man with his particular set of skills. Skills certain individuals would pay handsomely for.”

The Detective rolled his eyes. “Okay, ya made yer point. So what’s the catch, asshole?”

“The… catch, Detective?” the voice asked.

“Look I ain’t stupid. I know you moochin’ types and there’s always a fuckin’ catch. Well here’s the thing pal, I ain’t payin’ ya shit and I don’t care how juicy you think–”

“Why sir, I am appalled by your accusation,” the voice interrupted yet again. “There are absolutely no strings attached. I am merely a concerned citizen doing my part to make my city a better place. Now, would you like the location or should I offer my generosity to someone else?”

Harvey swallowed hard as he loosened the coffee-stained tie around his collar. The Spider – the elusive transporter who rose to the top of the underworld running contraband for the mob. From what police had gathered over the years, he was good, possibly the best and for some reason he always wore a mask. For every decorated smuck with a badge, booking the Spider would mean the highlight of his career. Which was probably why, for a time, the Spider became Harvey’s personal obsession.

Long stakeouts, hours of grilling witnesses, and sting operations one after the other. Yet that slick bastard kept on slipping through his fingers like alimony to his ex-wife. Harvey was already neck deep in hardened shit with Internal Affairs and with his career already on the line, he was in desperate need of a break.

“Alright, alright, cool yer fuckin’ jets. Ya got my attention, I’m listenin’,” he said. Harvey could only imagine the smug grin on the other end of the phone.

“You have something to write on, Detective?”

Harvey pulled a grin. “Don’t need one.”

Harvey’s ebon eyes narrowed at the bullet ridden door while his officers stood with their trigger fingers at the ready. The obsidian finish of their Colt Police Positives clutched tightly in their hands glistened in the amber lights dangling overhead. The Spider was in there: Harvey could feel it in his bones, and after all those years of chasing down a ghost he finally had him right where he wanted. If only those stuck up, no good pricks down at the precinct could see him now. For too long he had been the department’s little butt monkey, but no more. He smirked, picturing the look on their faces when he would come waltzing right through those doors with the one and only Spider in chains. Harvey was on a one way ticket to glory town and he was so close, he could almost taste it.

“I don’t know if you’re either deaf or stupid, I said come on out. Ya got nowhere to go, so do us all a Goddamned favor and just give yerself up all quiet-like so we can all go home,” Harvey said.

When his warning went unanswered for the third time, the Detective has had enough.

“Alright, wise guy, ya asked fer it,” he said. “You,” Harvey called to the rookie standing next to him. “Knock that piece of shit door down!”

The officer complied, moving into position as he readied himself by the door. Harvey drew his snub-nosed Detective Special and cocked it. “On my count boys.”

“One…”

One of the officers bit his bottom lip as sweat beaded upon his brow.

“TWO…”

Harvey took aim.

“THR–“

Before the officer could charge, the door blasted off its hinges as something came crashing through. A muffled cry escaped the officer as he was pinned beneath the weight of the door. The Detective could see his slack-jawed, buggy-eyes reflected on the mirrors of the Spider’s eyepiece as both lawman and bounty exchanged glances. In that instance they knew each other.

“Oh, fuck! It’s him!” one of the officers yelled.

The Spider rushed off the door and leapt into the air. Harvey had yet to regain his composure when the hardened soles of military boots came slamming into his face. He crunched his eyes shut, feeling his neck buckle from the weight as he was stepped over.

“Ah, fuck!” he cursed as the Spider grabbed hold on an overhead pipe, swinging past the officers.

As he landed, the two officers at the rear tried to rush him. The Spider grabbed hold of the first officer’s hand, spinning around him and tripping him with a kick to the ankle, sending him tumbling to the ground. He dodged the second one and shoved him headfirst into the wall, knocking him out instantly. The hallway then erupted into a hail of gunfire, chipping bits and pieces of plaster off the walls as the Spider disappeared around the next corner.

“Get after him you stupid maracas! Lock this piece of shit building down!” The Detective spat to the floorboards in an effort to rid his mouth of the earthy after taste.

“I’m gonna kill that motherfucker.”

Parker coughed, cursing the scent of burnt gunpowder growing thick in the air. Bright flashes illuminated the dusky hallway with every shot. He dodged to the side as a pair of oncoming bullets whistled past him. Jumping on the wall-mounted heater, he pushed himself into the air, grabbing the cop by his shoulders. Swinging around, he took the man to the ground. The cop cried as he was slammed hard into the wooden floor.

As the cop lay writhing in pain, Parker zoomed in on the next unfortunate soul. Charging forward, he grabbed the outstretched hand. Closing the distance, he spun into the second cop’s arm, turning the man’s nose to mush with the butt of his elbow.

“Ugh!” the lawman’s face contorted as blood poured from his nostrils.

He twisted the officer’s arm and kneed him in the gut. The man gagged, puffing his cheeks to keep from emptying his guts all over the floor. Wrenching the gun from the man’s hand, Parker flipped him front and over with a twist of his wrist.

He then tossed the gun at the third one as the cop appeared from around the corner, hitting the guy square between the eyes. “Ough! Motherfu–“

He dashed forward and leaped onto the nearby windowsill. Pushing himself off, he twisted in midair and kicked the man right in the face. The lawman slammed headfirst into the plastered wall, painting the eroded wallpaper with a blotch of crimson as he slid lifelessly to the ground.

Parker then took off further down the hallway.

His brain was clocked in overdrive and between the burning in his lungs and the pounding against his eardrums, he needed a quick and clean exit. The arrival of the local P.D. was a setback but professionals like him would never go risking their necks without a backup plan. He was right to trust his instincts and source the place out the night before.

“Oh, shi–” Parker cursed as another cop emerged from the fire escape next to him.

Too late to stop, he crashed into the lawman, knocking the gun from copper’s hand and the wind from his lungs. Parker used the cop as leverage, grabbing the man’s uniform tightly as they went crashing right through a nearby wall, taking the man to the floor. Gripping the lawman’s collar, Parker socked him in the face, breaking his jaw with a loud crack. He took off yet again, leaving the cop groaning in pain amongst the rubble.

The roof was his salvation – that much he knew and judging by the hail indescribable garble and cursing filling the hallway, M.C.P.D’s finest were right on his tail. Parker bolted through the confines of a living room, doing his best to purge his memory of the nearly naked man in his tacky blue boxer shorts and bathrobe eyeballing him as he darted to the window.

He flung himself against it, smashing right on through and sending pieces of broken wood and glass tumbling to the pavement below. In that split second, he grabbed onto the metal edge of a suspended platform hanging right next to it. The scaffolding squeaked violently against its hinges, swinging him right through another window and straight into the room one floor below. Parker ducked into a roll, hitting the carpeted floor along with the broken shards of glass.

“Sorry!” he cried, running past a golden earth pony mare with a blonde mane. She shrieked at the sight of him.

He raced toward the opened door out front just as the unmistakable tip of a Thompson machine gun came into view. Parker gritted his teeth, sprinting forward, he kicked the gun at the barrel and out of the copper’s hands.

“The fu– OUGH!“

He slammed the butt of his elbow into the man’s mouth, busting his lip wide open and roundhoused him in the face. The man’s face contorted as he slammed back first against the wall, his body slumping down in an unconscious, bloodied mess.

“He’s here!” The familiar cock of a gun drew his attention to the two men in uniform armed with machine guns at the end of the hallway.

“Frack!” he cursed as they opened fire.

Making a dash for the stairs, he vaulted over the divider. Keeping low as the bullets ripped the walls to shreds and the air grew thick with dust and debris. He fumbled his way up the staircase, seizing his chance while the officers stopped to reload. The loud pounding in his eardrums echoed his racing heart. A cocktail of emotions and adrenaline coursed through his veins as he tore down the next corridor.

He would have to clear two more floors, take a right and then a left. The staircase at the end would take him up to the roof in no time, provided he didn’t get shot in the face trying.

“Where the fuck is he?” Harvey yelled. “Where the fuck is everyone? Someone tell me what the fuck’s going on!”

The pudgy Detective panted, leaning his weight against the wooden railing by the stairs as sweat drenched his shirt. Gordon may be a nosy prick but it was times like these where Harvey wished that he should have taken the old timer’s advice and cut back on his sugar intake. Then again, sometimes a jelly-filled donut or two is as irresistible as a blonde street-side hooker, easy on the eyes and fucking hard to turn down.

The building was in chaos, and between the hailstorm of gunfire and sheer anarchy, the reality of having the Chief tan his hide for his little witch hunt began to set in. The last thing he needed was his ugly mug plastered on every front page in D.C. for tearing up the slums chasing some phantom in a mask. The one thing that kept his hope alive was the untold glory that awaited him once he booked that Goddamned Spider guy a cell in Belle Reve. Heck, they’ll practically be bowing in the streets as he walked by.

