The news rumbled through the living room, everyone murmured, there was fear, no one could believe the killer was still free. But the problem wasn't them — it was an office worker, someone no one called by the name his mother chose. Instead of Joshua, he was "Josh" — if he was lucky —. He was a bit chubby with fogged-up glasses. He couldn't stop sweating. His shirt absorbed it without much trouble — its color no longer clear —. He was trembling. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.
"Vigilante"
"Avenger"
He was a demon — that was certain — no one who followed the teachings of the Holy Scriptures could question that he was an entity of evil. Maybe he had made a pact. Like all those who lived on these streets and in these houses.
He paid for his double chocolate super frappé and churros. His house wasn't far from the café. There he tried to destroy what surrounded him. But he couldn't — his home only had space for the figures he had carved with great effort in his free time: faithful historical believers. He would never dare create something that represented his god — that is a sin! So only resentment remained. People were rotten — all of them! How could they agree with the methods of that blasphemer? Maybe if he eliminated whoever was a sinner, but at random — to confuse —. If his suspicions were correct. This beast was fighting for control of the area. Eliminating his competition… Of course! They're demons. They don't have to work together. When the sugar high finally passed — he thought — Many insisted that the demon's actions were the right ones. That more people should imitate them. But that's not possible — at least not the way they think —. There are very few who could stand up to crime — with their weapons —. The endless number of idiots who made a lot of money and didn't mind risking their lives. Since for them, life was already lost — that was the problem —. Killing them would only make other demons come out of that sewer to fill the vacancies. Greed — that sin — made many people enter that world. So killing them wasn't the option, but discouraging them? That he had to try. Divine justice will prevail!
The first one was easy. Corner dealer. Everyone who wants what he sells approaches at any hour of the day — no one does anything to him —. Ever since they saw he had means to defend himself and one less cocaine addict. No one ever tried to take away what he sold. According to those who know him, he does it to help his mother… To others it would be a noble cause but somewhat bad. For Joshua, the answer was simple.
The old woman was washing the patio. Her house no longer had sheet metal walls. She still lived in the lower part of a ravine. Although improvements were noticeable. It was noon. Today they had two hours of lunch break for the 9 to 7 shift. He hurried down — no one was there except some children playing among the puddles of water draining from the highest part of the ravine — no witness could describe who entered. The old woman didn't seem worried. The shadow of an armed son intimidated even the crazies of the area. But not someone who carried a sacred duty — he didn't introduce himself — he had no reason to say anything to someone who would go to hell for protecting such a scourge. So he carried her, the patio had no wall and the view — of the many houses built in the lowest strata — was very clear. As was her fall. The screams that profaned the calm of an area that had only minors to hear them. She fell two levels down. When the paramedics finally went down, there was very little to recover. By then he was already handling the 4 p.m. accounting.
The night brought a pleasant surprise — the dealer wasn't there. Another was hearing the regulars at the café:
"Poor woman, I'm sure it was her son's fault."
"Why? She knew everything and still when the police came before. They should have seen her cry. She swore her son was as innocent as God."
"Damn... that's a filthy murderer!"
"Still, poor woman. I hope she finds peace."
She won't find it — that's certain for Joshua —.
Her son had begun a stupid revenge: his customers, his enemies — all were attacked —. Some wouldn't get up again. It was clear the idea had worked!
Not everyone could fall like that. The thugs on the corner — newcomers — had robbed him. Now they even greeted him — as long as he bought them some beer bottles, they wouldn't do anything to him. They even laughed at his dancing flesh. But those were still dangerous. A switchblade, a machete from his work, one of them carried bolt cutters. No. Nothing could be done to them. Their mothers weren't an option either. Young women — raised in the neighborhood — very capable of wielding anything to defend themselves. Plus they were never alone. They all gathered in each other's houses — to complain about their husbands, their children —. About money... That was the only thing they didn't talk about. Children and fathers brought in enough income that they lived in buildings with apartments, gardens, and even swimming pools. There were no working cameras. No one wanted to know what happened there at night. That gave him the opportunity.
"Your parents sent me! There's soda for after you get out of the pool."
"What else is in the bag?"
"A little rum for me..."
"Leave him! We're grown and we want a Cuba Libre."
"Kids, you shouldn't drink."
"Fucking holy roller! Let him! My father has put up with a lot from you. Don't risk him breaking your mother."
"Fine, whatever! I'll charge your parents."
"Coward! Get lost, and you, Cokehead, go get your speaker. The party's gonna be awesome. We'll see each other looking good at the pool."
The bottles took two weeks to buy, one every other day. He had to hold back but he couldn't drink more than one glass. Or his plan would be discovered. The bottle was just one of the cheap ones filled with ethanol — a third of the bottle —. The rest of the contents went down the drain. A couple of days later the corner was empty. Finally he could walk at night in peace.
This time there weren't so many on his side:
"But why the children... They were innocent!"
"My underwear is innocent! Those were violent kids. Just like their parents. The little beggars had already stolen my son's bike."
"But still, they had a life ahead of them."
"I don't know. They attacked the math teacher just because he wouldn't let them leave."
"They can't be so inhuman, they had a chance to correct their bad path."
The perpetrator didn't feel he should inform them. That's how good deeds work — no one should know —. Only his prayers spoke of the acts he carried out.
As the months passed, the righteous acts increased: mothers, grandparents. When it wasn't direct, it was a fire. A gas suffocation. Poison in food. Sure, others died too — but they were necessary sacrifices to bring peace to this neighborhood —.
With these actions, the streets were clean of thugs. Many left the area. Others fled, fearing a new cartel that respected no boundaries. Yet he didn't feel content — there was still rot here —. The potholes weren't being fixed. But the perpetrators — that damned governor and his municipal president — were unreachable. Their houses were fortresses, there were guards, armored cars, weapons in the hands of their staff. So this would have to be his final work.
He spent his savings to get into expensive places. He endured mockery and ridicule. A glass of soda in hand, and he listened. He went from place to place until he heard someone mention something about a hotel.
The date was set. A weekend of pure debauchery. He entered through the back — he was just another fat guy in uniform — he didn't go to the party — he wasn't stupid —. His target was the roof. From there he confirmed they were all in a real pool — not the filthy one from the housing complex —. In there, the fat bloated with money, models, addicts, musicians, and other addicts to sin were having fun bathing in an orgy hidden by foam. He just hoped what he was trying to do would work. On his shoulder, an extension cord connected to high voltage. In his hand, a hairdryer turned on full blast, and he commended himself. He ran with strength, with faith, with desire for vengeance for everything. He reached the edge and jumped — he only had one chance —. He flew, heard some screams — as concentrated as the partygoers were in the foam that covered the whole area — only the waiters saw him.
He only felt the impact. He didn't reach the water — he didn't plan to —. His gaze began to lose brightness, the impact broke several ribs and one of them pierced his heart. He managed to spit out some saliva with blood. But there went justice. He fell into the water — he could hear them —. It was a beautiful thing. Finally tomorrow the news would say that he, Joshua, was a true martyr. A vigilante, no longer anonymous.