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not_hathorTitle: "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, still in the process of developing his network of agents.
****************
PROLOGUE - Part Two
****************
New York City - 1926
Reality wavered around him in brief blurry snapshots of awareness that seemed to progress from roof top temple to hidden passage to lower apartment and thence to a disorienting lurch and falling sensation that later he was able to identity as a downwards journey in an elevator. Somewhere along the way his wide brimmed slouch hat disappeared; he retained a vague recollection of abandoning the cape in a hallway, and God (or Ghozur, perhaps) only knew the disposition of the Colts. In a moment of coherency between the throbbing pain and the red-streaked blackness, he was able to steer his supporting companion towards a semi private exit well away from the bloody mess of Ivo Shandor's mortal remains splattered across the front avenue like the contents of a jelly jar after the glass container has broken upon the kitchen floor.
“Jeez Lou-eez, boss, you look like hel—oh, sorry miss! Didn't see you 'scuse my language....”
Shrevnitz. God bless him. He must have passed out again as they tried to get him into the cab because he came back to the sound of Moe's aimless silence-filling chatter, lying half on the cab's floor and half on the backseat, his head pillowed against a houndstooth long coat that smelled like cigars and exhaust fumes, and underneath the faintest hint of exotic incense and naked female. The cab was moving at a good speed by the lurching feel of it, and at that good speed the tires encountered the mother of all potholes, and the resulting jolt drew a gasp of breath between clenched teeth and sent him spiraling down into agonized blackness again.
There was warmth and softness, and gentle hands that soothed and comforted, and a quiet authoritative voice that gave instructions and a sweet quiet voice that coaxed and spilled cool liquid between his parched lips and a bitter chalky tablet that he balked at ... just take the damn pill, boy or you'll be in a world of hurt once I start wrapping those ribs.... and a whisper at his ear, it's all right, it's safe, and the wildfire spreading over his torso until it became the totality of his existence except for the scream echoing in his mind over and over.
You know the darkness. You ARE the darkness. Fight the darkness. Fight the darkness. Fight the darkness. Fight....
Om mani padme om. Om mani padme om. Om mani padme om.
It's all right, miss, I've seen him do this before, some kind of Chinese healing trance thing. He'll come out of it after a few hours and be nearly none the worse for wear, as it were.
Until it ended and he was awake again, lying between cool linen sheets in his own bed with the bright midday sunlight seeping through the heavy drawn curtains, and the girl curled up atop the coverlet like a faithful puppy next to him, properly clothed again and nearly normal in appearance except for the shadows under those hidden gypsy eyes and exhaustion in her features. He stretched, cautiously, not wanting disturb her slumber, not every day a little mite like that helps save the world. Clean white gauze bandaged her wrists where rough hempen restraints had abraded tender flesh during her ordeal at the hands of Shandor's minions. He felt an unexpected flare of fury at the thought, and shame that his own callous attitude and behavior had endangered an innocent.
He eased himself off the mattress, breath hitching slightly as bruised and abused muscles and barely healed bones protested his movement. His mansion staff was second to none for their discretion, but best for the reputations of all involved and especially Tess's (if it could be salvaged after the events of the previous night's bloody debacle) if he vacated this chamber and took up temporary residence in one of the guest suites. He needed to contact his fledgling network of dedicated informants, learn what the official sources had to say about a prominent albeit retired architect and surgeon taking a header off the pent house terrace of one the Big Apple's ritzier sky rise apartment complexes; and just what his presumed Police Commissioner uncle's take on the situation might be – in other words, just how much post Armageddon averted damage control he needed to do, and how quickly.
Tess.... Tess and her gypsy dark mysteries would have to wait. But eventually he would know, even if he had to beat the real Lamont Cranston within an inch of his self indulgent callously wastrel life to discover the truth; and then repeat the process if vengeance and restitution proved to be justified. On his way to the lavatory to perform his much belated daily wash and shave, he caught a glimpse of the vindictive smirk on his lips as he passed in front of the dresser top mirror.
His alter ego's trademark sinister laugh echoed nicely in the tiled shower cubicle.
*****************************
Upon his return to Western civilization following his combined incarceration, instruction and redemption by Marpa Tulku and his resumed usurpation of the Cranston visage and name, he'd had the outrageously good fortune to fall in with a matriarch of the clan possessed of weak eyesight, a sentimental fondness for the prodigal scion whom he habitually impersonated, a cupboard overflowing with family photo albums, and a veritable omnibus of accompanying anecdotes with which to while away a rainy spring weekend on Long Island. With her unwitting abettment and his excellent almost photographic memory, he'd found it ridiculously easy to infiltrate Manhattan's high society; any cognitive dissonance between the current version of Lamont Cranston, wealthy playboy, sportsman and cad about town and his past semblance and habits was easily smoothed away with a murmured comment along the lines of, 'The War, you know... Changes a man...' That was usually enough, at least in public, to dissuade any further speculation. What went on behind closed doors, in private.... well, that was where cultivating his network of incorrigibly gossipy aunts proved to be more than worth the time, with the added bonus of his developing a reputation for being gallantly attentive to the old biddies -- 'such a sweet boy, that Lamont' – it was all he could do sometimes to keep from bursting out in sinister chortles when he overheard such deluded doting comments!
