Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Vendetta Theory ❯ Chapter 6

Marcus woke up to see light pouring through his window. He looked at his clock; it read 11:39 a.m. “Son of a bitch!” He yelled and quickly threw on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and ran out the door pausing only to look back at his mother who was passed out on the floor with a beer can clutched in her left hand. “Figures.” He muttered and continued on towards his high school.  

 

When he came to school all the kids were outside for lunch. There was a crowd of people that quickly parted at his glare.   “Mr. Valentine!” a voice boomed. Marcus sighed and turned around. Putting on an innocent voice he asked, “What seems to be the problem Principal Sheck?” His principal who was an imposing man topping out at 6 foot 3 and of heavy girth. He got right into Marcus's face and gloated, “I've got you now, oh boy have I got you now! Today makes 15 late days upon which I can legally start making your life a social hell.”  

 

Marcus being of a short stature looked up into the principal beetle like eyes with his own blazing gaze. “What are you going do? Spank me?”  

 

“S, s, spank you!” His nemesis asked incredulously.  

 

“I didn't stutter did I?” Marcus asked.  

 

“ Well I… you… uh,” He said fumbling for words. “DETENTION!” He finished finally “Yes, detention!” He confirmed more sure of himself.   Marcus groaned as he thought of that one word, that teacher's never-fail Plan B. Their ace-in-the-hole.  

 

He put on a façade and barked “Sir, yes sir” remembering to give his principal an army salute as he marched away. He knew the drill. 

 

***

 

He swore as he glanced at the clock. It was time to meet the school counselor. He considered skipping the meeting but the school had hired a new person to fill the vacancy left by the resignation of the last counselor. Perhaps this one would be different then the others. He seriously doubted it. He knew the drill. 

 

He made his familiar hike down the hallway. Left, Left, Right Left, Right, Left. The door was plain cedar with a brass handle. Marcus groaned before turning the handle and stepping into the dimly lit room.   The school's psychologist was a young woman in her mid twenties. She had short brown hair and was wearing a gray blouse and a long purple skirt. She spoke in the irritating way all school counselors spoke. A mocking calm superior tone of voice that adults use when they want to let children know that they have their best interests in mind. She gave the standard non threatening counselor response too. This was the drill.

 

“Hi there. My name is Julie Fletcher. You can call me Julie, or Ms. Fletcher, or even Ms. F if you wish.” She chuckled, Marcus didn't laugh.

 

She continued undeterred, plucking his file from the small coffee table beside her. “Marcus Aurelius Valentine,” She said reading his name off the label on the folder “Oh, after the Roman Emperor?” She asked surprised. Marcus's face twisted into a grimace before he quickly shifted into a toothy grin. “Yes, my parents were quite the history buffs!” He said through his gritted teeth with fake cheer. Julie was so happy to get a response out of the young man that she blindly missed the sarcasm.   “Wonderful, just wonderful. Now to begin I'd like begin by” she began to speak when Marcus interrupted her.   “Running some tests.”   She was shocked “How did you know that?” She asked calmly.  

 

“I've been meeting with your type for six years now. I'm the `troubled kid who isn't living up to his potential”, aren't I?" He responded .

 

Such bitterness in this one ,she thought “Well, can you tell me everything that's wrong in this picture here?” She handed one of the picture tests to Marcus. He ran his eyes methodically over every inch of the picture. “Now you can take a minute to look over the picture…” She started, “Done” Marcus announced.

 

“I don't think your done quite yet.” Julie told him sternly. Marcus stared out the window and his face contorted. While he knew what was coming next, she had no idea. She wouldn't believe him at first, but he'd end up convincing her and she'd end up leaving. This was how it always started. He knew the drill.

 

He sighed and turned back to her. “Just take out the answer key.” he said. She complied pulling the half-page of paper from one of the folders. He sighed again. “Ready?” He asked Julie. She looked at him through narrowed eyes then nodded. Marcus took a deep breath.

 

“First off the reflection of hand from the man in the car is facing the opposite way it should be facing, considering the sun is in the upper right corner. A dog is walking his master on a leash, the fire hydrant has polka dots. the sky is green, the grass is yellow. One of the woman's eyes are question marks, a kid is wearing shoes on his hands, and that toothless baby is eating a apple.”

 

Marcus paused and took another deep breath. “Are you done?”  

 

“Hardly. The car is driving on the wrong side of the road, a police officer forgot to put on his pants, one house's door is upside down, another's door has a face on it. The sun is in the shape of a square The balls the clown is juggling are covered in spikes. There is no way that old man with the cane has leg problems. That girl with the ice cream is too skinny to be eating a sundae that big, and last but not least, that woman's breasts are way too big for her body frame.” He folded his arms behind his head and propped his feet up on her desk. “Now,” he concluded, “I'm done.” Now the drill escalates.

 

Julie looked at Marcus, then at the answer key, then back at Marcus. “How did you… How did…? You must've looked at the answer key before taking this test!”  

 

Marcus rolled his eyes and told her blankly “You know very well that test has been in your folder all day. Is it an entirely foreign idea that I might actually be the slightest bit intelligent?” He sighed deciding to defuse the confrontation with a question.

