Jack Masterson still had a permit to carry, and was often glad he did. The time he spent in Paragon City had prepared him for all kinds of crazy things.
Then came the hero, Vengador.
From the barrios he came, protector of the downtrodden Mexican immigrants. Always against La Migra, and their rough tactics, he protected the men, women and children who were trying to scratch out a living in the bad parts of town where the government kept them down.
Jack travelled down south sometimes, entranced by the religious festivals like many other white tourists. He knew gangs watched him closely. However, he had a tell-tale bulge under his arms, the two .45’s he always carried. He also carried a .22 in his boot, and had another 9 mm in plain sight at his hip. The 9 mm was never loaded, and the firing pin bent.
He went to Tubac to attend the Feast of the Dead, a huge affair that was open to the tourists. In fact, they were welcomed. It was crowded, and the heat was going to be sweltering in a few hours. But until then there was a market, and dancing, and food – so much food.
There was a parade of saints, and at the end was Vengador, dressed in his white and god spandex and armor, his huge wings folded reverently as he walked along the crowd with the saints. People touched him, basked in being near him. Someone started a fight, and Vengador stopped it with a spreading of his powerful wings and a lecture in Spanish of loving your brothers. Provided those brothers were Mexican.
Jack stepped out, not liking heroes much anymore. He went back to the food stalls and got some real burritos, leaned against the wall and munched quietly.
Vengador flew up above the crowd, and gave his usual, “Viva la Mexico” and took off into the air. The crowd dispersed, and he finished his lunch. He perused the markets, picked up a few things, and then waited by the fountain for the cool nightfall, when there’d be fireworks and dancing and music all night.
There was a carnival a bit to the north, just at the border wall, so he decided to go there. The heat was unbearable, so things were shuttered. It was eerie to walk through a seemingly abandoned carnival.
He heard someone running behind him, and he turned to see a group of three thugs coming right for him. He pulled out both guns and whirled around, aiming them right at them.
One man tried to stop, slipped on the dirt and fell to the ground. The other came running at him full tilt, but Jack merely stepped aside and pistol-whipped his head, making him crash to the ground. The third also came at him, but Jack aimed his left handed pistol right at the man’s face. He stopped, a little better than the first who had fallen flat on his ass, and faced down the gun.
“Walk away. Just walk away,” said Jack in Spanish.
“You should walk away, gringo!” yelled a voice in heavily accented English from above them.
Jack found himself rolling his eyes, but still looked at man in front of him. He said in English, “This isn’t your fight, Avenger.”
“You are holding a gun to my brother! You are in the wrong.”
“They were going to attack me, but you conveniently didn’t see that part.”
“We were just running!” cried the kid.
Vengador landed with a flutter of wings and a breeze. He turned to the man on the ground, while Jack stepped back, putting some distance between himself and the man who he was holding the gun to, as well as Vengador. He’d never outrun a hero at top speed, but bullets slowed them down, and he could shoot fast.
“You could have killed him,” said Vengador, standing up, his wings flicking in irritation.
“Yes, I could have.”
“He’s going to kill me!” cried the kid again.
“Put the gun down,” Vengador said, coming closer, and putting out a hand.
Jack moved back again, getting even more distance. He raised his gun to Vengador. “Don’t touch me. Don’t even come near me.”
“Put the gun down.”
He wanted to. They were so heavy. He was so tense. It’s why he left Paragon in the first place, all these damn fights, for what? For what? Just give up.
“Never,” Jack said with a snarl, pulled the other gun from the kid to Vengador, and fired.
The funeral was a state-wide event. People from all walks of life came and gave speeches. He’d said he’d wanted to be cremated, so his soul would go faster to the sky.
When the police arrived, they saw four dead bodies and had no leads. They chased after the ammo – nothing complicated, so it could have been a whole host of people. They checked all those out. None panned out.
The story somehow surfaced that it was one of the three thugs that killed Vengador, and that was the one the white press ran with. The Mexican press, however, believed it was a cover up. That war would go on for the ages.
Two months later, Jack looked up at the knock the door to his office. “Enter.”
A man in his late 20’s, with dark skin, hair and eyes, stepped inside. Jack waited until he closed the door before speaking. “How’s it going?” he asked.
The man turned his dark eyes on Jack and spoke in clear English. “Good. Nice office.”
“Perks of being the Dean of Anthropology here, though if I hear one more Indian story I’m going scream.”
The young man laughed, a deep rolling rumble of a laugh out of such a small body, remnants of the voice he had buried.
Jack turned and grabbed a water out of the fridge. “Do you miss it?”
He took the water, and looked thoughtful for a minute. “No,” he said, so quietly that Jack leaned forward to hear him. “That sounds awful, doesn’t it?”
“I gave it up too, and I really don’t miss it.”
“But you didn’t give it up so…finalidad.”
“True, I can go back, but I really don’t want to.”
He said quietly, “Did they have to die?”
“Did you want witnesses?”
He signed. “I think of that night, and I wish they didn’t have to die.”
“They would have talked. Or bribed you to keep them quiet. To keep such a final secret, final measures need to be taken.”
“For my new life, three had to be taken.”
“A phoenix kills with fire, sometimes consuming whatever’s around it.” He fought to change the subject. “What are you taking?”
“Political Science. I’m going to move to a state with a great amount of Latinos and become their first Latino senator.”
Jack smiled thinking he had a long bit of naiveté to go before that happened. “Good luck with that.”
He nodded, and then saluted him with the water and put a hand on the doorknob. “Thanks for the help.”
“Anytime.”
“I hope not.”