He then heard a yell from the upper floor. “Over there! He’s on the roof!”

Harvey snapped his gaze to the window next to him, curling his lips into a smug grin on recognizing the hooded figure darting across the roof. “Gotcha now, ya cocksuckin’ piece of shit!”

He took off in a mad dash up the next flight of stairs, wheezing with every step. With the building locked down and surrounded, Harvey knew that there was no clear path off the roof without a ten story nose dive straight to Hell. So, unless the Spider was secretly the Bird, he had that little nosebleed right where he wanted.

“What’ca lookin’ at, ya mongo? Get yer ass back inside!” he spat at the poor soul in the hallway. The man jumped as he floundered back inside his apartment, locking the door behind him.

“I’ll get him, even if I have ta black bag that son of a bitch, I’m gonna get him!”

Parker kicked open the metal door that led to the roof, gaining a sense of well-deserved accomplishment when he finally felt the loose gravel beneath the soles of his boots. Getting up here had been no easy task, especially when he had been forced to put down several more officers on the way up. They were a persistent bunch, keeping on his tail like the bloody hounds of Hell bent on dragging him straight to the Devil’s doorstep or worse.

He sprinted across the rooftop, making a beeline for the edge of the building when another cop emerged from the south side entrance to the roof. Leaping on the slab of concrete next to him, the man took the higher ground as he aimed and fired.

Dropping to his knees, he tilting his head back as he slid across the gravel, the brass bullet missing his face by skin of his teeth. At the same time, he grabbed a handful of black sand and hurled at man’s face.

“Urgh!” the cop cried, shielding his eyes.

Regaining his footing, Parker roundhoused the officer in the ankles, sweeping the man off his feet and back-first into slab of concrete. “Argh! Fuck, my arm!” the officer screamed, writhing as he clutched his shoulder.

Parker jerked his head back as another gunshot pierced the air, drawing a spark against a nearby girder holding up a giant billboard. He snapped his attention to at least a dozen more officers coming up to the roof. Without a second to spare, he bolted for the edge, leaping off then sliding down the diagonal metal platform at the bottom, rolling across the blackened sand as he hit the ground. Ignoring the rain of bullets all around him, he put his entire focus on the building ahead – a good fifteen feet away.

“It’s now or never!” he cried as he took off into sprint.

The officers continued their onslaught of gunfire, feeling their very fingers go numb from the recoil. Though, no matter how many clips and drums they emptied, the Spider had evaded their every shot as if he had eyes on the back of his head. Upon reloading, one of the officers cocked his Thompson and took aim. Just as he was about to pull the trigger, Harvey grabbed hold of his gun.

“The fuck ya lunkheads think yer doin’? Stop wastin’ yer Goddamned bullets!” Harvey snapped.

“But he’s getting away, sir!” the officer protested.

“Ya think I’m stupid or some shit? We got him cornered, pinned down. There ain’t no fuckin’ way off this roof without havin’ to go through us!”

“Err, sir? You might wanna see this,” said the officer to the far right.

“What’re ya yammerin’ about?” the Detective narrowed in on the hooded man, now running at full speed down the stretch. Harvey raised an eyebrow. “The fuck does he think he’s doin’?”

“Is he gonna do what I think he’s gonna do?”

“Yeah, I think he’s gonna jump.”

Harvey stifled a laugh. “That crazy palooka’s got a death wish. There ain’t no way he’s gonna make that. Alright boys, get yer cuffs out and be ready to wrap this up for Christmas, easy peasy.”

His boots dredged deep into mixture of black sand and pebbles with every stride. His lungs burned as his goggles flogged with every strained breath through the loose stitching that held his mask together. Parker’s eyes narrowed intensely at the building before him, keeping his focus on the window one floor below. He couldn’t for the life of him remember the last time he was forced to clear such a distance, but if there really was a God up there, he hoped the big guy hadn’t taken the day off.

“You can do this! You can do this!” he cried.

The sun had begun to rise, banishing the darkness as the edge drew closer with every step. This was it, the moment of truth. Crying at the top of his lungs, Parker pushed himself off the ledge. He gnashed his teeth together, flailing his arms in midair as the wild howled in his ears.

Then, in that moment, his mind faded to black and in the emptiness of the void, he was reminded of reason he chose the life of a runner. Money and thrills aside, sometimes he lived for moments such as these: moments when the laws of this world held no power over him. It was in that one moment that he was truly free.

Sailing within a foot of the window, Parker crossed his arms, curling his body as he smashed through. He ducked into a roll as he hit the wooden floor, tripping over himself at the last moment. “Whoa!” he cried as he went rolling across the hallway. He finally came to a stop face-down on the ground and gasped for breath, taking a moment to allow the adrenaline to pass.

A few staggered chuckles escaped him at first, growing louder as he rolled on his back. “Oh yeah, I still got it. So why don’t you flatfoot sons of bitches pucker up and kiss my–”

He heard the unmistakable sound of a twisting doorknob as the door beside him slid wide open. Out popped the head of a little mint green unicorn colt, his magenta eyes lay gazing at the strange, hooded man in a mask now splayed on the floor. The colt shifted his attention to the busted window and then right back at him.

Parker sat up. “Err… remember when your mom told you not to jump on the bed? You might wanna listen to her and uh… eat your vegetables.” He jumped to his feet and took off down the hallway.

The colt levitated a carrot to his mouth and snapped a piece off with his teeth, chewing on it as he watched the strange man disappear around the next corner.

“How the, how did he… Goddammit!” Harvey yelled at the top of his lungs, throwing his fedora to the ground and stomping on. “That son of a fuckin’ whore!”

“Holy shit…” an officer muttered.

A pregnant pause hung in the air as M.P.D.C’s finest were left gawking. Despite their best efforts, the elusive Spider had given them the slip yet again, and by accomplishing a feat one could only describe as amazing. Now they knew for certain all those stories were true and they were right in the middle of it all. Knowing that the Spider was probably long gone by now, the officers allowed themselves to settle down. Taking a well-deserved breather as they watched the sun’s rays illuminate the city skyline.

Detective Bullock massaged his temple as he paced back and forth. “Oh shit, oh shit, shit, shit! I’m so dead, I’m so fuckin’ dead!

“Detective Bullock!” an officer cried out, emerging from the stairwell and bolting in Harvey’s direction. “Detective Bullock, Sir!”

“Alright, alright Harvey, calm down. We’ll get through this, we just have to come up with somethin’. Oh, who am I kiddin’, Chief is gonna string me up by my balls and beat me like a–”

“Sir!”

“What? What? WHAT?” Harvey cried, staring daggers at the officer who was surprisingly unphased by his outburst. “The fuck ya want, ya fuckin’ prick? Can’t ya see I’m in the middle of somethin’ here?”

“I just got off the radio, Sir. It was the Chief,” the officer replied.

Harvey ran his hand down his face as he groaned. “Oh fuck me sideways and call me Sally,” he groused. “He’s gonna tear me a new asshole for what happened here.”

“Actually, there’s been a shooting downtown and Chief wants all hands on deck.” His voice suddenly took a more somber tone. “It’s him, Sir… it’s the Punisher.”

Harvey’s face went slack and his irises shrunk to the size of pinheads. “Oh, fuckin’ Hell. Cartwright!” he cried.

“Yes, sir!” the officer replied, holding his Thompson at the ready.

“Get the boys ta tear this fuckin’ place apart. Bring me that Spider fuck, or don’t bother comin’ back at all,” he ordered. “As fer the rest of ya, with me.” He gestured with a wave of his hand as he made his way toward the stairwell.

“Jesus Christ, as if this day couldn’t get any worse. Fuck my life.”

Parker knew the alleys of D.C. like the back of his hand. Every street, every junction and pathway there was to know. Always venture off the beaten track, lay low and most important of all, stick to the shadows – he followed those words like a mantra and it had been the only thing keeping him alive all these years. He tensed, backing himself into the wall at the sound of ruffling paper and scattered beer bottles.

He dared a peek around the corner, breathing a sigh of relief at the sight of an elderly stallion with a tattered beanie rummaging through an old trash can. Parker would run into the homeless from time to time but they stuck to their side of the fence. Besides, a set of loose lips often came with its own rewards, and by that, he meant a pair of concrete shoes and your very own spot at the bottom of the Potomac. He slipped away unnoticed, leaving the stallion to his own.

He navigated his way through the maze of alleys, picking up the pace with every turn. The most important rule in this business is punctuality. Never be late, not even by a second. Failure to comply often brought dire consequences, and when your credibility comes into question by powerful men who have no qualms taking you apart with a hacksaw, you would be pretty damned sure to show up on time. Although painful, agonizing failure was the last thing on his mind. In fact, he was more concerned about them slicing his commission in half. Part of the deal should he come up short.