 

“That mask on your desk, are you quite fond of it?”  

 

“Yes, quite. It's Mayan. I bought it in the central lowlands of Mexico from a old woman in one of the rural towns. Found it in a royal temple, she told me. You'll note the quetzcoatal feathers that line the outside of the mask, and the hieroglyphic writing that reads across the bridge of the nose. The strap on the back is made from genuine rattlesnake.” she said.

 

Marcus picked the colorful object off her desk and examined it, turning it every which way, testing the feathers with his palm, tracing the writing with his finger.  

 

"Mayan you said?" The teacher nodded. Marcus revolved it in his hands a few more times and examined the backside of the feathers. He then began to shake his head, slowly at first but then gradually faster. "It's not Mayan."

 

"It is too!" she said.

 

"No it isn't, I'm not going to lie to you. Here look." He placed it firmly on the desk with the back facing the counselor. "The feathers belong to the lesser krestal. A bird found exclusively in Europe until Herman Cortez brought them over to Mexico to hunt with. He arrived in Mexico in 1519. The Mayan rule over the lowlands disappeared some 7 to 8 centuries earlier. If that isn't damning the strap is too exactly stitched to have been done by hand and the writing is a form of inverted Zulu. Congratulations, it's worthless." He left the room swiftly though her mouth still hung agape.

 

***

 

He walked in seconds before the bell rung on his calculus (Marcus's intelligence was ever questioned by his violent outbursts and his clashes with teachers and ever strengthened by outstanding test scores and high I.Q. results) class and walked over to his seat. He threw his things down onto the table and slouched down into his seat as roll was called.  

 

“Saskowski, Timothy.” The teacher called out.

 

“Here.” was the reply.  

 

“Infavios, Jordan.”

 

“Here.”  

 

“Valentine, Marcus.” The teacher beckoned moving down the list.

 

“Get bent.” Marcus responded setting off scattered snickers from some students and solemn, icy, glares from others.  

 

His teacher Mr. Falkland growled, “I hope you enjoy detention because that's were your going! 8th hour, after school.”  

 

“ I'm afraid I won't be able to meet you, our wonderful principal, Fascist Dictator Sheck already gave me one. Maybe we can have coffee later, or go out for a pizza?”  

 

“Oh be quiet! I'm tired of your mouthing off! You'll just have to serve your punishment tomorrow. In fact how about another the next day. Kids these days, no respect for their elders.” Mr. Falkland sniffed, “Now then! Turn to page 257 in your books. Barring any further interruptions we will get started on today's assignment.” He aimed this last part directly at Marcus's direction.  

 

The rest of the class blurred over and Marcus had trouble concentrating on his work. Words ran through his brain like a garbled radio transmission. T divided by…28...-x squared=…92 …Subtract pi.  

 

“Marcus, are you listening?” His teacher snapped.  

 

“What?” Marcus said sleepily.   “ Question 11! What's the answer to question 11?” Mr. Falkland asked. From the tone of his voice it sounded like he had asked this of him more than once and was becoming annoyed with his uncooperative attitude.  

 

He had absolutely no idea of what the answer could be. He didn't even know what the question was! He had spent the entire lesson off in a stupor. Might as well spit out an number he thought. “Uh… 13?” He guessed.  

 

His teacher looked at him funnily “Mr. Valentine, we're studying matrices. The answer isn't anywhere near 13, of that you can be assured. Do you wish to try again?” Marcus shook his head. He was blushing, the entire class was now staring at him. “You don't? Well then that'll be another detention with me then. Listen closer next time, m'kay? He nodded his head numbly, and the teacher turned back to the rest of the students.

 

The mind torture continued, Brutally rattling his brain like a pop can being kicked down an empty alley. A test… percent of grade… quite important… homework due… your dismissed in 30 seconds… remember… Then the bell rung and awoke him from his dreamy state.  

 

Marcus quickly exited the room and walked briskly into the nearest bathroom. The bland taupe walls of the room weren't doing much to brighten his spirits. He stared into the water specked mirror and looked at his reflection. Am I going crazy? He dipped his fingers into the cool water and dabbled it over his face. He wiped his face with a paper towel, massaged his temples, sighed, and returned to class. Only one more hour.  

 

***

 

Diiiiiiiing! The final bell had rung at last. The class had jumped awake from their bored state and hurriedly scampered towards the doors to the outside world.  

 

Marcus walked in the opposite direction of most upon exiting. While most took a right into the hilly suburbs Marcus went left in a twisting route of back alleys and shortcuts to get back to his inner city home.   As he walked back home he felt the sickening feeling that someone was watching him, following him. He swiveled his head to check behind him, but there was nothing there except broken down buildings and swirling garbage. Minutes later, again paranoia washed over him and again he swiveled his head to check his flank. This time the was something there.

