Christopher Poole
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In a New York City overrun by crime, a group of ten multi-talented vigilantes fights back against the forces of evil. Led by the obsessed Gary Parker, the ranks of the clandestine peacekeepers include such colorful rogues as the musclebound giant Charlie, the reformed cat burglar Carla, the Japanese ninja Sushi, the blind psychologist Buzz, and the teenage computer prodigy William, all working from their headquarters beneath the Manhattan subway system. In the course of their adventures, they face off against a line-up of some of the most despicable villains ever to prowl the urban landscape. Numbered among this gallery of infamy is Norman Kubritz, the most powerful gangster on the eastern seaboard; Qasim Al-Fulani, a fanatical Islamic terrorist; Shang Fear, a sadistic, sword-wielding killer, and by far the deadliest member of the Chinese mafia; Henry Hugo, a flamboyantly homosexual, globetrotting hitman for hire; Father Campion Earkhert, a deranged Catholic priest whose solution to all the world's sin is to kill all the sinners (i.e. everyone); and Salvador Ramos, a corrupt Mexican general commanding his own drug empire.
There's violence galore, and sex on the side, in the best tradition of action-packed escapist fare, where the high-risk carnage only stops blazing long enough for Gary to relapse into suicidal alcoholism, or for Peg, the Vigilantes' emotionally unbalanced chemist, to enjoy a discreet affair with her teenage lesbian lover.
Truly something for all fans of the genre.
Christopher Poole is twenty-four years old. He lives in Dover, NH.
Casey Munroe was standing
precariously upright atop the rickety banister of the high, narrow
mezzanine that overlooked the flophouse’s first floor. His ankles
were bound together, his wrists were tied behind his back, and a
third length of rope, secured to one of the sturdier beams above,
ended in a noose strung tightly around his neck. He stood perfectly
still upon the slender rail of rotting wood, mad as a rabid dog, but
certainly not ignorant enough to believe he could survive a plunge
from the makeshift balance beam. Gary enjoyed a much more secure
position, leaning casually against the wall in an old, wobbly chair,
directly opposite the delicately placed killer.
“So, friend Casey,” said Gary, his air of
utter nonchalance adding insult to injury, “I’ve explained to you
the reason why you’ve ended up in this position, which is a damn
sight more than you do for your victims. The police can’t
catch you, and, even if they did, they probably wouldn’t be able to
hold you. You’re clearly off your nut, so, just about any attorney
worth his law school tuition would be able to have you installed in a
nice, comfy, minimum security hospital, where you’d live out the
rest of your days in taxpayer-sponsored tranquility, watching cable
TV and feeding the ducks. And we, the Vigiliantes, find such a
proposition completely unacceptable.”
“You can’t kill me, asshole!” Munroe spat.
“I’ll be back! I’ll be back to getcha!”
“You’ve killed a lot of people, Casey,”
said Gary. “Do you have anything to say about that?”
“Fuck you!”
“Wrong answer.”
Still seated, Gary thrust out his right leg and
kicked the banister, hard. The wood splintered, and Casey Munroe had
just enough time for one good scream before he literally reached the
end of his rope.