It wasn’t long before Parker arrived in front of a red metal door. The Aureus: one of D.C.’s most famous cabaret clubs and the crown jewel of Falcone’s empire here in the States. Though, appearances can be deceiving. Everyone knew they ran the joint as a front for their operations. Prostitution, gambling, racketeering, trafficking – you name it, they probably had a hoof in it. If there was dirty money to be made, Falcone was already ahead of the game and having an army of crooked cops and corrupt officials was an added plus. He was a little vague on the details, but some things are better left unknown.

He hammered his fist on the red door, and it rang like a Chinese gong. The metallic hatch behind the peephole slid open, revealing a set of deep, crimson eyes glaring right back at him. Parker of course said nothing. It was his policy never to speak during a drop-off and likewise, the less they knew about him the better.

“Holy Solaris, hold on a sec,” said a gruff voice on the other side as the hatch slid shut. With the clunk of a heavy deadbolt, the door opened inwards, revealing a maroon unicorn stallion with a black mane. Leaning out from the doorway, he took a moment to scan the area.

“Were you followed?” the stallion asked.

Once again, he said nothing.

The stallion chuckled, drawing a cocky smirk. “Sorry, that was dumb. Ya know, I bet Bernie here twenty bits that yer weren’t gonna show.” The stallion gestured to a pecan earth pony standing behind him. “Oh well, easy come, easy go, I guess. Ya got it?”

Parker pulled his backpack across his chest, removing the package in question from within. The stallion then levitated from the palm of his hand, encasing it with an aura of ruby red.

“Bernie!” He cried, tossing the package to the earth pony. “Get this to the boss. Tell him it went without a hitch.”

The earth pony nodded and left with the package clenched between his teeth as the stallion returned his attention to the masked individual before him. “Well then, a deal’s a deal. By the way…” the stallion said as his horn lit up with the same crimson aura.

Parker steeled his gaze behind the reflective lenses of his goggles, hooking his finger into the ring of a kunai hidden within the folds of his backpack as he inched it from its holster. This was the part of the transaction he hated most. Nine times out of ten, they would pay their dues without question, but there are times he would end up running for a sleazy piece of crap who refuses to play by the rules.

“Carmine Falcone sends his regards,” the stallion said.

His body tensed, biting his bottom lip as the blade slipped free but just as Parker thought he would find himself staring down the barrel of a gun, the stallion levitated a brown envelope from behind the door. Sighing, he slid the blade back into its holster and took the envelope in his hand.

At that moment, he froze. Something was wrong, it felt heavier than usual. Parker opened it to find a stack of Benjamins within but as he tilted the envelope, he felt three golden coins slip onto the palm of his hand and his eyes went wider than the Hudson.

“You have got to be shitting me,” he mouthed behind his mask.

They were Dorados. He had heard about them, read about them but never in his wildest dreams would he ever thought laying eyes on an actual Dorado. Minted out of pure gold, they bore the regal image of the late King Helios and were highest form of currency to have ever come out of Equestria. Rumor has it, a single gold coin held an equivalent value of a thousand Equestrian bits, which probably explains why they were so rare. He could only imagine how much they would be worth here.

“I knew you’d get stuck on that,” the stallion said, noticing Parker’s awkward silence. “The boss threw in those as a gift. Somethin’ ‘bout compensation for bein’ an inconvenience or some shit like that. I don’t know the details but they’re yours. Keep ‘em.”

Parker raised an eyebrow at the stallion’s words, and though he remained skeptical of the whole thing, he slipped the coins back into the envelope and tucked it into his bag. Slinging it over, he gave one final nod before bolting down the back alley, vanishing into the shadows.

“I don’t know ‘bout you, Rip, but that guy gives me the willies,” Bernie said from behind the door.

Rip chuckled. “Guess that’s why they call him the Spider, he creeps you the fuck out.”

The cabaret filled with sounds of boisterous chatter and live music from the colored men playing on their hand-me-down instruments and basking in the spotlight from atop the poorly constructed stage. The slushing of liquid gold rattled a chipped ball of ice against the stained whiskey glass in his hand. Parker was no uptown boy – a shady club and a two-penny glass of substandard liquor was all a day’s wages could afford him.

He continued swirling the whiskey in his glass, listening to the bell-like tinkle as if brought him a sense of serenity. He never had a taste for the high life. Heck, he couldn’t even afford himself a decent childhood, let alone a pair of Bernini shoes. Parker scoffed at the name, well aware of it being one of the many status symbols of those damned spoiled Ivy League brats born with silver spoons stuck up their asses. As to why he would make an effort to remember it, he would never know.

He shrugged at the thought. Was it so wrong to want more out of life? The common man who was unable to dish out a stack full of Benjamins for a gichi’ new flat top could at least afford to be jealous from time to time. Not everyone was a Stark, a Gunn, or a Wayne. He took a swig from his glass, lighting his throat on fire as he felt it slide all the way down.

How he hated them. How he despised the privileged few raised behind walls of ivory and polished marble while losers like him had to settle for scraps. Honest, hardworking men toiling in the dirt day in and day out only to end up with a pocket full of loose change. The worst part? They all end up here, in this funky bar, sipping on cheap bourbon and drooling over dog-faced whores way past their prime.

“It’s just not fair,” Parker said to himself as he downed the rest of his glass.

“What’s not fair, sugar plum?” came a sultry voice beside him.

Coal-colored eyes shifted to the blonde beside him as a wry grin curled on his face. He wasn’t going to lie, from her well-rounded love handles to the curls in her eyelashes and that luscious pink on her lips, she was smoking hot.

“My life… but then you walked into it and it got me thinking, perhaps it ain’t so bad after all,” he said.

She curled her blonde hair around her finger. “My, oh, my, aren’t ya a smooth talker.”

“Well, momma always did say I was born with a silver tongue.” He leaned in closer. “Wanna see what else I can do with it? I swear, I’m a natural.” He clicked his tongue as he winked.

She licked her lips as she smiled. “Well Ah don’t have anything else to do tonite so–”

“Hey, fuckface!” came a rough voice from behind him.

Parker groaned, running a hand down his face. “Oh, are you bucking shitting me?” He turned around, only to come face to face with a well-rounded brute seven feet tall, dressed in a denim jacket with a matching pair of jeans.

“Holy, sasquatch,” he muttered, craning his neck just so he could make eye contact.

“You talking shit to my girl?” The man glared at him as if he was five seconds away from ripping his head right off his shoulders.

“Bo! What in tarnation? I told you and Ah were through!” the girl screamed.

Parker put his hands up. “Hey man, look, my bad. I wasn’t trying nothing and I sure as heck didn’t know she was already with somebody. Sides, if you had kept a better eye on your girl perhaps we wouldn’t be–”

“Ah beg yer pardon?” The girl scowled.

“What did’cha say, punk? You callin’ my baby girl a whore?”

“NO!” Parker cried. “No, God, Jesus, no, I’m just saying–”

Bo’s nostrils flared, popping his knuckles like a soda cap as he curled his hand into a fist.

“Oh, come on!” was the last thing Parker said as a fist came hurling in his direction.

He gagged as he felt something hard and heavy hit him square in the face, rudely wrenching him from his sleep. “The guy was unconscious when I got there officer, I swear!” Parker blurted. Though, upon closer examination, he realized it was a school bag of sorts.

“Wake up Benjamin Parker, you irresponsible, no good, lousy, git,” came a familiar voice from the kitchen.

He licked his lips, silently cursing the arid summer air for parched they felt. Groaning, he massaged his temple as he shook the sleep from his bleary, half-lidded eyes. “Christ. What time is it?” he asked with a yawn.

“What time do you think it is, Dillweed?”

The realization hit him with the force of a freight train. “Oh crap!” he cried, stumbling off the faded cushions of his couch as he jumped to his feet.

Ben turned to the snowy unicorn filly prepping herself on the kitchen counter as she filled the tea kettle with water from the tap. She shifted her shoulder-length auburn mane to the side with her hoof. She had been flicking her tail against her Cutie Mark – a Juniper flower curled around black clef – a force of habit when she was either mad or irritated. Despite his sticky situation, Ben had always found it cute.

“Look, Juniper, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, I just–”

“Forgot? Missed it? Got distracted?” Juniper said. The spite was clear in her voice. “Any of those ring a bell?”

“Come on Juni, don’t be like that. I said I was sorry.”

He jumped at the sound of the kettle slamming against the stove. “Well you should be.”

