[i][b]New York March, 20th, 2005 11PM[/b][/i] The three junkies that had 'run' into Ted earlier took a while in rousing themselves, taking time to nurse their wounded pride. Not too long though, as men like those don't have what you call an 'abundance' of pride. That's why they found it so easy to steal an old woman's purse later that day, threatening her at knife point until she handed over. She wasn't hurt, but she might have been, and even if she was it wouldn't have troubled their consciences much, just another thing they didn't have an abundance of. They took the bag straight to their closest dealer, one who operated out of a dive bar just outside of Queens, a real rough neck joint called “[i]Diamond Dave's[/i]” where the beer was nine parts water, the women were all short a few teeth, and the guys were just as likely to stab you as shake your hand. More likely, really, if you wore a shiny wristwatch. Still, [i]Dave's[/i] had some standards, and even they drew the line at letting in strung out junkies, on the grounds that they were sick of the meth-heads getting high then OD'ing in the johns. So the trio was stopped by a burly bouncer at the doors, and no amount of pleading, wheedling, or begging would convince the gorilla to let them past. He did relent at fetching their dealer though, but only after they'd paid him twenty bucks. The dealer, a short, scrawny fella named Louis "[i]The Weed[/i]" Campagna met them in the alley behind [i]Dave's[/i], the kinda place lifted straight outta a cheap grindhouse slasher movie, fifty feet long, nearby flickering street lamps barely providing enough illumination to see by, a discarded baby stroller dumped under a mountain of trash, puddles of murky, grim-dark water pooling, carrying God knows what diseases. It was so scuzzy and uninviting that it almost looked like it was purposefully designed that way, that there was no way mere chance could have made such an unappealing area. And so that grimy alleyway served as the backdrop to the drug deal. Little did the principal parties know though, that it was also serving as a certain vigilante's hunting ground, where he thought he might be able to angle himself a real bottom feeder who might be [i]'persuaded'[/i] to give him some information on Victor Moretti's operations. And so the junkies had their second run in of the day with Ted Grant. Only this time he was dressed as Wildcat. And this time he wasn't pulling his punches. [center]*****[/center] Wildcat coalesced from the shadows like a wraith, one moment nothing more than the hint of a shadow, the next full, and substantial, and terrifyingly real. One meth-head, the one that had first pulled the knife on Ted that one morning that seemed like a lifetime ago now, caught a glimpse of him as he emerged from the smudgy darkness, but before the junkie could cry, scream, call a warning or even shit his pants, Wildcat was on him, all rage, and power, and grim iron purpose. It was something he'd learnt early in life, that the best way to start a fight was to start it sudden and to start it hard, to knock the other guy out before he even knew he was in a fight. Maybe not all that sporting, but damn if it wasn't effective. The first junkie caught a big haymaker to the jaw, so much force and momentum behind it that it woulda stood an even to high chance of knocking a bronco out cold. Some strung-out coke-zombie didn't stand a chance, and hit the ground without much say in the argument. The next meth-head, a short, surprisingly stout man with a badly considered blonde soul patch, took his beating better, weathering a combination of two straight rights then a left cross before being thrown from his feet, landing as graceless as a sack of doorknobs upon the unrelenting alley stones, followed by a pretty audible crack that Ted was willing to bet was the scumbag's tail bone. Put a smile on his face. By this time the last junky, the youngest looking of the group who bore a bizarre resemblance to Steve Buscemi, and Campagna, were starting to react to Wildcat's sudden onslaught. Buscemi-lookalike had decided the better part of valour was discretion, quite wisely turning tail and hoofing it to the relative safety of the street, while Campagna was reaching into his nylon weave jacket, no doubt about to pull a weapon. Wildcat let him have all the time he needed, let the dealer retrieve his weapon, let him think it was gonna even the odds. He could be real cruel like that sometimes, a cat playing with it's food. The Weed was just extending his pistol, a winsy colt semi, in Wildcat's direction, finger on the trigger and the beginnings of a triumphant grin worming it's way onto his pinched face when the vigilante made his move. Fluid as flowing water he slid to the side of Campagna's arm, too fast for the dealer to see, never mind react to. Big, calloused, weathered knuckles folded over the colt, forcing the slide back, Wildcat's other hand cupping the dealer's elbow, then with a swift jerk he hyper-extended the joint. Campagna squawked like a plucked chicken, excruciating pain travelling all down his arm, forcing