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not_hathor) wrote2009-03-12 11:31 pm
not_hathor) wrote2009-03-12 11:31 pm
Entry tags:
FIC POST: RGB/The Shadow -- "A Piece of the Night" (Raw and Mostly Unedited from NaNoWriMo--no beta
Title: "A Piece of the Night"
Author: not_hathor, aka MotherCHOWGoddess
Rating: M (adult themes, human sacrifice, cats and dogs living together, mass hysteria, sexual innuendo and suggestive language, demonology)
Disclaimer: The characters from THE SHADOW radio serials, novels and movies are owned by Street and Smith, Maxwell Grant, Walter B Gibson, Universal Studios, etc. The characters from "The Real Ghostbuters" animated series, as well as the movies "Ghostbusters" and Ghostbusters 2" belong to Harold Ramis, Dan Ackroyd, Columbia Pictures, MedJack Productions, etc. This story was written sorely for my own enjoyment and that of other RGB and The Shadow fans, and no profit is being made by it.
A/N & Warning: I have done *minimal* editing on this -- it is still very much a Work In Progress-- and have taken some liberties with canon regarding The Shadow and his history. This story is set early in The Shadow's career as a vigilante crime fighter in New York City; he is still in the process of developing his network of agents --prior to the events of the Alec Baldwin movie.
******************
PROLOGUE
New York City - 1926
Of course it was inevitable, only a matter of time before the worsening elements and physical exhaustion tipped the precarious balance. One of them would die tonight – the question was who? Shandor possessed the insane strength of the religious fanatic; he possessed the strength of desperation and true righteousness but both men were tiring, and the pavement of the roof terrace was increasingly slick and hazardous from spilled blood and flammable aromatic oils. The air was thick with the nauseating aroma of incense, part of the will-sapping ceremonial trappings used to gull normally upstanding citizens into compliance with the sort of cold-blooded murder and subsequent mass destruction originally intended as a climax to this night's extra curricular, outside the laws of man (although not God, if you believed the nihilistic propaganda recently avowed by not only THIS madman but by his ersatz and mostly fled or dead flock) activities. HIS advantages lay in the esoteric mind-clouding discipline of misdirection learned over the period of the past seven years and fully mastered a scant few months ago, the physical strength acquired through rigorous training during the course of those years in the oriental skills of unarmed combat and self defense, and of course the pair of custom designed Colt .45s which had evened the odds in those first few seconds of his attack by permanently eliminating the majority of Shandor's inner circle. His strength was that of ten men, because his heart was, well, maybe not as pure as it could be, considering his history and the darkness barely suppressed within, but certainly purer than Shandor's, for all his preaching about the evils of Society and the Wickedness of Mankind and how only by destroying and rebuilding could the World be Cleansed. If asked, he could really care less about the fate of mankind, per se, but he was actually quite fond of this city for all it's faults and there were more than a few individuals, including tonight's intended sacrificial victim, that he'd personally prefer to survive to see a ripe old age.
So, ideally and theoretically HE should prevail; realistically, he was mentally cursing the one or two alcoholic drinks he'd indulged in earlier in the evening, before becoming alerted to the immanent peril of one of the few individuals he cared for these days. He spared a few harsh thoughts for the panicking dilettantes who, in their haste to flee the scene of impending doom -- more in dread of the potential scandal should their scofflaw activities be publicly revealed than in any true moral outrage or human decency when presented with the proposed culmination of their efforts -- had been violently hasty, resulting in the over turned braziers and spilled oil that currently made the footing so hazardous and potentially flammable. Mostly, however, he was trying to defend against and over power this self styled Priest of the Coming Destructor whilst handicapped by uncertain light, uncertain footing, several cracked if not broken ribs courtesy of one of Shandor's now most assuredly deceased flunkies, and to add insult to injury, the late autumn night had decided to up the ante by adding freezing precipitation to the mix.
Sooner or later, it would happen. A foot would slip, some one would react to a feint just a few seconds too late, or be distracted for that one fatal moment, and it would be over. Either he or Shandor would die and the world, including that precious corner that he protected and cherished, would be either saved or utterly destroyed.
His foot slipped, and he had scant time to regret his own haste and sense of vanity, the fashionable heeled shoes donned in anticipation of an enjoyable, mildly debauched night out on the town in congenial company, male and female, rather than the dependable crepe soled boots preferred whilst engaging in the seamier, more active vigilante side of his life. If he'd known! But then his back collided with the unyielding concrete of the restraining wall, unwillingly impelled by the force of a madman's arms. Shandor was laughing, insanely triumphant; and a groan of pain escaped his lips, the facade that masked his true visage cracking along with yet another rib, not yet second nature to hold through the distraction of pain...