Turning around to face him, she stared daggers at him with her bright emerald eyes. Ben placed a hand on his chest, feeling a cold shiver run down his spine as if she had put a stake through his still-beating heart. “Because of you, I had to walk twelve blocks, by myself, all the way from school. Good thing I had the common sense to take the bus.”

The filly returned to the stove, her horn lit ablaze with a soft orange tint as the stove turned itself on. “You made me a promise that you’d be there, and you broke it. Well, some big brother you turn out to be,” she muttered, her ears now lying flat on her head.

He shrugged, rubbing his arm. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry. You’re right, there’s no excuse for what I did and on my honor, it’ll never happen again.”

Juniper pouted. “This is the third time, Ben. Do you really think a stupid little apology is gonna make it all better?”

Ben teased her with a grin, prancing his way to the kitchen before leaning over the graphite countertop. “Well, it’s a Friday, so how ‘bout I take you down to Miller’s tomorrow for breakfast? I know much you love those yummy pancakes of his.”

Her ears perked at the mention of Miller’s diner. “Make it a full rack, and you got yourself a deal.”

“Oh come on, that’s highway robbery and you know it! Half a rack,” Ben retorted with a scrunch on his face.

Juniper scowled. “I want the whole thing, or you can start making your own darn coffee from now on.”

Ben pulled a long gasp. “You fiend! Not the coffee! Anything but the coffee! You know I can’t live without it. Oh, the humanity.” He leaned back, covering his face.

Juniper gave him a leveled stare. “I’m serious, Ben.”

He shrugged in defeat. “Alright, alright, you win. Full rack it is. Sheesh, you must be part python or something ‘cause you sure know how to squeeze the life outta me.”

“Oh, come on, you love me for it,” Juniper said with a grin. “You know, you’re such a jerk. You forget a promise, and here I am making you a Goddarned cup of Joe.”

“Hey, no one makes it like you do, Hun,” Ben replied, winking in her direction.

She chuckled. “Alright, cool your hooves, Casanova. You’ll get your Joe, so long as you don’t try to plant a wet one on me like those broads you used to date.”

“Baby, I’d rather kiss a horse,” he said with a smirk, dodging a walnut from the kitchen top as it was magically tossed in his direction. “You missed, by the way.”

“Jerk.” Juniper pouted, returning her attention to the stove with a huff as Ben chuckled.

Juniper Song, the ninth grader, was little rough around the edges but Ben believed that all that under all that snips, snails and puppy dog tails, there was darling sweetheart hidden deep within. When he first arrived in Washington D.C., he had nothing. Not a penny to his name save for the clothes on his back and a fool’s hope. Though, when kindness was a virtue denied by his fellow man, a sweet old mare and her grandfoals opened their home to a vagrant with a checkered past and his little brother. They didn’t have much but they shared what little they had until Ben found a way back on his feet. Since that day, they had become more than friends. They were family.

“Here.”

Ben was shaken from his daze the moment he caught a familiar scent emanating from the dull ceramic mug being levitated in front of him. “Hope you choke on it,” Juniper said.

“Why? Did you poison it?” Ben took the mug in his hand only to dodge yet another rogue walnut. “I’m not cleaning those up, you know,” he added as he pointed to the living room.

“Go jump off a cliff,” Juniper snapped, sitting on her haunches and sipping her Ceylon tea from her own mug clasped between her hooves.

Rolling up red checkered sleeves of his lumberjack shirt, he then brought the mug to his lips, closing his eyes as he took a deep whiff of the rich, thick aroma. He pulled a grin, relishing in the moment as he took a sip from his mug.

“Oh, that hits the spot.” Ben chapped his lips as he savored the smoky aftertaste.

Sighing, he leaned his back against the stained countertop as he took yet another sip from his mug. It had been hours since he heard the last dump truck pulling its weight across the asphalt, at least it felt like hours. Not that he hated these rare moments of peace. In fact, he could do without the incessant tremors knocking loose whatever was left holding the place together. There was not much to say about the small two bedroom granny house he called a home, but despite its flaws, Ben never complained. In fact, it was luxury compared to the dingy orphanage he left behind. Ben shrugged as he peered into the orphic swirls of foam on the surface of his coffee.

The orphanage was a Godforsaken establishment as stark as a desolate wasteland, and to a ten year old child and his little brother trapped within those soulless concrete walls, it was literally Hell on earth. He swore that his fellow orphans were demon possessed, twisted into rabid animals by overseers who couldn’t care less if they had lived or died. So like the little monsters they were, they did whatever they wanted, took whatever they wanted and hurt everyone else in between. Though Ben was no pushover and for both their sakes, he did whatever it took to survive. Through bloody knuckles, broken bones and raw fury, for five long years he braved the fires of Hell and won.

Almost a decade had passed since the day he left the dreary streets of Brooklyn behind him, along with the dark memories from a time in his life he would gladly disremember. Freeing his mind of morbid thoughts, he pushed himself off before making his way back into the living room, the loose plywood floorboards creaking with every step he took. As he navigated his way through cramped spaces between the ramshackle furniture, he forced a chuckle, fondly recalling just how empty the place used to be. The funny thing about poverty is that it forces a man to be resourceful, and sure enough, there are times that even he ended up surprising himself.

The busted up couch, the cracked coffee table, the banged up shelves, the creaky wooden bed, even the record player some rich sap threw out barely a week ago. They were all his prized possessions, courtesy of the city dump. Ben took another sip from his mug, sighing yet again as he opened his front door, taking comfort in the lukewarm breeze shifting through the grey netting of his screen door. Though, his moment of peace did not last for long.

“Ya fuckin’ bitch! This was all yer fuckin’ fault!”

“My fault? You were the asshole that got me pregnant!”

Ben groaned, rolling his eyes at the unpleasant voices of the Buttowskis from next door. Judging by their tone, they were indulging in their favorite pastime. Both man and wife argued so much, Ben was convinced that if they made yelling a national sport, they would be the undisputed champions. His gaze settled on the bickering couple as they shambled out the door and onto to the pavement, throwing on their coats as they stormed past his front lawn.

“I told you that good fer nothin’ kid’s nothin’ but trouble! Now I’m gonna have to be pullin’ double shifts at the plant to bail him out of the hospital while ya whore around!” Jim said.

“Fuck you, Jim!” Delores snapped.

Ben stepped onto his porch as they came into earshot. “Howdy Mister and Missus Buttowski. Can’t help but overhear, did something happen to Johnny?”

“Go fuck yerself, asshole!” Jim snapped.

Ben blinked for a good couple of seconds before drawing an awkward laugh. “Hah, ha, ha, and a good day to you too, neighbor.” The smile soon turned upside down as the Buttowskis vanished further down the sidewalk.

“Jackass,” he muttered under his breath, taking another sip from his mug as he went back inside.

“What was that all about?” Juniper asked from behind the counter.

“Hell if I know,” Ben said as he made his way to the three-tiered cabinet standing next to him, resting his mug on top of it. “Ain’t my side of the fence to be giving a damn, anyway.”

Juniper’s ears drooped. “Uhm, Ben, can I… talk to you about something?” she asked, her eyes settled upon the surface of her tea.

“Shoot,” Ben said, sliding the top drawer open.

“You know, Grandma told me not to tell you this but… the bank called earlier this week.”

Ben froze.

“Oh…” The drawer was half open, but Ben made sure the black leather mask and the pair of goggles remained hidden within.

The old mare did her best to keep her worries to herself, though Ben was no stranger to her financial troubles. She may have a big heart, but like most families, they had their own personal problems to deal with, especially one in the form of an estranged family member. Ben’s hand curled into a fist, his muscles tightening at the thought of it, but he had sworn that he would not meddle in that particular affair. She may have gotten by earning a decent wage tending the gardens of lazy, blue collared pricks, but it wasn’t enough to keep the banks off her back. Then, three years ago, those corporate vultures had threatened to evict her from her home, their home. So as desperation called for desperate measures, Ben started running for the mob. Now here they were, right back at square one and the sharks were in the water.

“I know she said that she’ll figure something out but…”

“Hey,” Ben said, catching the young filly’s attention as he reached into the drawer and pulled out a brown envelope, keeping it hidden from her line of sight. “If there’s one thing I know about Aunt Bluebell, if she says she’s got it covered, she’s got it covered.”

“Sides, no matter what.” He slid the envelope into the back pocket of his navy blue denim jeans. “You’ll always be welcomed here.”

“But what about Richie?”

Ben crossed his arms. “You leave that ole’ sourpuss to me. He won’t be too happy ‘bout giving up his bed, but after all you guys have done for the both of us, it's the least we could do.”

Juniper smiled. “Thanks Ben. I knew we could always count on you.” A faint tint of pink blushed on her cheeks.

Ben chuckled at her expression. “Juni, I maybe a hairless, spider monkey but we’re family, and that’s what families do.”

