February 13, 2001.
12:24 p.m.
Red Hook section of Brooklyn, NY.

A dark man strolled casually down the wet side streets. Polished shoes clicked with an almost rhythmic tempo as he continued his journey. His manner of dress may have seemed a century out of place, but in a cultural melting pot such as New York, where the fashions changed at each passing city block, he fit right in with the locals.

He stood a proud height, about an inch over six feet, but the top hat he wore made him even taller. He kept his jet black hair tied back in a small ponytail, revealing his neatly trimmed mutton chop sideburns and his narrow face. His long black jacket seemed tailor-made and it hid most of the white shirt and cravat underneath. His black pants and shoes melted into the jacket, very much like the shadows within the garbage-filled alley he now walked in. In his arms, he held a white Persian cat who was most content with its situation.

As the man sauntered through the alley, he heard the sounds of a struggle up ahead, and this instantly caught his attention. The man nevertheless continued onward, ignoring the foul stenches oozing out from the dumpsters and sewer grates.  Even the cat stayed perched in his arms, unmoved by the sounds of vermin skittering by. The struggle grew louder as he proceeded -- the sound of violence, of a man crying, of men barking orders.

Stopping for a moment, the dark man looked at his cat, and it acknowledged him with an almost human manner. The man smiled slightly, then maintained his course with the same casual strut he had been keeping. As the man in black rounded a pile of crates, he spotted the source of the commotion.

A man in a bloody and tattered business suit was being held up by the armpits by two young thugs. The man looked badly beaten, obviously a victim of these thugs. Three more thugs stood behind the man, two with their arms crossed as the third rifled through a wallet that obviously wasn’t his.

"You fuckin’ yuppie shit! Who do you think your dealin’ wit?" exclaimed a thug as he landed a right hook across the beaten man's face. The punch made a dull thud, forcing his head rolled with the impact.

"Hey Brooksie, I don’t think he wants ta talk to ya," said one of the hoods holding the near unconscious man up. Grabbing a handful of the mans hair to control his head, the thug continued into the mans face, "You better show some respect to my friend here, Mr. GQ Smooth!"

"P... pl... please" was all the businessman could muster.

From the shadows behind the crates, the dark man stroked his cat just behind the ear. The hint of a smile appeared on his face.

"The smell of sweet fear, my old friend," he said. The cat just purred.

The brute that stood before the wounded man reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade. Flicking open the blade and holding it up by his ear, he asked, "Ronnie, how much did the yuppie fag have in his wallet?"

"Nine dollars and a Today’s Man card," replied the man who was searching the wallet.

"Today’s fucking Man?" the youth with the switchblade asked in a partial laugh. "What the fuck could we use a Today’s fucking Man card for?" With that, all six thugs started snickering and laughing.

Brooksie stepped toward the beaten man pointing the blade at him. "Could you picture me in a fancy fuckin Wall Street suit?" He waited for a reply, but the terrified man said nothing. "Well?" he yelled.

The punk that held a handful of the man's hair forced the man's head back. In an off voice, he said, "Nope, I couldn’t picture you in anything but jail."

As the group of men broke into laughter, Brooksie gritted his teeth and buried the blade into the man's chest. Thrusting upward a second time for good measure.

The two men holding him up let go as the beaten man fell to the wet alley floor as dead weight.

One of the two men holding him up protested, "What the fuck did you do that for?"

Brooksie leaned in toward the protestor and yelled, "Why? You got a fuckin problem now, bitch?"

"Brooksie man, you didn’t have to do him," the second man said with his hands out, hoping to defend the first man.

"Maybe six on one was not good enough odds for our friend Brooksie?" the voice came from behind the crates.

Alarmed, the six hoodlums turned to face the voice without a form. Brooksie held his bloody blade out and challenged, "Who the fuck's there?"

From behind the shadows of the crates stepped the dark man with his cat. The thugs could only see the bottom of his face under the brim of his hat. The dark man stepped out from the cover of darkness and into the yellowed light of the alley, stopping a mere fifteen feet from the gang of six.

"You are so dead, bitch!" exclaimed Brooksie, as he started for the dark figure.

The dark man just held up a hand and coolly said, "I don’t think so, boy The police are here."

With that said, the alley behind the man filled with light. Red and blue flashing lights, spotlights dancing on the walls, and the sounds of at least twelve men running down the alley, barking orders in a militant fashion. In mere seconds, the alley was alive with activity and the sounds were advancing.