“YOU!!!!” The self styled prophet of Mesopotamian evil cried out in shock. “You!”
His own trademark laugh bubbled up from his diaphragm, not as deep or as menacing as was its wont, but still chilling to the ear. Shandor ignored the implicit warning, caught up in his own zeal and the unexpected revelation.
“The darkness is in you; you fight it but you will lose! Mankind is evil, society is corrupt and must perish before the might of Ghozur! Join me and be cleansed in the fires of the Ghozarian, Ghozur the Traveller – Ghozur the Destructor! You can still be saved!”
“Ghozur the Looney Tunes,” he gasped out into the former architect's instantly infuriated face, and with a supreme effort brought one knee up into perfect position and thrust with almost the last of his waning strength. Shandor screamed, his own legs folding and collapsing as his hands left their grasp on his shaking torso to clutch convulsively in instinctive yet unfortunately delayed defense of the premiere masculine vulnerability, i.e., the crotch. Off balance and distracted, in no condition to counter the next attack, which consisted of pushing off from the support of the wall then grabbing the writhing demagogue with the final remnants of his own strength and hurling the deluded architect over the edge.
One last survival impulse; Shandor regaining enough awareness to try to drag his one man judge, jury and executioner across the brink with him, screaming the name that belonged to his assumed identity even as he prised loose the death grip around his wrists, to listen to the madman's screamed curses as he plummeted twenty five stories to the rain-puddled concrete street below.
“Cleanse THAT, if you're able,” he muttered, then sagged against the concrete and sliding down the surface until his limbs and body slumped into in a haphazard sprawl, thankfully on the safe side of the restraining barrier. Letting the back of his head thump lightly against the wall, eyes closed against the syncopated dance of light and shadow – thankful that the toppled oil torches earlier had for the most part extinguished upon impact, otherwise the portico would be awash with flames by now – the tickle of still sleeting rain against eyelids, the chill seeping into his bones; perilous, because even as the icy cold numbed the pain in his side, those survival instincts honed by long winter months in the mountains of Tibet warned of the dangers inherent. He had to move, get to shelter, dry off and warm this damaged mortal shell before he succumbed to the seductive lure of the treacherous, frail body and hypothermia.
'In a minute', he told himself. 'just a moment, let me catch my breath...'
CLICK. CLICK.
Alarm jolted through mind and body, the familiar near unison sound of the triggers of his own Colts being cocked, eyes flying open and adrenaline surging through his nerves in shock at the all too clear vision revealed. Both revolvers, business ends aimed as best he could determine directly between his eyes, held rock steady by hands belonging to the most unlikely opponent his whirling panicky mind could envision: the recently rescued not fair no longer quite a maiden whom not so long since had been laid out mostly naked, drugged and bound to the unfortunately already bloodstained altar dedicated to Ivo Shandor's unholy god and mere seconds away from unwillingly contributing her own life's blood as additional gory garnishment of that pedestal when HE had charged into the makeshift roof top temple wielding forty five caliber death to those who dared blaspheme against the gods of Justice and Decency, and oh God, the irony!
Because the outer mask had slipped, and he knew what this wild-eyed desperate damoselle saw as she aimed that same forty five caliber DEATH at her erstwhile knight errant – his namesake, whom for reasons unfathomed she despised and hated with every fiber of her being, despite the familial ties that bound them in society, more than she feared Shandor's cultists and the death and damnation that had beckoned from the blade of the ersatz priest's dagger. If she pulled those triggers, two things would happen: the recoil from the high powered custom Colts would shatter those delicate wrists, and he would die without ever learning the truth behind this child's, -- barely a woman!-- animosity toward what had at one time been a dearly loved and much admired older cousin. He would never know what grievous wrong the cad whose name and face he wore had inflicted upon her, never have the chance to make it right, and impose justice upon the bastard, although he had it on good authority that the man HAD been conceived and born within the legitimacy of lawful wedlock.
One chance, and it cried out against all his mystic training and natural inclination. He raised his head, locked gaze with the maenaed who held his life and his future clutched in her hands and deliberately let go of the carefully constructed, painstakingly maintained and fiercely, even subconsciously, guarded second facade he wore that concealed his true, devil damned black, face, and whispered with failing breath,
“Tess.”