“Well then…” He shot a glimpse at the clock. “It’s five. So why don’t go freshen up before your ole’ grandma gets here, hmm?”

“Alright then.” Juniper levitated her mug into the sink. Getting on her hooves, she trotted into the living room. “I’ll be in the shower and you better not be a perv’ this time, alright?” she said, opening the door next to the cupboard where Ben was standing.

“Baby, I’d rather–”

A walnut hit him square in the forehead.

Juniper snickered as she entered the bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

Ben frowned as he rubbed the sore spot on his forehead. “You know, I’m still not cleaning this up!”

His scowl was soon replaced with a smile though. Shaking his head, he made a grab for his mug only to stop mid-way when he heard the rowdy voices of several young men came into earshot, escalating as they approached. Ben turned his attention to the squeaking metal gate as six young men came into view. They sashayed their way in like they owned the place as they made their way down granite pathway leading up to his wooden steps.

Ben growled, grinding his teeth together. “Richie. That no good little…”

They were laughing like a pack of rabid hyenas, exchanging dirty jokes and dimwitted greaser lingo only an uncultured moron would use. It was an insult to intellect and the very sound of it irritated him to no end. Ben glared daggers at the stupid sod pushing through the screen door who was no other than Richard Parker, his useless bum of a little brother.

To think that Ben had busted his ass working two jobs, six days a week just so he could put that little shit through school and how does he repay him? By getting expelled for smoking pot in the restroom. Despite their circumstances, Richard had never been a bad kid growing up. He had always been the shy, timid kind who loved books as much as he loved reading them. It was only after coming to D.C. that something changed, and to this very day, Ben could never figure out what.

“Hey yo, Daddy-O. Come on, gimme five!” Richard said, a foolish smile plastered on his face as he raised his hand in greeting. By the look in his eyes, Ben was certain he had doping again.

“Get your freaking hand out of my face, Richie, I ain't in the mood for this crap,” Ben snapped.

Richard scowled, sniffling as he rubbed his nose. “Man, why you gotta do that, huh? Why do you always have to be such a freaking nosebleed?”

“Why do you gotta be such a Goddamned pain in the patootie? And I thought I told you not to bring any more of your greaser friends into my house.”

“Oh, your house? Well… uh… I don’t know, if you know, but it’s my fucking house too!” Richard cried, slamming his fist on the cupboard.

Ben drew a deep breath as he nodded. “Is that so? Alright then wise guy, who the Hell pays the freaking bills? Who puts food on the Goddamned table and who the Hell bails your freaking ass out of jail when you–”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, kill the motor boys,” a voice interrupted. “Seriously, what’s with all the fireworks? Aren’t you guys like brothers or something?” said one of the greasers as he stepped inside.

“Hey Richie, nice pad you got here,” said another.

Ben eyeballed the rest of them as they entered the living room, on the verge of gagging at how grotesquely stereotypical they were. From the greasy hair, torn denim jeans, faded boots and tacky silver chains that dangled loosely across their waist, they were the perfect depiction of future convicts. Not to mention one was even chewing on a toothpick. Although, tacky wardrobe and atrocious manners aside, there was something terribly off about the lot of them and he felt it. That cold, bitter sensation running the entire length of his spine whenever trouble was never far behind.

“Yeah? And who the Hell are you?” Ben asked, sizing the guy up. He figured he was about Richard’s age, no older than sixteen.

“Oh, the Hell are my manners,” he wiped his hand over his jeans before offering it for a shake. “Thompson, Harrison Thompson, but you can call me Blitz.”

Ben was hesitant at first but a good gesture deserved another. He took the boy’s hand and shook it but never once did he break eye contact. “Ben, Ben Parker, but you can call me sir.”

Blitz forced a chuckle. “Ha, ha! You’re a funny guy. Hey, Richie,” he said, slapping Richard hard on the shoulder. “You never told me your brother’s a freakin’ comedian. I like him already.”

Richard he shot Ben a nasty glare. “Wish the feeling was mutual.”

“Yeah, love you too, little bro. Love you like a freaking suicide,” Ben replied. “Hey, get your Goddamned feet off the table!” he snapped at the third and fourth greaser who had just popped themselves on the couch, resting their boots on his coffee table.

Blitz placed a hand on Ben’s shoulder but quickly removed it when he was greeted with a glare. “Whoa, cool it pops, no reason to get all salty on me. We didn’t come here lookin’ for trouble, alright?” Blitz said, strutting his way to the center of the living room as Ben’s gaze lay fixed on his every move.

“Say, Ben, right? You got anythin’ to wet the ole Daisy? It’s been a long walk.” He rested his back against the old record player, removing a comb from his pocket and pushed back on his dirty blonde locks.

“Oh, sure. Hey, can I get you boys anything? Coffee? Tea... Arsenic?” Ben asked.

“Pfft! Really? Cause I’m thinking something more along the lines of beer. You got any foamers in this rickety ole place?” Blitz asked, the smugness in his voice drove needles into Ben’s scalp.

Ben glowered in his direction. “Sorry, fresh out.”

“Oh, well then, that’s too bad,” Blitz said. “So how bout you go be a good big brother and go fetch us some, eh? Sides, we can’t have a party without any booze now can we?” His eyes narrowing as he sneered.

“Hey Blitz, come on man. There ain’t nothing here, let’s burn,” Richard said but Blitz shot him a glare.

“Was I talkin’ to you?” he asked, sounding more like a threat than an actual question.

“No,” Richard muttered, adverting his gaze.

“Then, shut yer yap.”

Blitz then returned his attention to the older brother. “So what’cha you waiting for? Christmas? My lips are chapping here, chop, chop,” he said, clapping his hands.

Ben has had enough and he was about two seconds from speaking his mind when the door behind him slid open. “Ben? Is something wrong? I heard voices outside and… oh,” Juniper said, in the midst of drying her wet mane with a towel.

“Oh, fudgesickles,” Ben cursed under his breath.

The entire house went silent and the color faded from Richard’s face. Ben’s snapped his gaze from greaser to greaser, deducing from the slack jawed look on their faces that things were about to get real ugly, real fast.

He glanced over his shoulder to the white filly behind him. “Juni, remember that thing we talked about?” he asked as Juniper nodded. “Go back inside and lock the door. I’ll be with you in a sec, okay?”

Juniper swallowed hard, her tail slipping between her legs as she backed herself into the bedroom. “Alright, stay safe Ben.” She shut the door and locked it tight.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Blitz’s voice boomed across the living room as the rest of his posse went into verbal frenzy.

“Yeah, the Hell Richard!”

“The fuck’s goin’ on?!”

“Blitz, Blitz, listen man, I can explain…” Richard stepped back, backing himself against the wall as he held his hands up in an effort to calm the enraged greaser. By the jitteriness in his voice, Ben could tell that he was mortally terrified.

“Can it, Richie! You were always a fuckin’ pussy and now I know why. It’s ‘cause your fuckin’ brother here is a namby, pamby, pony lovin’ fag!” Blitz spat.

Ben felt as if someone had just kicked him in the balls. “Whoa, excuse me?”

“You heard me, you fuckin’ fag!” Blitz shot Ben a nasty glare.

Ben shook his head. “Alright, you know what, that’s it. You and your boys have overstayed your welcome. Get the Hell out my house now.”

“Blitz, please, just please let it go this one time and let’s get the Hell outta here,” Richard pleaded.

“I said shut the fuck up!” Blitz yelled, grabbing Richard by the collar and slamming him back first into the wall.

“Argh!”

“Hey!” Ben snarled, lifting a finger in warning at the greaser before him. “You let go of my little brother right now or you’ll never hold anything in that hand again.”

Blitz cranked his head in Ben’s direction with a sneer on his face and released his hold on Richard. “Well, lookie here, boys. Looks like we got ourselves a fuckin’ hero,” he said to his posse as they snickered. “So, you think you’re some kinda hot shot, huh? Do you know who the fuck we are?”

He reached for left side of his jacket and revealed something stitched crudely on the other side of it. Ben had come to recognize the distinctive coat of arms bearing a pair of crossed broadswords behind a skull of pony with a wooden stake driven through the top. The letters H, L and S etched in gold splayed over a red banner. Ben clenched his fists hard, feeling his very blood begin to boil at the sight of it.

“We’re the fuckin–”

“Humanity’s Last Stand,” Ben interrupted, riveting his glare at his brother. “Once this is over, you and I–” he gestured between them “–we’re gonna have a long freaking talk, you understand me?”

“You wanna know what the Hell we do to fuckin’ heroes like you? Well? Don’t ‘cha, pal?” Blitz said, a menacing grin curling on his lips.