his hand open and making him drop his pistol. The dealer fell to his knee's, more through shock at the pain than the pain itself, but it still gave Wildcat the time he needed to catch the Buscemi lookalike, before putting him on his ass just as hard as he'd done the others. Campagna was starting to recover himself somewhat as Wildcat returned, stalking like a predator that had just cornered it's prey and knew it had nowhere else to run. The Weed was looking like he was thinking about making a play for the gun, but if that was his plan then he'd left it too late. Way too late. The big vigilante hoisted the dealer up by his hair, yanking him up like a caveman raider that had just found a new bride. Campagna might have thought the same, squealing like a virgin bride on her wedding night. The Weed's eyes darted between Wildcat's and the pistol, still lying close enough to grab, if he had the stones for it. "Uh-uh boy," Growled the vigilante, "Nobody ever tell you that it's bad form to take a gun to a fistfight?" Campagna never did get the chance to reply before being knocked unconscious by virtue of a heavy left. [center]*****[/center] "Wake up!" Campagna didn't seem all that obliging, so Wildcat gave him a little tap, just a little something to get the cognitive processes up and running. It worked a charm, the dealer jerking towards consciousness. In another life, Ted mused, I was probably a doctor. The Weed ran unfocused eyes about his new environment, half-befuddled mind trying to make sense of his plight. Pointless though, as even if those eyes didn't carry such heavy daze then the room was to gloomy for him to ever pierce it's shadowed depths, and even if he did somehow manage to figure out the riddle of his new holding place, well he'd never recognize it. Few men would. He was tied to a chair in the back of Grant's Gym, in the old storage space where Ted kept the spare weights, burst punching bags, and washing machines. Hardly the Justice Society Headquarters, but it was dark, scary, and soundproofed. It would do in a pinch. Even so, just in case Ted decided to give Campagna something else to think about, smoothly crossing into the dealer's line of vision. The sharp, frightened intake of air let the vigilante know that he'd been spotted, and for a moment he just posed. Useful for intimidation purposes, a half glimpsed figure that no doubt means nothing but ill. Right that moment Campagna would be taking in the midnight black costume, the tattered leather jacket that had seen more battles than the American military, the fistwraps that had faded from a pristine white into a murky red, the mask that would just hint at some monstrous visage, some ferocious beast that meant a person more malice than winter. Yeah, if Campagna wasn't shitting himself then Ted Grant was a ballerina. "You don't kill people!" Choked the weed in a broken voice, clutching at the words like they were some kinda lifeline, that he'd just found his way out. Oh, but Ted was gonna enjoy this. With a bone grating chuckle the old man laughed, a sound as harsh as headstones. Smoothly he stepped in close to where Campagna was seated. The dealer threw himself back in his chair, trying to put as much space between himself and his captor, but the old vigilante just leaned in closer, big paw curling round the back of his [i]'guests'[/i] head, forcing him to meet his gaze. "Oh boy, I musta hit you harder than I thought. You're confusing me with that other black clad, pointy eared, vigilante type. See this ain't Gotham and I ain't Batman. I will kill ya." Campagna whimpered before breaking into a sob, meaning the bluff was working. It was almost to easy. Wildcat let his captive's head droop, taking a step back while rolling his shoulders. ". . . If it suits my purposes. See kid, I ain't unreasonable. I'm more than willing to meet a guy halfway, if he's willing to meet me. If he's willing to cut a deal." He didn't even need to turn around to see if Campagna had bitten. The scumbag seen his lifeline, and he leapt for it. [b]"I'll deal, I'll deal!"[/b] "Clever boy." Smirked the vigilante. He sauntered over to an old fashioned tape recorder, set up on a table and just out of the Weed's eyeline. With a flick of a switch he set it rolling. "Now I'm gonna ask some questions. You tell me the answers. You hesitate, then I'm gonna hit you. Whether you're avoiding the question, acting the fool, or playing for time, I don't care, I will hit you." "You lie, and trust me when I say I'll know, I'll kill you. Simple as that. You follow." Campagna nodded furiously. Wildcat growled, slapped the the bound man round the head, not hard but not exactly a love tap either. Campagna yelped out a yes. Satisfied he now understood the rules, the vigilante continued. "Good. Now, first things first. Do you know of Victor Moretti?" "I work for Victor!" Cried the Weed triumphantly, happy to be of use. Happy to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Sure, he'd have to betray some pretty dangerous men, but right at that minute Wildcat was there. And they weren't. And Wildcat was worse.