All the same, he stayed respectful, because in their own way those dowager aunts, matrons and spinsters were every bit as deadly as their knife-wielding tribal Mongolian sisters; capable of shredding a man's life and reputation with their tongues and knowing winks and disapproving stares just as ruthlessly and maliciously as their barbarian counterparts could flay the skin from his living flesh. The Grand Dames' acceptance and indulgence ensured his position in the upper class circles: with their approval, a man could go anywhere, do anything, so long as offenses were sufficiently atoned; disgraced and disowned, one might as well tie a millstone to the ankles and take a dive off the Brooklyn Bridge.
He had to confess that it was often a relief to don cape and hat and descend to the slimy under belly of the city; there the dangers and the rewards were so basically primal, no diplomatic weaselly words or dancing around the subject. Brute force and weak clouded minds and the roaring cough of twin Colt forty fives became the deciding factors in many a discussion over money, drink or dames. There he could let his fury, his dark thirst for power and violence have its head and run itself out until he was marginally fit for polite company again. There he garnered favors, dealt justice (and occasionally mercy) with dramatic swathes of darkness and the echoing demented laughter of the unseen but all seeing Shadow!!! That was the gift and the responsibility that the Tulku had laid upon him, the price of his redemption, his Mariner's albatross; sometimes he cursed it, sometimes he clung to it as his sole chance of survival, but mostly he just employed it for lack of any more urgent purpose.
Until that day when Rose Barth shamed her presumed nephew into fulfilling a social obligation on the Island, and gypsy dark Theresé Jeanne Cranston DuBois shattered his sardonic perception of Life, the Universe and Everything into jagged haphazard pieces.
*****************
*Makes Puppy Dog Eyes* Anyone reading (other than Dragonwrangler)? Please comment -- I promise that the Real Ghostbusters will appear in the next installment!
P.S. - If anyone is wondering, my visual model for 'Tess' is Cote de Pablo, who portrays 'Ziva David' on N.C.I.S.
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, still in the process of developing his network of agents.
****************
PROLOGUE - Part Two
****************
New York City - 1926
Reality wavered around him in brief blurry snapshots of awareness that seemed to progress from roof top temple to hidden passage to lower apartment and thence to a disorienting lurch and falling sensation that later he was able to identity as a downwards journey in an elevator. Somewhere along the way his wide brimmed slouch hat disappeared; he retained a vague recollection of abandoning the cape in a hallway, and God (or Ghozur, perhaps) only knew the disposition of the Colts. In a moment of coherency between the throbbing pain and the red-streaked blackness, he was able to steer his supporting companion towards a semi private exit well away from the bloody mess of Ivo Shandor's mortal remains splattered across the front avenue like the contents of a jelly jar after the glass container has broken upon the kitchen floor.
“Jeez Lou-eez, boss, you look like hel—oh, sorry miss! Didn't see you 'scuse my language....”
Shrevnitz. God bless him. He must have passed out again as they tried to get him into the cab because he came back to the sound of Moe's aimless silence-filling chatter, lying half on the cab's floor and half on the backseat, his head pillowed against a houndstooth long coat that smelled like cigars and exhaust fumes, and underneath the faintest hint of exotic incense and naked female. The cab was moving at a good speed by the lurching feel of it, and at that good speed the tires encountered the mother of all potholes, and the resulting jolt drew a gasp of breath between clenched teeth and sent him spiraling down into agonized blackness again.
There was warmth and softness, and gentle hands that soothed and comforted, and a quiet authoritative voice that gave instructions and a sweet quiet voice that coaxed and spilled cool liquid between his parched lips and a bitter chalky tablet that he balked at ... just take the damn pill, boy or you'll be in a world of hurt once I start wrapping those ribs.... and a whisper at his ear, it's all right, it's safe, and the wildfire spreading over his torso until it became the totality of his existence except for the scream echoing in his mind over and over.
You know the darkness. You ARE the darkness. Fight the darkness. Fight the darkness. Fight the darkness. Fight....
Om mani padme om. Om mani padme om. Om mani padme om.
It's all right, miss, I've seen him do this before, some kind of Chinese healing trance thing. He'll come out of it after a few hours and be nearly none the worse for wear, as it were.
