I am a shadow, though I have not attained any official title as such. The one case being that the name's been taken and the other no one's known me long enough to attach such a name. Therefore, I am called a shadow only by myself and never aloud. After all, I have to at least have a placeholder name for myself.
My reason for doing so is that I take on many a guise, many a strong, living, real person that all would swear up and down existed, then melt away never to be seen again. I know it's a stupid idea giving myself such a name, but it's my hubris that makes me do so and my egotism cannot help but agree with the sentiment.
I'm not a criminal, or spy, or agent, or anything of that nature. The closest occupation to my line of work would be self-employed detective. I am never paid for my work by any monetary means but rather, that which could not be accounted for. I refer to food, lodging and favors, sometimes the less said the better.
I guess you could associate my fancy with my late father. He was an actor, no real name, just a bunch of nowhere productions, but he was much better at his craft than anyone ever knew. He never liked the roles he played, but he did so anyway. He preferred total freedom in his acting, to start as one person and end as a completely different one altogether.
It was a kind of game that he played over and over again with no one other than myself. I never knew my mother as she died shortly after my birth. I know not from what as my father did not either. He prized himself on lying to everyone and anyone he could, but not to me. He was straight and forward with me ever since I could understand the words he spoke.
He delved in frivolities of all sorts and never once lived his life as the man he really was. That's how he met my mother and many other women just like her, by pretending to be someone else. He admitted to me that he thought at first to ditch her and the responsibility of my birth, but he didn't. He couldn't explain to me why as he himself did not know and that's why he trusted it.
Up to that moment, his whole life, he had lived through a series of calculated responses but not this one. He didn't shed a tear over my mothers death as I was the sole reason he stuck around. And I don't know myself, how I felt about him, since from the moment I could walk I was taught to feel all kinds of emotions without ever truly feeling them.
He taught me the three things that are necessary for such a lifestyle, a quick hand, an alert eye and a sharp mind. These skills I hone each and every day of my life, never slacking, because being caught unawares in my line of work can have deadly consequences. But I've digressed far too much.
Today I am a shadow that has melted into Mortimer Clinsoft, a simple meat packer, one of hundreds. Living in a simple apartment on the east side and a runaway from a lawyer hounding me for child support. I usually use a cover with their own cover to start with, it makes others believe they can trust someone who has a dark past.
I've been working this particular persona for a few weeks now. First, because I need a little money to live off of, but secondly, and most importantly, because there's a small drug ring being run out of it. A simple operation that's mostly a way point and it runs all the way to the boss and I've nearly uncovered it all.
But drugs are not the reason for my involvement at this particular time. I'm most concerned with the boy whose life was ended by one of their delivery trucks that was driving way too fast. I happened to be in the neighborhood just walking around to a small gig I was working, nothing noteworthy.
However, his death would have meant nothing more to me had it not been for the sacrifice of his last act. A little girl, I assume his sister, was crossing the street slowly, when this truck came tearing down the road. He shouted her name, Abigail, as he bolted and pushed her out of the way of the speeding projectile.
The truck didn't slow at all and his body flew forward and would have hit him a second time had the angle not been one that threw him to the side of the road. I saw it all as I came walking from the other direction and couldn't but admire it, at least that's what I believe it to have been. But honestly, I can't be certain.
You see, I have used emotions to keep myself safe as the situation demanded, but never have they propelled me into harm's way. Quite the opposite in fact. My personas, disposable as they are, are meant to be shields, employed to protect myself from any danger I may encounter. Still, this is not about me.
All the same, I will never forget the image of a little girl telling her brother to stop sleeping on the sidewalk and come play with her. Nor how flustered she was over him pouring red sauce all over his clothes and how cross she will be that he's ruined his new coat. It was as amusing as it was tragic and I blew on by before it resolved.
Now, I'm standing as Mortimer, on a long, meat packaging line along with all the other employees. I'm packing away the slimy content meant for human consumption, while my eyes rove about the place. A new delivery is going out tonight just two hours after my shift ends and the next, shady shift takes over.
My shift ends and I drop old Mort and become Al 'Big Al' Turner, a local dealer looking to establish a new source of dope. Most everyone is toward the meat packing area with only a few watching the trucks. This is where I head, with little difficulty. Those on guard are worried about someone getting in from the outside, not someone poking around who's already in.
As such, it's not difficult to find the truck in question and I closely observe the front end. It's a sloppy job, apparently getting their deliveries done is more important than washing off the blood, as they've only sprayed over it with paint similar to the truck's color but a little off. I take out a simple pocketknife and scrape off a small corner. A red discoloration and I'd bet anything it's blood.
