literature

Justice

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Literature Text

William Herdzt didn't like homeless people.

It wasn't that he considered them filthy, even though they usually were. It also wasn't out of contempt; he was certain there were plenty of homeless who were really just unlucky. He really wanted to give them money, honestly, but sometimes he felt like that wouldn't ever solve their problems.

No, there was a good reason William didn't like homeless people, and it was standing right in front of him.

"You eyeballin' me?" The bum, carrying all of his worldly possessions on his back, was glaring through his tinted sunglasses at a wholly inconspicuous-looking young man who was waiting for the bus along with William.

"I caught you eyeballin' me...You got something to say? Huh?" The tone of his voice escalated to an accusation. His teeth were bared under his scraggly beard, and the young man with the spiked hair was trying his best to react to such an unwarranted intrusion.

There was nothing that he had done wrong; at the very least he was guilty of staring. William felt sorry for the young man. After all, the hobo was wearing tinted sunglasses.

No, the reason William didn't like homeless people wasn't because they were dirty, as this man was; nor because he considered them pathetic; nor any of the reasons people usually walk quickly and with their heads down when an "out-of-luck" old bum needs money to "get himself back together."

William didn't like homeless people because some of them were like this man.

He had read something once about how human needs fell on a hierarchy: First food, then shelter, then something about the murky concept of "belongingness," going all the way up to "self-actualization," which was something that seemed straight out of a Psychology textbook. The basic idea was that, if needs lower on the hierarchy weren't met, then no desire higher on the pyramid could be fulfilled either.

"I caught you eyeballin' me, are you eyeballin' me...You got somethin' to say, punk?" This man was definitely not "self-actualizing." In fact, his tone was getting dangerously violent.

The homeless man gave the young man with the spiked hair a shove on the shoulder, egging him on, fulfilling some deep-seated fantasy of superiority: Dominant, authority-position, alpha-male type stuff. The remnants of a million years of living in trees and throwing feces.

This was all getting way too serious. Time to make like a tree, old man.

"Hey, leave him alone. Just keep going, man." William was tired of the gratuitous display of manliness that was going on.

"What?" The homeless man switched his gaze in surprise, his shaded eyes directed at William now. "This your girlfriend or somethin'?" He sniffed and chuckled to himself. Pipsqueak, queer, snot-nosed gimp of a boy.

"Just go, man, he didn't do anything." William was starting to become annoyed.

"I'll tell you what, you little snot-nosed brat, how about you make me?" The man took off his sunglasses, folded them up, and walked up to William with the kind of certainty in the self that only a truly delirious mind can muster.

William backed up a step and put up his fists. After all, the bus wouldn't come for another five minutes, and he felt like instilling a bit of conscience in this here vagrant.

The bum laughed a hearty, self-obsessed, horse-like laugh and stared at William with his hands on his hips. "You can't be serious..." William stood, stared, and did nothing. Would the bum back out? Part of William wanted him to leave. Part of William wanted to enact some serious justice.

The homeless man decided to take his chances.

He launched a serious attempt at a punch, straight to William's face. It was blocked before the bum could even realize it. William stood, the bum's fist in his hand, and palmed him in the chest. A tap, a little nudge, a warning shot. The funny thing about William's warning shots, though, was that they were usually just as strong as his normal ones.

The bum staggered back a few feet, the wind knocked out of him. There was no stopping this fight now; William could see it in his eyes. Filled with blind rage, the homeless man let loose a barrage of poorly-aimed punches.

William blocked every one with well-timed kicks, just to show off. After all, if this man was going to play alpha-male, so could he.

He'd had enough of this tomfoolery. With a quick, seamless motion, William dropped down to the ground, one leg out behind him, one hand holding him up, in a crouching position, ready to leap.

"What kind of queer are you?" The man who was so sure of himself only seconds ago now let his doubt creep into his voice. "Some kind of super-queer? Some kind of mutant, superhero homo?" That was excellent. Doubt lowers the mental shields, makes infiltration a lot easier. Makes William's job a lot easier.

He leaped forward with all of his strength, straight towards the homeless man's abdomen. And, with a blinding flash, William entered the man's body, absorbed into it as if he were no longer solid.

Swimming in this man's psyche, William could see childhood memories, conscious and unconscious. Abusive father, frail mother, the nuclear family gone awry. Running away, rampant drug use. Alcohol, cocaine, heroin, all manner of illicit materials meant to cover, hide, and bury unwanted thoughts of self-loathing. In the deepest way possible, William wanted to pity this man.

But pity wasn't a helpful emotion. Never had been, since time immemorial. No, what William did, he did out of generosity.

He began to mold. He began to take hold of the claylike structure of behavior, of personality, of habit. Like a sculptor, William carved, kneaded, and smoothed the man's psyche.

Outside of the mind, the homeless man was writhing on the ground. The spike-haired young man wanted to run. He thought that the homeless man was dying. But, peculiarly enough, the young man remained, because, after all, he had a bus to catch in a few minutes.

Kneaded, folded, and reformed. The man's psyche was beginning to resemble a masterpiece of the most cognitive variety, an homage to the enlightened state of Zen monks. William was going to have fun with this one.

He emerged from the body of the homeless man just the way he entered: in a blinding flash of light, crawling out as if he were emerging from a manhole. His work was done. The homeless man lay still, breathless. Wait, he actually wasn't breathing. William frowned and nudged him firmly in the side with his foot.

The homeless man gasped, taking in air as though he had never taken a breath in his life. He stared at the sky, unmoving, silent and still.

The bus pulled up to the stop. It hissed, lowering to the pavement, and the folding doors opened. The bus driver saw the man lying on the pavement and turned to William.

"Is he alright?" Caring, dutiful, generous.

"He is now."
Written at 2:30 in the morning. I'm at my dad's house this weekend, which means no tablet and thus no drawings.

I basically started with the first line and just kept going. The idea for this story is based on a real incident, involving similar characters. Similar-ish, anyway. >_>
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soylent-hobbes's avatar
Wow. This is really cool. You should write at 2:30 in the morn more often :)