“Let’s get one thing straight here, pal, I couldn’t give a damn about who or what you guys are. In fact–” Ben crossed is arms. “–you could be hanging from the edge of a Goddamned cliff and all you needed was a damn to save your life, I still wouldn’t give you one. So now that I’ve made myself absolutely clear, why don’t you take your little cabana party along with your punk ass and walk right out that door before I take the pleasure of kicking you out myself.”

Once again, the living room erupted into a verbal frenzy as the greasers bombarded Ben with every insult known to man. The rage on Blitz’s face had become clear as day. Bloodshot veins webbed across his eyes as he narrowed them to slits.

Ben however, was enjoying the show, his eyes half-lidded in amusement as he drummed his fingers against his arm. Truth be told, he wanted Blitz to take that first shot. From the moment he first laid eyes on that smug greaser trash, he had been begging for reason to introduce Blitz’s face to his sneakers and he was getting tired of waiting for it.

“Fuck him up, Blitzy!”

“Yeah, show him who’s boss!”

“Come on Blitz, please, let’s just go already!” Richard begged for the last time.

“Shut. Your. Fucking. Piehole, Richie! And the rest of you guys, cool your fucking jets!” Blitz yelled and just like that, the room went silent. “You…” he gestured at Ben, drawing a deep breath before continuing.

“I have done worse to little shits like you for fuckin’ disrespectin’ me the way you did but since you’re Richie’s brother, I’m gonna cut you some slack.”

“Oh, whoop dee freakin’ doo for me.” Ben rolled his eyes.

Blitz scoffed. “So, get this, I know how to make all this shit go away.”

“Hey, I’m up for anything so long as it gets you out my damned door.”

“I’ma go talk to your little filly friend inside. Once I’m done, we cool,” Blitz said as the rest of his posse sniggered, apparently amused at his proposal. Richard however, looked as if his heart had come to a complete stop.

At that moment, Ben’s calm demeanor vanished, his eyes going killer red as he glowered at the five leather jacketed hooligans before him. He then stepped in front of the door. “You and your boys aren’t going anywhere near her.”

“What?” Blitz sneered, bobbing his shoulders. “I ain’t gonna hurt her or anything. I’m just gonna talk to her–”

“Get out now.”

“Hey mongo, you deaf? I said I’m was just gonna–”Blitz took a step forward.

Ben’s gaze dropped to the cushioned footrest at his feet and kicked it Blitz’s direction, sliding it across the floor and straight into his ankles.

“Whoa!” he cried as he doubled over, slamming face-first into the floorboards. “Argh, fark!”

Ben smirked. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I do that?”

“Motherfucker!” the greaser snarled, stumbling to his feet, fresh blood streaked from his left nostril over his lip. “You’re a fuckin’ dead man!” he cried, spitting the blood from his mouth as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a switchblade.

Ben cringed. “Oh, my God, is that a knife? Is that a real knife?”

“The fuck you think? Of course it’s real!” Blitz spat.

“Oh, no, God, please no.” Ben slumped to his knees, putting his hands up in resignation despite the mocking grin on his face. “You’ve discovered my mortal weakness. It’s small knives!”

Richard buried his face in the flat of his palm while the greasers practically smothered themselves to keep from laughing their tops off and risk incurring Blitz’s wrath. Their honcho however, was far from amused. “You think that this is funny? You think I’m hoarsin’ around? Well funny guy, let’s see if you can still laugh when I carve my name on your fuckin’ chest!” Blitz yelled, rushing the older brother, knife at the ready.

“Anything but knives–”

The greaser took a swipe at him. Ben tilted his head back at the last second, the blade missing his throat by an inch. Ben stepped backwards as Blitz swung again, missing as he dodged each and every one of the greaser’s swipes. Ben then caught Blitz by the wrist, twisting his own torso and Blitz’s arm in one swift movement.

“Argh!” the greaser cried.

With Blitz’s wrist caught in a vice-like grip, Ben disarmed the greaser, stepping back in, he inverted the knife in his hand and put the blade to Blitz’s jugular in one swift movement.

Blitz’s black pupils shrunk at the sight of Ben’s piercing gaze. Once again, the room went dead silent. The greasers wore the very same expressions they had the moment they laid eyes on Juniper.

“Then again, you know what they say about little boys and small knives,” Ben said. “Let’s do a little recap, shall we? You invite your ass into my house, you insult me and my brother, you threatened my girl, and now you try to pull a fucking knife on me?”

Ben clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Oh, ho, ho, you sure have some mighty big cojones on you pal, I’ll give you that, but you just done fucked with the wrong guy.”

Ben shot a glance at the two greasers stacked behind their fearless leader and the other two in front of the couch. He then returned to the one at his mercy. “Please, allow me to show you why.”

Ben dropped the knife from his hand, stepping back, he kicked Blitz square in the gut.

“Hough!” Blitz’s eyes widened to white, half-choking on whatever putrid gunk that had been forced up his esophagus.

Ben stepped forward, curling his fists, he slugged the greaser twice across the jaw. Blitz’s face contorted from flaring pain overwhelming his senses before Ben roundhoused him in the head.

Blitz’s skull slammed against the plastered wall, smearing a blotch of red across the wallpaper. Ben then twisted around, his back kick catching Blitz in the chest, knocking the air from the greaser’s lungs as he was sent stumbling back-first into the arms of his greaser friends.

Ben drew a sharp breath. Rushing forward, he then leapt into the air, twisting around as he kicked Blitz square in the chest. The impact sent as all three of them right through the wooden screen door, smashing it pieces as they tumbled down the wooden steps.

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck, man!” Richard cried.

“Can it, Richie. Now’s not the time!” Ben snapped back.

“Son of a bitch!”

A flash of silver reflected in Ben’s dark irises as he zoned in on the two greasers by the couch who had ripped out switchblades of their own.

He darted across the living room, vaulting over the couch as the first greaser took a swipe at him. Ben caught the greaser’s arm between his legs, catching him off-guard as he twisted his torso, locking the greaser’s elbow.

“Gargh!”

He then ducked into a roll, taking the greaser back-first to the ground with him in one swift movement. Climbing over, Ben took a shot at the greaser’s chest, feeling a gut-twisting crack as the guy’s ribs shattered from the impact. The greaser cried, clutching his chest.

“You motherfucker, I’ll cut your fucking heart out!” the second one growled, slashing the air like a raving lunatic as he charged forward.

Ben pushed himself off the ground as the greaser took a stab in his direction. He blocked it, countering with a fist the greaser’s upper lip, busting it wide open. The greaser stumbled backwards, trying to regain his bearings as blood began drenching his lower jaw. He growled through his clenched teeth, he charged with his blade at the ready. This time Ben was ready for him. He caught the arm and turned around. Using his shoulder as a fulcrum, he snapped it in half.

“Oh, fuck!” Richard cried, cringing at the cry of pure agony filling the room.

Ben swung his elbow back, breaking the greaser’s nose on impact. The greaser hobbled on his feet, struggling to breathe as blood caked in his nostrils. Spinning on the balls of his feet, Ben hooked his heel right to the greaser’s temple, putting him out like yesterday’s garbage. The greaser dropped to his knees and fell face first to the floor.

“Don’t you move from that fucking spot or so help me God.” He pointed to his brother as he stormed his way outside.

His eyes settled on the three greasers who were still moaning and groaning on the withered carpet grass. “What, that’s it? And here I thought that after all that ballsy, tough guy talk, you boys would put up more of a fight. Now look at you, just a bunch of lost puppy dogs, all bark and no Goddamned bite.”

“Truth is, you’re nothing, nothing. Punk ass little shits who aren’t even worth the–” Ben scrapped his rubber soles across the wooden platform. “–dirt, beneath my shoes.”

He started down the stairs, scoffing at Blitz as the greaser spat a glop of blood and saliva onto the grass. “So take from someone who’s been around. There are only two places on God’s green earth you never, ever disrespect a man. In his fucking home and in front of his girl. Unfortunately for you punks, you done fucked up on both accounts.”

His gaze shifted between the two remaining greasers who were picking themselves off the ground, their fists curled at the ready as they glowered at him.

Ben cleared his throat and spat. “Your daddies ain’t got the balls to set you boys straight, but guess what? When this is all over, you’d be calling me uncle.” He then cracked his neck “So, which one of you sons of bitches should I school first?”

They shot each other a glance as the one on the right lunged forward, throwing a wild haymaker. Ben stopped blow midway, fracturing the greaser’s collar bone with a chop to the neck.

“Ough!”

He roundhoused the greaser in the thigh. Twisting on the balls of his feet, he hooked the back of his ankle to the greaser’s face as the greaser spiraled to the grass beneath his feet. Ben dropped down and took a shot at his jaw, dislocating it on the first try. “Argh, fark!”

