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[color=gainsboro]'Twas the night before Christmas, when through yon meth-house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
Apparatus were strewn around, shattered without care,
And the chefs and muscle-for-hire were equally impaired;
Bones fractured, men broken, all unconscious as if snug in their beds;
And doubtless concussions from the bell-ringing delivered to heads;

Whilst up on the roof, wrestling with his grappling gun and poor aim,
Stood a familiar Vigilante, more satisfaction than shame,
The grapple hook missed its target, he curses, as the hook gives its clatter,
With nary a thought for the preceding violent splatter.
The hook breaks through a window with an audible [b]SMASH![/b]
And sighing, he takes it, swinging on the line in a flash,

The moon catches his teeth as he flashes a grin,
Another night's toil; he laid waste to sin,
The scar tissue on his knuckles throbs without feeling,
A meagre comparison to the drug den of felons left reeling,
He swings down to a car; awaiting without plates,
Looks like any other, further attention; it seldom rates,

More rapid than an eagle his car swoops round a corner, 
Frustrated and with lane changes, he lays off the horn, a[/color]
"Now, You bucket of bolts!  You clunker!  You lemon!
Let's hightail it out of here!  The gas has been stepped-on!"
[color=gainsboro]Came out of his voice with a mechanical twang,
Designed to mask any and all familiar pangs,

He downshifts, now comfortable that he'd put in enough space,
And that 'Cooktown's Finest' had not given chase,
He would park once again and seek the high ground,
Patroling his city for any crime to be found.
Later, another twinkling, can be heard on a roof
The grapple hook followed, by thick-booted hoof.

Once more he aims grapple-gun high, it strikes a skyscraper's gilding,
With a smirk, he hits auto-recoil, and flies up the tall building,
He was dressed all in black, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all matted with blood, dirt and soot;
A bundle of 'toys' he had flung on his back,
But t'were tools of violence, resting within his pack.

His flashbangs would twinkle!  Nightsticks, how merry!
When brought down with a [b]CRUNCH[/b], they'd leave quite a cherry!
His droll little mouth was light up with a leer,
Catching the moonlight when his violence brought cheer;
It would contrast so richly with his balaklava's dark pitch,
He'd attack from the shadows, knock em flat out, but for a twitch.

His head on a swivel, from his perch he surveyed the dark night,
For the other types of malevolence that would feed upon fright,
A mugger, a rapist, or signs of drive-by;
What other's would seek to avoid, he instead hoped to spy.
A flash of his grin and a twist of his head
Gave proof to the fact he saw something we'd dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And checked his pack's presence; then turned with a jerk,
And grasping his line he descended to a more suitable perch,
His eyes flashed to once again find the target of his previous search;
A well practised descent, he dropped; soft, silent as a cloud,
Darkness fell upon muggers like a pitch black shroud.

A mechanical growl, and before they could flee--[/color]
“Ho Ho Ho!  Forget 'All'.  [b]Merry Christmas to Me![/b]”