The gang turned and ran for their lives down another alley. The sudden burst of fear coming from the gang proved to be quite the appetizer for the dark man and his cat.

The dark man stood and watched the gang disappear, then the sound of the advancing men and all the lights just faded away. He smiled as he looked at the cat who was staring up at him from his arms. "Soon my friend, very soon," the man said as he walked towards the crumpled body on the floor.

The dark figure stopped to pick up the discarded wallet. He looked through the wallet for a moment, then approached the dishevelled businessman on the wet alley pavement. The man laid on his back with one feeble hand over the fresh pumping wound on his chest. His eyes fixed on the darkened form before him.

"Help me," the business gasped through a bloodied mouth.

The dark man looked down at him and said, "Mr. Kyle David Connors I presume?" He then knelt down beside the man allowing the cat to jump from his arms to the ground. "No need to get up, Mr. Connors." He lifted Connors bloodied hand from his wound and took a long deep look at it. Putting Connors hand back on the wound he said, "Wel,l Mr. Connors, I sure hope you lived a clean life because you are going to die."

Connors looked in disbelief at the man, and now stood up and started walking a circle around him.

"The real question here is how are you going to die?" The man in black laced his fingers behind his back as he walked around the prone Connors. "Sure, the wound could kill you, but I think the rats in this alley might just consume most of you before the wound does its job."

Connors' eyes widened as he looked to the trash piles, seeing hundreds of little red pinholes peering back at him. They were all around him, waiting. Connors looked back up at the pacing man and choked out, "Help me Please." He could feel his strength vanishing.

The dark man knelt beside him again and continued. "Interesting thing about the way rats feed; they start with the soft parts. They will probably start eating at your ears, nose and eyes, then your groin. Slowly, as those parts disappear, a few of the more daring beasties will start tearing away at your stomach until a hole is made big enough for them to enter and continue feeding on even softer parts. I don’t see them leaving too much for your corpse to be identified by. And without this wallet... well, let's just hope your dentist keeps good records."

With that said, the man stood up and started walking in the direction that the gang left in.

"Why?" Connors gurgled.

The dark man just kept walking away.

Pleading, Connors hoarsely yelled to the dark man. "Please I... can... get... you money!"

The dark man barely looked over his shoulder, replying, "I’m afraid not, my poor man."

As the man disappeared into the alley, Connors laid his head on the cool pavement. That was when he saw the first group of rats emerge from the trash piles.

The man in black stopped just around the corner looked down and extended his arms. The white Persian cat leapt into his embrace with no hesitation. Screams of terror and pain broke from around the corner as Connors thrashed in agony.

"Oh God! Get them off of me! Dear God, help!"

The dark man with his cat just stood at the corner, just out of Connors' sight. The two breathed in deeply, absorbing the fear that they created.

For minutes the rats crawled over the businessman, scratching, screaching, biting. Then Connors noticed they all backed off, and he could only wait helplessly for the next wave. The pain from the wound on his chest was rivaled by the rat bites to his softer parts. Connors could only lay there, praying for sweet release.

The dark man turned and started a course that would take him deeper into the back alleys. Stroking the head of the content white cat, he addressed the creature as if it could understand him.

"That was quite the appetizer, was it not, Iago? We must remember not to feed too much from one source for that could be considered wasteful." The feline purred in agreeance.

"Alright then, my little Thespian, why don’t you track us down those ruffians? The night is young and there is much more work to be done." A near playful tone rang in the man's voice as the cat jumped from his arms and quickly walked down the alley before him.

Minutes later in an abandoned storeroom behind a store that has long been boarded up, the six young thugs catch their breath while resting on some old crates. The room is filled with the sound of panting and curses muttered under breath.

"Shit, Brooksie, that guy's gonna be able to describe us to those cops!" one of the thugs broke from his gasping. He was a skinny Hispanic man with prison tattoos running up his arm. He looked more than a little nervous addressing Brooksie this way, but he felt it was something that must be said.

Looking agitated, Brooksie barked back, "You don’t think I know that Rico? What do you want me to do about it?"

"Man, if we're caught, were all going back to the joint," replied Rico.

The largest of the thugs then boomed in, "Then we don’t get caught." The man's bald head was covered in sweat as he stared at Rico from under a heavy brow.

