To the surprise of absolutely no one.
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
T H E Q U E S T I O N
"My face? Looked too far into a bowling ball returner."
C H A R L E S V I C T O R S Z A S Z ♦ J O U R N A L I S T ♦ H U B C I T Y , I L L I N O I S
O R I G I N S:
"What an asshole."
That was something a lot of people muttered under their breath after a close encounter with Vic Sage; "rough around the edges" was putting it lightly when it came to him. His whole life he's been fighting, maybe not for the right reasons in the eyes of many, but in his eyes he was always in the right. After getting fired from his job at the Hub City Gazette after fist fighting his editor over an article, he found himself working for Starrstruck, a gossip tabloid masquerading as a reputable news site.
Vic's rise to vigilantism was sparked by Aristotle Rodor, Vic's old university professor and closest friend, whose former colleague Arby Twain was trying to illegally sell one of their inventions: pseudoderm, an artificial skin designed to be used as a bandage. It would've been a miracle, were it not for the fact that the gas used to bond pseudoderm to the skin was toxic when exposed to open wounds, negating the entire point of it. Rodor designed a mask for Vic using the pseudoderm and had Vic topple Twain's operation, with Vic leaving Twain and his cronies bound in pseudoderm in their warehouse before calling in an anonymous tip to the police.
That was last night. This morning, Vic has a question for himself: what can he do with this new alter ego?
He can beat up some assholes.
That was something a lot of people muttered under their breath after a close encounter with Vic Sage; "rough around the edges" was putting it lightly when it came to him. His whole life he's been fighting, maybe not for the right reasons in the eyes of many, but in his eyes he was always in the right. After getting fired from his job at the Hub City Gazette after fist fighting his editor over an article, he found himself working for Starrstruck, a gossip tabloid masquerading as a reputable news site.
Vic's rise to vigilantism was sparked by Aristotle Rodor, Vic's old university professor and closest friend, whose former colleague Arby Twain was trying to illegally sell one of their inventions: pseudoderm, an artificial skin designed to be used as a bandage. It would've been a miracle, were it not for the fact that the gas used to bond pseudoderm to the skin was toxic when exposed to open wounds, negating the entire point of it. Rodor designed a mask for Vic using the pseudoderm and had Vic topple Twain's operation, with Vic leaving Twain and his cronies bound in pseudoderm in their warehouse before calling in an anonymous tip to the police.
That was last night. This morning, Vic has a question for himself: what can he do with this new alter ego?
He can beat up some assholes.
S A M P L E P O S T:
2:44 AM. The sky above is the color of a television tuned to a dead channel, grey clouds rolling in and thick drops of rain drenching the pavement. I hear the sound of footsteps behind me and turn away from the window to look at Tot, who sets two double shot glasses and a bottle of brandy down on the table between our chairs. He sits down in his chair and uncorks the bottle, pouring two shots.
"A drink," he says, lifting his glass. "To Twain and his cronies rotting in jail."
I lift mine as well. "To douchebags getting what they deserve." With that toast, we take our drinks and set the glasses back down on the table. I reach a hand into my coat pocket and pull out the rubbery mask that Tot had designed for me. "... Think I can keep this?" I ask.
"Of course. It'd serve as a nice memento."
A memento. That's all it'll be after tonight. Something to remind me that I did something important, and I'll never do that again. No. It won't just gather dust in a closet for the rest of my life. "Actually, Tot, I was thinking of using it some more."
"... What do you mean?"
"I don't know. Wear it and go out and beat up some bad guys. Like The Phantom or Green Hornet or something."
"... Are you sure that's wise? This wasn't the mob, Charlie, it was some scientists looking to make some quick money."
"Okay, so I don't start off going after the mob. I go after thieves and street gangs, start small."
"And take a bullet to the head for it?"
"At least I'd die doing something good."
"You'd die doing something stupid for the sake of your own ego."
I glare at Tot with a scoff. "And there it is. What, you think I helped you out because I wanted to feel cool?"
"Charlie, you helped me because you wanted to do something that mattered. And it did matter. But there are better ways to fight against injustice than throwing yourself right into a fight with it." Tot reaches out and places a hand on my shoulder. "You'd just be getting yourself killed."
I shrug off his hand and stand from my chair. "Whatever you say, Tot. I'm going home."
He doesn't say a word as I walk out of the house and get into my car. The rain beats down upon the roof of the old Beetle, a rhythmic thumping that does nothing to soothe my frustration. I clench my eyes shut and take in a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. I reach into my pocket to grab my keys when I feel the mask again, rubbing my thumb along its smooth surface.
Tonight won't be the last time.
"A drink," he says, lifting his glass. "To Twain and his cronies rotting in jail."
I lift mine as well. "To douchebags getting what they deserve." With that toast, we take our drinks and set the glasses back down on the table. I reach a hand into my coat pocket and pull out the rubbery mask that Tot had designed for me. "... Think I can keep this?" I ask.
"Of course. It'd serve as a nice memento."
A memento. That's all it'll be after tonight. Something to remind me that I did something important, and I'll never do that again. No. It won't just gather dust in a closet for the rest of my life. "Actually, Tot, I was thinking of using it some more."
"... What do you mean?"
"I don't know. Wear it and go out and beat up some bad guys. Like The Phantom or Green Hornet or something."
"... Are you sure that's wise? This wasn't the mob, Charlie, it was some scientists looking to make some quick money."
"Okay, so I don't start off going after the mob. I go after thieves and street gangs, start small."
"And take a bullet to the head for it?"
"At least I'd die doing something good."
"You'd die doing something stupid for the sake of your own ego."
I glare at Tot with a scoff. "And there it is. What, you think I helped you out because I wanted to feel cool?"
"Charlie, you helped me because you wanted to do something that mattered. And it did matter. But there are better ways to fight against injustice than throwing yourself right into a fight with it." Tot reaches out and places a hand on my shoulder. "You'd just be getting yourself killed."
I shrug off his hand and stand from my chair. "Whatever you say, Tot. I'm going home."
He doesn't say a word as I walk out of the house and get into my car. The rain beats down upon the roof of the old Beetle, a rhythmic thumping that does nothing to soothe my frustration. I clench my eyes shut and take in a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. I reach into my pocket to grab my keys when I feel the mask again, rubbing my thumb along its smooth surface.
Tonight won't be the last time.
P O S T C A T A L O G:
Will this stay empty? That is the question.
2x Thank