"Hey, what are you doing?" a voice calls from behind me.
I close the knife and drop it on my toe, effectively silencing its fall as I turn and face the incoming individual. My mind reels as I try to find a suitable cover.
The man approaches. "What do you think you're doing, buddy?" he enquires while standing in front of me.
I settle on an Italian painter. "Scuzzi, I call in to paint truck," I speak with an accent as phony as can be as I pull out a kerchief and dab my brow. When dealing with an ignorant public, always go with what is widely accepted, a lie.
He stares at the truck. "It is painted," he points out the shoddy paint job while his other hand discretely palms a small pistol hanging from his hip.
I make as if I'm going to faint, then use the come back to add drama to my speech. "Mama mia!" I exclaim and give exaggerated motions. "My motter woulda turn in her grave!"
The man looks closely at the patch job and notices full well the shoddiness. "Fine, fine, but where's your tools?" he observes my lack of equipment as he closely eyes my person.
I feign hurt. "Tools?! I no use'a tools," I rail on using my hands for emphasis. "I use a brush!" I'm laying it on thick trying to deter him from prying too much. It's only half working and I can tell he still wishes to pry. So, I lay it on even thicker. "Tools he says, I a no-"
"Fine, fine!" he cuts me off and relaxes his posture. "Just keep your shirt on and do your job."
He turns away and I huff to the work, that is pretending to be looking it over, all the while watching to make sure he leaves entirely. He does at last and takes up a place by the main entrance. I know what I need to do, but not how I'm going to do it. Throwing caution to the wind I decide to go for it.
I jump in back of the truck and after a quick hot-wiring job, bring it to life. Unfortunately this brings the attention of the guard from before and he raises his hand speaking into what I assume is a communication device of some sort. I glance at the truck's gearshift, I always did hate sticks, but when in Rome… Of course, I'm not sure if that's the proper phrase for my predicament.
My foot weighs heavy on the clutch while I push the gas. The truck lurches and I speed into the portal that is not yet prepared for my departure. The massive transport makes small work of the dock door, throwing it every which way, while suffering little damage. Unfortunately, part of that little damage is a cracked windshield.
I quickly get on a major road and increase the speed exponentially. I need a cop and I need one now. I can hear it, the zinging of bullets that bounce off the thick metal hide of the truck. Looking into the side mirror I see two cars pursuing me, neither are police, before a bullet takes out my vantage into a million pieces.
Driving blind is never a good idea, but I have little choice in the matter. Fortunately, at this time of night as well as this neighborhood, there are few cars driving about. Unfortunately, the nearest police station is five miles away and it is not a straight shot. This is not going to be easy, not by any stretch of the imagination.
I tear through the streets, carefully observing as much as the cracked windshield will allow, I don't want a repeat of the incident that started this whole debacle in the first place. I'm trying like mad to stay ahead of my pursuers and two steps ahead of their bullets which is proving more difficult the further I go.
Then I see it, a police cruiser had pulled a motorist to the side of the road and the cop is busy writing a ticket. Somehow, I need to get her attention as I know the gangsters chasing me aren't stupid enough to keep firing their guns, even as I notice the officer of the law flashing glances down the road, prompted by the sound of gunfire.
I have only one chance. The gear shifter handle is a novelty eight ball with lines scratched in it to indicate the various gears. I unscrew it from the top of the lever, lower the window on the passenger side, via the control switch on my door, and hurl the sphere at the stationary cop car placing my hopes in a lucky shot.
I had meant to hit the driver's window, but I had thrown too early and so, hit the back window instead. The impact leaves a spider web on the glass, but despite my inaccuracy, the desired effect is still had. The police officer throws her ticket book down and jumps in her car. Of course, some of this is mere speculation as I did not have the luxury of direct observation.
The chase continues, but with the presence of the proper authority, the criminals break off and head back. That's nearly done it, but I need to be sure that the evidence I'm driving is properly secured and not simply impounded without inspection. As such, I don't stop until I reach the police station, where I run the truck into a wall.
It's not a deep impact and I'm barely affected. It isn't long before I'm being ordered out of the car by the officer who had chased me. With hands in the air, I comply with the command and am soon handcuffed and being led inside the building under the supervision of several other police, all with sidearms drawn.
"Captain," one of the troopers addresses his superior. "I may be wrong, but I think that's blood."
I don't need to look, to know that they're standing in the small gap between the wall and the front of the truck. I smile, Abigail's brother is finally going to get justice. And me? I'm going to jail. That's okay, I've been there before and last time, I escaped just fine.