"That’s real smart, Gooch! You fuckin genius!" snapped Rico. Gooch just gritted his teeth and stared down the skinny Hispanic.

One of the gangsters addressed his buddies, "Hey guys! Lets not turn on each other. That's when you know you’re in trouble, when the group turns on each other. Lets just keep it cool." The man's wisdom seemed to sink in to some degree or another.

"Yeah man, Booker’s right," agreed Ronnie, still holding the now sweaty nine dollars in his right hand. "We gotta stay tight!" Looking over at Brooksie he asked, "Hey Brooks, what do you think we should do now?"

Brooksie looked out of the corner of his eyes at Ronnie, then scanned his gang. There was Ronnie who always looked nervous but could be counted on. Then there was the Gooch, the muscle of the gang. Big, bald and as dumb as a door knob. Then Booker, he just always looked like a mess but he was part of the glue that kept the guys together. Then came Rico, the gang’s wiry thief and burglar. He hated the joint, so he would do whatever it took to stay out of it. Lastly, there was J.B., the quiet guy of the group. When he did decide to talk it never really mattered because none of the guys would listen to him.

"You know what I think?" asked Brooksie with a sadistic smile cracking across his face. "I think we oughta find that asshole who saw us and ventilate him!" The smile turned near demonic as Brooksie pulled a Glock out of his jacket and held it by his face in a cinematic fashion.

"How we supposed to find him, man?" Ronnie asked while making a questioning gesture with his hands. "We don’t know nothin bout him."

"Finding the person you seek may be as easy as asking nicely," came a cold voice from a dark corner of the storeroom, behind some old crates.

The gang instantly sprang up and armed themselves. Brooksie held his Glock out before him, training the barrel on the crates where the voice came from. Ronnie grabbed an old busted up board, and Gooch wrapped a short length of his lucky chain around his right fist. Rico pulled out his switchblade, while J.B. and Booker just looked surprised. The tension in the room was so thick, it seemed the gang was choking on it.

"Come out now, you eavesdropping piece of rat shit!" Brooksie snapped while tightening his grip on his gun. The others could see by the way Brooksie gritted his teeth that the unwelcome stranger was soon to pay the ultimate price.

All eyes fixed on the crate pile in the corner. A clicking of shoes could be heard on the wooden floor seconds before a man stepped out from behind the crates. It was the man in black who came around the crates, with a devil-may-care smile etched on his face.

"Greetings, Robert Alan Brooks," the man started.

Crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack!

Brooksie let loose with a hail of bullets from his pistol, stopping only to see the man in black still standing before him.

"You missed, Mr. Brooks," replied the man in black.

Dust from the buller-riddled wall lingered in the air; the smell of gunpowder was thick and everyone’s ears still rang from the gunfire. Why the man was standing was beyond any of them.

Slack-jawed, Brooksie finished emptying his weapon at the dark figure before him.

Crack, crack, crack!

The bullets screamed towards the dark man, but he simply reached out and caught them with his gloved right hand. His hands moved in slow and fluid, like the hand motions from some macabre dance.

Crack, crack, crack!

With the gun emptied, Brooksie could only stare in disbelief at the stranger, who now stood with his fisted right hand holding the rest of the bullets.

"Not exactly the warmest welcome I have ever received" the dark man stated more to himself than his astonished assailant. "I can see you still harbor some manner issues, Mr. Brooks." The man started to roll and knead the mass of bullets, the hot lead just molded like soft clay in the his hands. After a few seconds it seemed the man was finished.

"Gentlemen, school is about to start," the man announced as he threw the molded bullets at the door. The mass hit where the wall and door met, instantly forming a plate bolting the door closed to the world. All eyes slowly traveled back from the door to the stranger in the corner who simply stated "Today’s lesson -- Fear."

The gang looked at each other, puzzled. Almost all at once they turned to Gooch, who shrugged his large shoulders, gritted his teeth, and charged the dark stranger. As he bellowed his war cry, Gooch realized the man didn’t budge an inch. Gooch raised his chain-wrapped right hand and attempted to punch the stranger who just stood, waiting.

At the last second the stranger grabbed Gooch's blearing fist and his elbow that followed. With a small twist, the man sent Gooch flipping to the floor where he landed hard on his back.