Ben ducked his head to the right as a blind hook went sailing overhead. Spinning around, he took a shot at the space between the greaser’s legs. “Ough, sweet baby!” The greaser hobbled backwards, clutching his groin.

Ben rushed to his feet, kicking the greaser once in the stomach and roundhoused him in the liver. As the greaser flinched from the impact, Ben twisted around and kicked him across the face. The greaser was sent tumbling to the ground, spraying the pathway with a splatters of red as a pair of pearly whites went rolling across the granite.

A loud battle cry caught diverted Ben’s attention to Blitz who was attempting to tear a two by four block of wood from the handrail leading up the wooden steps.

“Oh, come on man! Not my–”

The greaser growled, salivating like a savage beast as he tore the piece of cedar free.

“–damned stairs.” His chest heaved as he pulled a deep, staggered breath. “And I just lacquered the thing!”

Clutching it firmly in his hand, Blitz charged like a man possessed, taking swing after swing with Ben dodging each and every one. “I’ll kill you, I’ll fuckin’ kill you, you fuckin’ motherfucker!” Blitz screamed as he took another swing.

This time he got lucky, catching Ben right in the chest. Ben choked from the impact, suffocating as he was knocked off balance. Seizing the opportunity, Blitz took another swing. Unable to regain his footing in time, Ben blocked it with his arm.

“Urgh!” he cried, feeling a sharp pain lacing through his arm as the piece of wood collided with bone.

Upon noticing the triumphant smirk Blitz’s ugly mug, Ben decided that he was done playing.

“I’m gonna bust your fuckin’ head open and eat your fuckin’ brain!”

Blitz took another swing as Ben pulled back at the last minute, the piece of cedar missing the tip of his nose by a good inch.

Ben stepped in, taking a shot at Blitz’s solar plexus, feeling the greaser’s chest cave from the force of his knuckles.

“Ough!” His eyes widened to white as he choked on his own blood, gushing out from between his teeth. With nothing left to lose, the greaser threw a wild swing.

Ben shifted into a solid stance, crying at the top of his lungs as he spun on the balls of his feet, hooking his ankle into the piece of wood in Blitz’s hand, splintering it upon impact. The greaser’s expression went slack seconds before Ben roundhoused him in the head. There was a sickening crack as his head lashed to the side.

When he was certain the Blitz could no longer tell which way is up, Ben broke into a mad dash. Leaping into the air, he stepped on Blitz’s chest, kicking him in the chin as he back flipped. Blitz’s head whipped backwards, painting the air with a spray of blotched crimson from his mouth. He moaned, tumbling lifelessly, back-first into the ground just as Ben landed on his feet.

Ben’s breaths were slow and steady, his gaze now locked on Blitz who was now bleeding like roadkill all over his lawn. Making his way to the greaser’s side, he took a knee and grabbed him by the collar of his jacket.

“I’m only gonna say this once, once. You and your boys stay the fuck away from my family. If I ever catch you cockroaches on my property again, I swear to everything that is holy that your mothers will weep when they see what I've done to you, under-fucking-stand?”

Blitz swallowed hard and nodded his head.

“And now, for the last time, get the fuck off my land,” Ben said, getting to his feet. As he started to turn away, he stopped. “Oh, and by the way–” He stomped on Blitz’s hand.

“Arrrgh!” Blitz screamed, clutching his broken hand.

“–that was for my fucking stairs.”

Just then, the two other greasers from before came hobbling out of the house, moaning like living dead in the direction of front gate.

Ben made his way to the foot of his staircase, only to find his little brother on the porch making his best impression of a fish out of water.

“You… you… you…” he stammered.

“Now, now, no need to thank me, lil’ bro. It was my pleasure,” Ben said with a smirk, climbing up the stairs as he watched the two greasers stumble past him. “Get your ass outta here!” He kicked one of them in the rear.

“You fucking asshole!” Richard yelled.

The older brother’s cocky smile vanished, replaced instead with a long, deadpan stare. “And you’re welcome by the way.”

“They’re my friends! How could you?”

Ben scoffed. “Friends? You call those damned grease monkeys your friends? They had no respect for you, they had no respect for your home and in case you hadn’t notice, Richie, your pal Blitz there just tried to fucking kill me!”

“So you went and used your crazy ke-rah-tay on them?”

“First of all, it’s called karate. Second of all, the fucking H.L.S.? Really, Richie? Is this how I find out my little brother is in bed with a bunch of racist bastards?”

Richard pursed his lips as his eyes began swelling with tears. “Yeah, so the fuck what? I’m old enough to do whatever the Hell I want!”

“Hey, I don’t know what kind of bullshit these assholes have been shovin’ up your noggin, but you don't get to talk to me like that!”

“Or what?” Richard got in his face. “Huh? You gonna school me like you did them?”

“I’m sure as Hell considering it.”

“Admit it, you call me your lil’ brother but you really don’t give a fuck,” Richard spat. “You’re just like them. You’re just like mom and dad, counting down the days ‘till you can leave me to rot like yesterday’s trash!”

Ben snapped. “You, son of a b–” he raised his fist, making Richard flinch.

As Ben’s feral breaths began to steady, he lifted a finger at Richard. “Don’t you ever, ever say that again. Everything I’ve done, everything, since that day had been for us. You and me.”

Richard wiped the tears from his eyes. “Yeah, you keep telling yourself that. By the way, why don’t you go check on Juniper? You two deserve each other.” Pushing past his brother, he then made his way down the wooden steps.

“What the Hell is that supposed to mean?” Ben said as he watched his brother make a beeline for the front gate, storming past the other two greasers who were busy helping Blitz to his feet.

“Richie? Richie! Don’t you walk away from me! Get your ass back here!” Ben yelled after him, only to have Richard turn around and flip him off as he left with the rest his greaser friends.

“The fuck you looking at?” Richard cursed, shoving past a young man dressed a navy blue overcoat.

The young man in question shot Ben an inquisitive gaze as he pointed down the sidewalk. “Err, did I come at a bad time? Cause I can come back.”

Ben shrugged. “Hey Jonah, sorry you had to see that.”

The young man scoffed. “Jonah? Hey, my mom calls me Jonah. We’ve been best friends for like what? Five years? Hell, the least you could do is call me J.J.” He strutted down the granite path.

“Right, J.J., sorry. It’s just… it’s been a really rough day,” Ben said.

“Tell me ‘bout it. So ole Richie’s got your gears in a grind again?” J.J. said, taking off his charcoal fedora as he smoothened out the jet black curls from flattop haircut.

“Guess you can say that. Well, you know, brothers,” Ben said as he massaged the bruise on his arm, flinching from the pain. “Frackles, I’m gonna feel that in the morning.”

“Actually I don’t. I’m an only child. Guess the old lady realized just how much of a pain I was and decided to quit ahead,” J.J. said with a laugh. His laugh was coarse, like that of a decrepit old man but Ben never had the heart to tell him that.

“Well, he may be a pain in the marble sack but he’s still family and you never give up on family,” Ben said.

J.J. chuckled. “Wish I could say the same, pal, wish I could say the same.”

“Juniper! Juniper! Goodness gracious!”

Both men shifted their attention to an old, pale grey unicorn mare rushing down the sidewalk and past Ben’s front gate. Her neat bun of moss-colored mane was on the verge of coming undone.

“I overheard somepony saying there was a fight!” she cried, dropping a pair of forlorn saddle bags from her back. “Is Juniper alright? Please tell me she’s alright!”

Ben rushed down the steps. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, calm down, Aunt Bluebell.” He placed a hand on the old unicorn’s shoulder. “Juniper’s safe, she’s inside and she’s okay.”

“Grandma!” Juniper came rushing down the same wooden steps and threw her hooves around the older mare, nuzzling her lovingly.

“Oh Juniper, sweetheart, thank Solaris!” the old mare hugged her granddaughter close. “Are you alright? Did they hurt you?”

“Of course not, grandma. Sides, I got ole’ Ben here to kick the living sh–snot outta them.” She shot him a toothy grin, making him blush.

“Juniper!” Aunt Bluebell snapped.

“Well he did! I saw everything from the window. I mean, you should have seen him Grandma, it was amazing!”

“Yeah, well…” Ben said, rubbing the back of his head.

“Goodness dear, your arm!” Aunt Bluebell blurted, noticing the blacked bruise just as Ben pulled his sleeve back down.

“It’s just a scratch, really, sides this wasn’t my first rodeo.” Ben gave a nervous smile. He cleared his throat, giving Juniper a quick glance. “So Juni, why don’t you go grab your stuff?”

“Oh, right, back in a flash.” She rushed back into the house.