Until it ended and he was awake again, lying between cool linen sheets in his own bed with the bright midday sunlight seeping through the heavy drawn curtains, and the girl curled up atop the coverlet like a faithful puppy next to him, properly clothed again and nearly normal in appearance except for the shadows under those hidden gypsy eyes and exhaustion in her features. He stretched, cautiously, not wanting disturb her slumber, not every day a little mite like that helps save the world. Clean white gauze bandaged her wrists where rough hempen restraints had abraded tender flesh during her ordeal at the hands of Shandor's minions. He felt an unexpected flare of fury at the thought, and shame that his own callous attitude and behavior had endangered an innocent.
He eased himself off the mattress, breath hitching slightly as bruised and abused muscles and barely healed bones protested his movement. His mansion staff was second to none for their discretion, but best for the reputations of all involved and especially Tess's (if it could be salvaged after the events of the previous night's bloody debacle) if he vacated this chamber and took up temporary residence in one of the guest suites. He needed to contact his fledgling network of dedicated informants, learn what the official sources had to say about a prominent albeit retired architect and surgeon taking a header off the pent house terrace of one the Big Apple's ritzier sky rise apartment complexes; and just what his presumed Police Commissioner uncle's take on the situation might be – in other words, just how much post Armageddon averted damage control he needed to do, and how quickly.
Tess.... Tess and her gypsy dark mysteries would have to wait. But eventually he would know, even if he had to beat the real Lamont Cranston within an inch of his self indulgent callously wastrel life to discover the truth; and then repeat the process if vengeance and restitution proved to be justified. On his way to the lavatory to perform his much belated daily wash and shave, he caught a glimpse of the vindictive smirk on his lips as he passed in front of the dresser top mirror.
His alter ego's trademark sinister laugh echoed nicely in the tiled shower cubicle.
*****************************
Upon his return to Western civilization following his combined incarceration, instruction and redemption by Marpa Tulku and his resumed usurpation of the Cranston visage and name, he'd had the outrageously good fortune to fall in with a matriarch of the clan possessed of weak eyesight, a sentimental fondness for the prodigal scion whom he habitually impersonated, a cupboard overflowing with family photo albums, and a veritable omnibus of accompanying anecdotes with which to while away a rainy spring weekend on Long Island. With her unwitting abettment and his excellent almost photographic memory, he'd found it ridiculously easy to infiltrate Manhattan's high society; any cognitive dissonance between the current version of Lamont Cranston, wealthy playboy, sportsman and cad about town and his past semblance and habits was easily smoothed away with a murmured comment along the lines of, 'The War, you know... Changes a man...' That was usually enough, at least in public, to dissuade any further speculation. What went on behind closed doors, in private.... well, that was where cultivating his network of incorrigibly gossipy aunts proved to be more than worth the time, with the added bonus of his developing a reputation for being gallantly attentive to the old biddies -- 'such a sweet boy, that Lamont' – it was all he could do sometimes to keep from bursting out in sinister chortles when he overheard such deluded doting comments!
All the same, he stayed respectful, because in their own way those dowager aunts, matrons and spinsters were every bit as deadly as their knife-wielding tribal Mongolian sisters; capable of shredding a man's life and reputation with their tongues and knowing winks and disapproving stares just as ruthlessly and maliciously as their barbarian counterparts could flay the skin from his living flesh. The Grand Dames' acceptance and indulgence ensured his position in the upper class circles: with their approval, a man could go anywhere, do anything, so long as offenses were sufficiently atoned; disgraced and disowned, one might as well tie a millstone to the ankles and take a dive off the Brooklyn Bridge.
He had to confess that it was often a relief to don cape and hat and descend to the slimy under belly of the city; there the dangers and the rewards were so basically primal, no diplomatic weaselly words or dancing around the subject. Brute force and weak clouded minds and the roaring cough of twin Colt forty fives became the deciding factors in many a discussion over money, drink or dames. There he could let his fury, his dark thirst for power and violence have its head and run itself out until he was marginally fit for polite company again. There he garnered favors, dealt justice (and occasionally mercy) with dramatic swathes of darkness and the echoing demented laughter of the unseen but all seeing Shadow!!! That was the gift and the responsibility that the Tulku had laid upon him, the price of his redemption, his Mariner's albatross; sometimes he cursed it, sometimes he clung to it as his sole chance of survival, but mostly he just employed it for lack of any more urgent purpose.
Until that day when Rose Barth shamed her presumed nephew into fulfilling a social obligation on the Island, and gypsy dark Theresé Jeanne Cranston DuBois shattered his sardonic perception of Life, the Universe and Everything into jagged haphazard pieces.
*****************
*Makes Puppy Dog Eyes* Anyone reading (other than Dragonwrangler)? Please comment -- I promise that the Real Ghostbusters will appear in the next installment!
P.S. - If anyone is wondering, my visual model for 'Tess' is Cote de Pablo, who portrays 'Ziva David' on N.C.I.S.