"Jonathan Michael Goucharelli, I remember you well," the stranger stated. Gooch looked up at his right hand. The man still held it by three fingers, and he applied a small bit of pressure that sent pain shooting down Gooch's arm. The big tough howled out in agony.

"Who is you, an how do you know me?" Gooch asked through gasps of pain, as he felt the tears well up in his eyes.

"Jonathan, your grammar is truly appalling. As for who I am, let's just say someone who has known all of you for a very long time." The man's eyes scanned the group of hoods who were stunned at the effect the man had on Gooch.

Brooksie stepped forward, biting back the common sense that told him to stay quiet, and challenged, "I don’t know you. And I don’t think you know shit about me!"

"Is that so, Mr. Brooks?" The man said, the dark grin on his face widening. Looking down at Gooch, he continued, "If I remember correctly, and I always do, Mr. Goucharelli here is terrified of spiders. Tell me Jonathan, do you still fear our eight-legged friends?"

At that moment, while being pinned to the floor by the mans arm lock, Gooch watched a spider the size of a dime drop from under the man's jacket to the floor. The little eight-legged monster started moving right for him. Then he noticed something else move out from the man's coat pocket. It was another spider, this one the size of a quarter -- and hairy!  It too moved for Gooch. Then another, and another, until twelve of the beasts were making their way toward the muscle-bound tough. He could feel the sweat running on his brow, his heart sped up and his joints started to tremor.

"Lemme up! Please! Don’t let dem near me! God help me!" Gooch finally broke down and cried out. A sight which stunned his gang.

"God? There you go, evoking the name of an imaginary being of convenience. Tell me, Mr. Goucharelli, do you believe in this god when your mortal soul is not in danger of being extinguished?" The tone of the dark man was near contempt at this point. Something in the scared man's pleas angered him.

"Look man, let him go. You know he don’t like spiders. You proved your point!" yelled a worried Booker as he helplessly watched his friend at near heart attack stage.

The man looked over to Booker and said, "William Booker, you obviously misread me. I am not trying to prove any point."

As the man finished speaking, hundreds of thousands of spiders poured from under his jacket like a slot machine from hell paying off the big jackpot. The scream that came from Gooch was near deafening. All kinds of spiders, large, small, hairy, bald, long-legged and stubby. All hitting the floor and covering like a living carpet, and of course Gooch was the first person in the path of the writhing mass.

The man in black let go of Gooch's hand. The big man instantly sprang to his feet and started trying to brush off the spiders in a funny looking dance. Gooch ran to the corner where he continued his screaming, jumping dance. "Get em offa me!" was all he said over and over again.

Unbeknownst to Gooch, the hoard on the floor started moving his way.

The man in black slowly turned from Gooch to face the other gang members. "Whose next, gentlemen?" His words slid from his tongue like acid burning metal.

The five terrified thugs rushed for the door almost at once, but no matter how hard they pulled the newly placed bolted plate.

"Shit man! We're stuck, the door won't give!" Ronnie cried out as all the blood seemed to have drained from his face.

Brooksie turned around to face the stranger, yelling, "Who the hell are you, and what the fuck do you want with us?" His heart was racing to the point of near implosion.

"You have no idea the depth of your question, but I shall humor you for now," replied the dark man as he stopped his advance. A moment that brought a very little bit of hope to the scared men. At this point, the Gooch's screaming came to a halt as he passed out from overwhelming fear, allowing the spiders to have their way with him.

The stranger slowly removed his black leather gloves and started talking. "Throughout the years I have been known by many names, and I held many positions. I was the one who brought the great wolves of the German Black Forest to the towns where they would run off with little children in their maws. In the year 1457, I held a position in the court of Vlad Tepes as an advisor. When 1479 came around I found myself helping an eager man by the name of Tomás de Torquemada set into motion one of the most infamous campaigns of fear known to mankind. In 1692, I went by Dr. William Griggs; and after convincing a town some young girls were bewitched, I changed the path of Salem forever. Then in 1888, in the destitute East End of London, called the Whitechapel District, I was simply known as Jack. Currently I have taken the name Darius Manes, but the one name that seems to follow me wherever I go is probably the most infamous -- The Bogeyman." With that said a smile, crept across dark man's face.

The gang was blanched, their expressions drawn, as they stared at the stranger named Darius Manes.

"You gotta be fuckin kidding me," Brooksie finally broke the stunned silence.

"I am afraid I do not joke about such things, Robert," Darius replied with a flat tone that left no room for discussion.