“That girl, I swear sometimes she’s just like her mother.” Aunt Bluebell’s ears perked as she noticed the other young man standing beside her. “Oh, hello Jonah, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

J.J. laughed, but unlike before, Ben could tell it was forced by how awkward it sounded. “Heya, Missus Bluebell, and that’s okay, I’m kinda an easy guy to miss.”

Ben stifled a laugh. “Not with that suit.”

J.J. furred his brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you should shoot your tailor,” Ben said.

“Well, least I have a suit, hobo.” J.J. smirked.

Ben gave him a leveled stare. “Bitch.”

“Jerk,” J.J. retorted.

The old unicorn cleared her throat. “By the way, dearie, if memory serves, you mentioned something about an interview today. How did it go?”

“Interview? More like an interrogation. They buttered me up and grilled me like Philly cheese sandwich. I was lucky to get out in one piece!” J.J. cried.

Ben rolled his eyes. It there was one thing Jonah loved, it was making mountains out of molehills, which probably explained his current line of work. J.J. had been an aspiring journalist and with his enthusiasm came his knack for getting into trouble. One day, he pushed his luck a little too far chasing a scoop on the Maroni Family. It was Ben who saved him from a couple of thugs about to chug a vat motor oil down his throat. They’ve been the chummiest of friends ever since.

“Oh Jonah, if they were foolish enough to turn away a lad as smart as you, it would be their loss. With your exceptional flair, I wouldn’t be surprised to see you as Chief Editor someday!” Aunt Bluebell grinned.

“Well, I sure as heck betting on it!” J.J. said, followed by his coarse laugh. “Well, sorry to chat and run, but I gotta go light myself a stogie before I decide to strangle somebody. Aunt Bluebell.” He gave a short bow and made his way across the lawn, fishing a box of matches and freshly wrapped cigar from his coat pocket

Once Ben was certain his best friend was out of earshot, he took a knee. “Aunt Bluebell, can I talk to you for a sec?” he asked, gesturing her to come closer.

The old unicorn raised an eyebrow. “What is it, dear?” she asked.

When she laid eyes on the brown envelope in his hand, she understood perfectly. “No, no Ben, you… you didn’t.”

Ben bit his bottom lip. “Aunt Bluebell, it’s… it’s not what it seems.”

“You’ve been running again, haven’t you?" Her voice strained with every word. "You promised me… you made me a promise that you would never go back.”

“I know…” Ben said, his fingers tightened on the worn-out envelope. “I know what’s at stake. I know that every time I put on that mask I put my life on the line–” He took a deep breath. “–but when I heard you over the phone the other day, and I know it was rude to eavesdrop but, I can’t… I mean they were gonna take your home, our home and I couldn’t just sit by and let that happen.”

“I would have found a way, Ben. I’ve always found a way.” She sniffled, fighting back the tears pooling in her eyes. “What if something had happened to you?" Aunt Bluebell caressed his face gently with her hoof. “We love you Ben, with all our hearts. You and Richard mean the world to us.”

Ben smiled, leaning into her touch. “I know, and that was why I took the job and I promise. No, I swear, that this will be the last time,” he said, handing her the envelope. “Don’t do it for me, or you, do it for her… do it for Juniper.”

The old mare sighed.

“Please…”

Her horn lit up with a green glow, engulfing the envelope as she levitated it into her saddlebag. “Alright, but this will be the last time, Benjamin Parker, you hear me?”

Ben placed a hand over his chest and grinned. “On my honor, or may I be cut up and made into soup.”

Aunt Bluebell chuckled. “Oh Ben, you risk so much to keep our hopes alive.” She leaned forward and kissed him gently on the cheek. “Bless you, my boy, bless you.”

“Alright, I’m ready!” Juniper trotted up to them with her bags packed and ready.

“Right, well come along dear,” Aunt Bluebell said, saddling her own bags as she made her way to the gate.

“Hope you didn’t forget anything,” Ben said.

Juniper’s cheeks flushed. “Well…” Juniper rubbed her hooves together before giving him a quick peck on the cheek.

Ben’s face went slack.

“Thanks.” She smiled before trotting off after her grandmother.

Ben chuckled, rubbing the spot where she kissed him.

“And don’t think I’ve forgotten ‘bout Miller’s! It’s Saturday, so I’ll see you first thing tomorrow!”

His shoulders sagged. “Goddammit.”

“Well, look at you.” Ben’s eyes shifted over as J.J.’s voice came into earshot.

“When did you become the friendly neighborhood Ben Parker? You know, I really don’t get you,” J.J. said, taking a final drag from his cheap, homemade cigar before flicking it to the ground. “Why do you always gotta play the hero, huh? Whether it’s helping little kittens off trees or kicking some guy’s teeth in for robbing an old lady, you’re always butting into people’s business and what’s that get you? A busted arm?”

Ben raised an eyebrow, massaging the bruise on his arm. “It’s not about playing hero, J.J., it’s about doing what’s right. I believe that if I can do something good for someone, then it’s my moral obligation to do it.”

J.J. gawked at him as if he had heard the most ridiculous statement of the century. “So what? Is it a personal choice of yours?”

“Choice?” Ben shook his head. “No, responsibility.”

The young man snorted. “You are one crazy putz, Ben Parker, you know that? Heck, if someone told me that you’re just some average Joe without a care in the world. I’d feed him a knuckle sandwich and call him a liar,” J.J. added with a laugh.

Ben joined him in laughter. “You have no freaking clue.”

“Oh, and speaking of crazy.” He flashed Ben a large smile. “Guess who just got the job at the Washington Post? This mashugana right here!”

“Whoa, you serious? Hey, congratulations man!” Ben threw his arms around his best friend. “I mean, oh wow, that’s amazing. I can’t believe you got in.”

“Hey, just who do you think I am? This is J. Jonah Jameson you’re talking to. Was there ever any there any doubt?” J.J. boasted with a cocky grin plastered on his face.

Ben folded his arms, his eyes half lidded as he gave J.J. a long leveled stare. “When you flunked that interview at the Daily Bugle, you nearly drank yourself to death in my house.”

“Oh, come on. Why do you gotta do that, huh? Why do you have to keep bringing that up? I was in a very dark place in my life and for the record, I only got drunk once, big deal!”

“It was three days!” Ben cried.

“You know, you gotta let it go. Sides, tomorrow’s a brand new day and I’m–” J.J.’s eyes shot wide open. “Ben, watch out!”

“Go fuck yourself you pony lovin’ fag!”

Ben dodged his head to the side and caught an empty bottle of Jack over his shoulder. He tilted his head and glowered at one of the greasers from before. The greaser shrieked and tore down the sidewalk as fast as his legs could carry him.

“Hey, asshole! Aren’t you forgetting something?” Ben turned around and flung the bottle right back at him.

The bottle slammed into the greaser’s noggin a good fifteen feet away with pinpoint accuracy. “Argh!” the greaser cried as he crashed into a couple of nearby trash cans.

“Punk ass, son of a bitch,” Ben cursed.

“Geez, I still have no idea how you do that. I mean, you caught that thing without even looking. It’s like you got sixth sense or something. Honestly, sometimes it creeps me the Hell out, and don’t get me started on your throwing skills,” J.J. said.

“I guess we all have our gifts. Me, my special senses and my dashing good looks and you, your big, friggin’ mouth.”

“Oh, Hardy, har, har. Word to the wise, stick to being a hero and leave the comedy to professionals, ‘kay?” J.J. replied. “Anyways, this calls for a celebration. So, how about we head downtown? There’s this new bar I know and I heard the bartender cooks up a wicked brew!”

Ben chuckled. Good ole’ J.J., always quick to forget. “You know what, I could use a pint or two. Bleeding those Goddamned grease monkeys sure was hard work and 'sides, it’s always a good time with ole' Jonah Jameson around.”

“Well, if you could call getting us kicked out of Nancy’s for flooring that neanderthal a good time, then yeah, I think we both know how to have one Hell of a good time,” J.J. said.

“Hey, I tried to warn him.” Ben bobbed his shoulders.

“Yeah, yeah, sure, sure. Now go grab your coat. I’ll wait for you outside.” J.J. fished out another cigar from his pocket along with his box of matches.

“You know, you keep puffing on those death sticks and you’re gonna work yourself into an early grave,” Ben said as he was making his way up the stairs.

J.J. scoffed. “Please, I could smoke a thousand of these and I’d be seeing the undertaker put you in the ground long before he does me!”

“Oh and by the way… you’re buying,” Ben said.

“Asshole.” J.J. struck a match and lit his cigar.

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

[To Be Continued…]

Author's Note

Next time on The Renegades…

"You have failed this city!"

Episode 4: The Vigilante

Credits & Special Thanks

My Editor:
ocalhoun

Writer Note: Feel free to drop me a PM should you find any mistakes. Thanks!