Was there a glimmer of recognition or understanding, of sanity in her dark gypsy eyes? As consciousness plummeted into the well of oblivion, he could only hope that in saving the world from destruction he had not inadvertently doomed himself.
**********************
Author: not_hathor, aka MotherCHOWGoddess
Rating: M (adult themes, human sacrifice, cats and dogs living together, mass hysteria, sexual innuendo and suggestive language, demonology)
Disclaimer: The characters from THE SHADOW radio serials, novels and movies are owned by Street and Smith, Maxwell Grant, Walter B Gibson, Universal Studios, etc. The characters from "The Real Ghostbuters" animated series, as well as the movies "Ghostbusters" and Ghostbusters 2" belong to Harold Ramis, Dan Ackroyd, Columbia Pictures, MedJack Productions, etc. This story was written sorely for my own enjoyment and that of other RGB and The Shadow fans, and no profit is being made by it.
A/N & Warning: I have done *minimal* editing on this -- it is still very much a Work In Progress-- and have taken some liberties with canon regarding The Shadow and his history. This story is set early in The Shadow's career as a vigilante crime fighter in New York City; he is still in the process of developing his network of agents --prior to the events of the Alec Baldwin movie.
******************
PROLOGUE
New York City - 1926
Of course it was inevitable, only a matter of time before the worsening elements and physical exhaustion tipped the precarious balance. One of them would die tonight – the question was who? Shandor possessed the insane strength of the religious fanatic; he possessed the strength of desperation and true righteousness but both men were tiring, and the pavement of the roof terrace was increasingly slick and hazardous from spilled blood and flammable aromatic oils. The air was thick with the nauseating aroma of incense, part of the will-sapping ceremonial trappings used to gull normally upstanding citizens into compliance with the sort of cold-blooded murder and subsequent mass destruction originally intended as a climax to this night's extra curricular, outside the laws of man (although not God, if you believed the nihilistic propaganda recently avowed by not only THIS madman but by his ersatz and mostly fled or dead flock) activities. HIS advantages lay in the esoteric mind-clouding discipline of misdirection learned over the period of the past seven years and fully mastered a scant few months ago, the physical strength acquired through rigorous training during the course of those years in the oriental skills of unarmed combat and self defense, and of course the pair of custom designed Colt .45s which had evened the odds in those first few seconds of his attack by permanently eliminating the majority of Shandor's inner circle. His strength was that of ten men, because his heart was, well, maybe not as pure as it could be, considering his history and the darkness barely suppressed within, but certainly purer than Shandor's, for all his preaching about the evils of Society and the Wickedness of Mankind and how only by destroying and rebuilding could the World be Cleansed. If asked, he could really care less about the fate of mankind, per se, but he was actually quite fond of this city for all it's faults and there were more than a few individuals, including tonight's intended sacrificial victim, that he'd personally prefer to survive to see a ripe old age.
So, ideally and theoretically HE should prevail; realistically, he was mentally cursing the one or two alcoholic drinks he'd indulged in earlier in the evening, before becoming alerted to the immanent peril of one of the few individuals he cared for these days. He spared a few harsh thoughts for the panicking dilettantes who, in their haste to flee the scene of impending doom -- more in dread of the potential scandal should their scofflaw activities be publicly revealed than in any true moral outrage or human decency when presented with the proposed culmination of their efforts -- had been violently hasty, resulting in the over turned braziers and spilled oil that currently made the footing so hazardous and potentially flammable. Mostly, however, he was trying to defend against and over power this self styled Priest of the Coming Destructor whilst handicapped by uncertain light, uncertain footing, several cracked if not broken ribs courtesy of one of Shandor's now most assuredly deceased flunkies, and to add insult to injury, the late autumn night had decided to up the ante by adding freezing precipitation to the mix.
Sooner or later, it would happen. A foot would slip, some one would react to a feint just a few seconds too late, or be distracted for that one fatal moment, and it would be over. Either he or Shandor would die and the world, including that precious corner that he protected and cherished, would be either saved or utterly destroyed.
His foot slipped, and he had scant time to regret his own haste and sense of vanity, the fashionable heeled shoes donned in anticipation of an enjoyable, mildly debauched night out on the town in congenial company, male and female, rather than the dependable crepe soled boots preferred whilst engaging in the seamier, more active vigilante side of his life. If he'd known! But then his back collided with the unyielding concrete of the restraining wall, unwillingly impelled by the force of a madman's arms. Shandor was laughing, insanely triumphant; and a groan of pain escaped his lips, the facade that masked his true visage cracking along with yet another rib, not yet second nature to hold through the distraction of pain...