Brooksie broke into an uneasy smile "If you’re the Bogeyman then I’m--"

"Afraid of Snakes," Manes interjected as he reached out his bare right hand.

Before Brooksie's eyes, the stranger’s fingertips split horizontally as if cut by some ghostly knife. But instead of seeing a bloody mess escape from the severe wounds, small forked tongues and needle-sharp teeth came to life. Then his fingers swelled and deformed, their tips becoming optical mounds, their overall length elongating. And just like that, the man's five fingers turned into two-foot-long writhing snakes -- and yes, Brooksie was very afraid of them!

Manes drew back his right hand as if to throw something, and the snake-fingers writhed in agitation. He then thrust his right arm forward, launching the snakes from his hand and casting them at Brooksie. The serpents struck Brooksie, wrapping their scaly bodies around his arms, neck and God knows what. Brooksie thrashed about screaming.

Darius looked at the gang leader and said, "You don’t seem to be much of an inspirational leader now, do you, Robert"?

A long, thick mass shifted from within the dark man's jacket sleeve, then a large snake reared its ugly head from under its cuff. The massive snake dropped into Darius' casual grip. With a nonchalant, underhanded toss, the snake hugged itself around Brooksie and coiled around his waist three times.

Manes addressed the gang leader, "I wouldn’t struggle too much, my good man. Movement tends to alarm our mutual friend."

The serpent tightened itself around Brooksies midsection. Its head hovered before his face, unfolding an unmistakable hood from its neck that froze gang member in terror.

The rest of the gang pounded at the door, frantically trying to escape to no avail. The sight of their fear-struck leader sprawled out on the floor, entangled in a vicious mass of scales, was not a position any of them wanted to be in.

"Why are you doing this to us?!" screamed Ronnie, unable to watch and withstand Darius Manes' torturous torment.

"Quite simply for the same reason you attacked that man in the alley, Mr. Ronald Pierce." A dark smile broke across the man's face, exposing yellowish-brown teeth. "Because I can. Lights please, Iago"?

With that said, something small, about the size of a cat but with a barbed tail, scurried around the room. It scaled the walls, and clung to the ceiling, moving about to smash every light bulb in the place. There was the sound of shattered glass, followed by total darkness. The four remaining gangsters huddled close, a gang of toughs turning into whimpering children.

All was still for a moment.

Suddenly, the room ignited with a fiery blaze. The gang members covered their eyes from the explosion, but they could still clearly see the dark man standing at the heart of the hellfire. He looked different this time, however. Standing about eight-feet-tall, and wrapped in a leathery black cape, the man's skin took on a reddish tint and small bestial horns protruded from his forehead. Nothing about this monstrosity was evocative of Darius Manes, but they knew it was him. Shadows held heavily on his face, and his hair seemed to be a bit more wild than before, but it was him. The ground stirred at the base of the demon's feet. But as the smoke settled, and the gang's vision cleared, they saw that a small horde of naked, mishapen beasts nestled by him. Some made masturbatory getures while others just hissed foul curses under their breaths.

Dariuses voice boomed. "Well gentlemen, the time has come for this little game to end."

Manes and the creature named Iago could feel the waves of fear washing over them. Empowering them.

Ronnie fainted, and his friends were too transfixed by the sheer terror to even try to break his fall. They could only stare in total disbelief.

"Please don’t take us, I'll do anything," Booker sheepishly whined.

Darius leaned toward the men, his newly extended frame comsume half the room. Looking Booker in the face, he asked, "Anything?"

All three remaining men agreed frantically.

"Good," replied Manes as he stood up straight again. The twisted little horde at his feet started chuckling at some private injoke, the tittering noises of the beasts made the men even more uneasy. "Very well then."

The fire went out and the room once again fell into complete darkness.

"We will see each other again -- when I need you." Manes' voice sounded normal again from the darkness of the room. "One more thing, gentlemen, and I do use the title of 'gentlemen' lightly. You better sleep with the lights on."

With that said, the sealed door flung open, spilling streetlight into the room. The three still conscious men frantically raced each other out the door.

"So, Iago," Manes said in the dim room. "Did you get enough to feed upon?" A strange purr-peep answered. "Good, my friend. Let's go home."

The dark man strolled casually down the wet side streets, a fluffy white Persian cat resting contently in his arms.
 

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