“YOU!!!!” The self styled prophet of Mesopotamian evil cried out in shock. “You!”
His own trademark laugh bubbled up from his diaphragm, not as deep or as menacing as was its wont, but still chilling to the ear. Shandor ignored the implicit warning, caught up in his own zeal and the unexpected revelation.
“The darkness is in you; you fight it but you will lose! Mankind is evil, society is corrupt and must perish before the might of Ghozur! Join me and be cleansed in the fires of the Ghozarian, Ghozur the Traveller – Ghozur the Destructor! You can still be saved!”
“Ghozur the Looney Tunes,” he gasped out into the former architect's instantly infuriated face, and with a supreme effort brought one knee up into perfect position and thrust with almost the last of his waning strength. Shandor screamed, his own legs folding and collapsing as his hands left their grasp on his shaking torso to clutch convulsively in instinctive yet unfortunately delayed defense of the premiere masculine vulnerability, i.e., the crotch. Off balance and distracted, in no condition to counter the next attack, which consisted of pushing off from the support of the wall then grabbing the writhing demagogue with the final remnants of his own strength and hurling the deluded architect over the edge.
One last survival impulse; Shandor regaining enough awareness to try to drag his one man judge, jury and executioner across the brink with him, screaming the name that belonged to his assumed identity even as he prised loose the death grip around his wrists, to listen to the madman's screamed curses as he plummeted twenty five stories to the rain-puddled concrete street below.
“Cleanse THAT, if you're able,” he muttered, then sagged against the concrete and sliding down the surface until his limbs and body slumped into in a haphazard sprawl, thankfully on the safe side of the restraining barrier. Letting the back of his head thump lightly against the wall, eyes closed against the syncopated dance of light and shadow – thankful that the toppled oil torches earlier had for the most part extinguished upon impact, otherwise the portico would be awash with flames by now – the tickle of still sleeting rain against eyelids, the chill seeping into his bones; perilous, because even as the icy cold numbed the pain in his side, those survival instincts honed by long winter months in the mountains of Tibet warned of the dangers inherent. He had to move, get to shelter, dry off and warm this damaged mortal shell before he succumbed to the seductive lure of the treacherous, frail body and hypothermia.
'In a minute', he told himself. 'just a moment, let me catch my breath...'
CLICK. CLICK.
Alarm jolted through mind and body, the familiar near unison sound of the triggers of his own Colts being cocked, eyes flying open and adrenaline surging through his nerves in shock at the all too clear vision revealed. Both revolvers, business ends aimed as best he could determine directly between his eyes, held rock steady by hands belonging to the most unlikely opponent his whirling panicky mind could envision: the recently rescued not fair no longer quite a maiden whom not so long since had been laid out mostly naked, drugged and bound to the unfortunately already bloodstained altar dedicated to Ivo Shandor's unholy god and mere seconds away from unwillingly contributing her own life's blood as additional gory garnishment of that pedestal when HE had charged into the makeshift roof top temple wielding forty five caliber death to those who dared blaspheme against the gods of Justice and Decency, and oh God, the irony!
Because the outer mask had slipped, and he knew what this wild-eyed desperate damoselle saw as she aimed that same forty five caliber DEATH at her erstwhile knight errant – his namesake, whom for reasons unfathomed she despised and hated with every fiber of her being, despite the familial ties that bound them in society, more than she feared Shandor's cultists and the death and damnation that had beckoned from the blade of the ersatz priest's dagger. If she pulled those triggers, two things would happen: the recoil from the high powered custom Colts would shatter those delicate wrists, and he would die without ever learning the truth behind this child's, -- barely a woman!-- animosity toward what had at one time been a dearly loved and much admired older cousin. He would never know what grievous wrong the cad whose name and face he wore had inflicted upon her, never have the chance to make it right, and impose justice upon the bastard, although he had it on good authority that the man HAD been conceived and born within the legitimacy of lawful wedlock.
One chance, and it cried out against all his mystic training and natural inclination. He raised his head, locked gaze with the maenaed who held his life and his future clutched in her hands and deliberately let go of the carefully constructed, painstakingly maintained and fiercely, even subconsciously, guarded second facade he wore that concealed his true, devil damned black, face, and whispered with failing breath,
“Tess.”
Was there a glimmer of recognition or understanding, of sanity in her dark gypsy eyes? As consciousness plummeted into the well of oblivion, he could only hope that in saving the world from destruction he had not inadvertently doomed himself.
**********************
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