 

Rather someone, many someone's. A street gang. This is not what I need right now, he thought. There were five of them and they advanced slowly towards him. As Marcus turned to run, another four members appeared out of a side alley to cut of his retreat. He rushed to a nearby dumpster and pulled out a long piece of discarded pipe around 6 feet long. Eight of them gradually fanned out and encircled him while one, who he assumed was the leader stood back and watched. Two pulled out knives and another a length of chain. Remember what sensei worked on with you. This is just staff training, just training.

 

The leader called out to him and grinned showing his yellow teeth, "Give your money and we won't kill you."

 

"I don't have any on me." Marcus said truthfully.

 

"Well then it sucks to be you mate. Rough him up!" The crowed closed menacingly on him brandishing weapons or fists. Marcus whispered a few words and readied himself to fight for his life.

 

Palms before sweaty dried up and vision before hazy cleared up. Nothing existed but him and his weapon, and those who were around him. His breathing slowed and his vision and hearing became more acute.

 

A blur whirled into his peripheral vision. He managed to evade part of the punch but a knuckle connected on his cheek. He allowed his momentum to carry him around and he swung the pipe into the man's solar plexus. A loud breath whooshed as the air was knocked out his lungs.  

 

Seven. One approached him from the back, another from the front and two flanked his sides. Marcus lashed out behind himself with the pipe and connected on the top of his opponents foot. He howled in pain and hopped on his good leg as he clasped his injured foot in his hands. Marcus reversed his weight and brought the other tip of the pipe bluntly into his frontal assailants nose. His face exploded into a mess of crimson and he cried loudly in pain, staggering over to the side of the alley holding his shattered face in agony.   Six.

 

A metal object whizzed past his head into the concrete wall where it clanged to the ground. It was probably a knife, he had no time to look. He lashed out and caught one man in his knee cap with the heel of his foot, a vicious crack resounded as the bone fractured. Five. His hand pivoted him upright to face the other man approaching his blindside. He feinted with the pipe to attempt to catch the man off balance but a sharp pain racked him as a blow connected with his kidneys.  

 

He fell to his knees, and again felt a pain in his back as a knee struck him. The long metal chain caught him in the shoulder and he momentarily dropped his weapon. What did sensei say about fighting on the ground? 'When outnumbered do not put yourself onto the earth, for the ground is where heroes die and prideful men perish! Remain on your feet and you stand a chance, fall to your knees and you're at your opponents mercy!' Conscious of his teachings he rolled over and gyrated his legs, generating torque to rise to his feet. He shoved one assailant out of his way and grabbed his pipe in sufficient time to block the incoming chain that was heading for his head.

 

The chain wound around the pipe like a serpent giving Marcus a chance at disarmament. His leg was struck and briefly wavered but he hardly noticed, focused on getting rid of one of the remaining two weapons. Marcus twirled the pipe like a baton and the chain found itself wretched from the man's grasp. He then counter swung the pipe horizontally, aiming to make contact with his opponents upper body. He jumped back a step and pipe sailed past him, but Marcus rotated his wrists and cocked the pipe above his head then brought the pipe north to south onto the man's shoulder blade. The instrument was jarred upward upon contact with the bone and the shock forced the pipe from Marcus's grasp. It fell to the ground and rolled away.  

 

He quickly spun around to face the final man holding a weapon, who was shadowed by two others. The 'leader' had still not found it worth his time to enter the fight and calmly watched the proceedings. Marcus was growing more tired by the minute and decided it was at last time to cut his losses and run. He ran over to where the discarded knife lay and hurled it at the three men blocking his path then charged. They scattered out of the path of the projectile and Marcus rushed past them. He didn't look back and heard the leader call out, "Let him go! We'll take care of him tomorrow. Do it properly then!"  

 

Marcus ran until he arrived at Tranquil forest then he walked into a parking lot and vomited until his throat burned. He knew the drill.

 

 

***

 

When finally got on his computer he busily pulled out with the tools of his trade. An old Buffalo Bills hat (turned backwards). One pair of headphones like the ones telemarketer's wear, a Pepsi, Bach serenading him with a sweet song that danced around the room to clear his head, and his trusty I-Mac.  

 

He turned the lock so as not to be disturbed by his mother in one of her drunken hazes and got to work. He accessed the National Treasury's Website and entered his pirated pass code (The president being quite the egotistical fellow put in his own full name followed by his old army I.D. number as the password) that gave him access to the country's money.   The trick to hacking was making sure what you take was never noticed until it's too late. You know, only taking 1000 or 2000 dollars at a time, stuff like that. Marcus frowned. An alarm dinged on his computer alerting him of a computer safeguard.

 

That bug wasn't there before! “Aaaaaaarrrrrggghhhhhhhh!” He slammed his hands on his desk in frustration. He had fallen straight into an electronic tripwire.

 

Marcus scrambled to deactivate the alarm before he was discovered. He went into the mainframe and typed furiously:

 

Govsec:/intalrt/ESS?  

 

Govsec: govsecact? /; Dos  

 

MV: Xcapeact, alrm/abr…  

 

MV: TRNSR$$$/estbrkbnk@3400987925  

 

Marcus let out a deep breath and finished his work. He made sure it went to a secure account at his local bank. After a few hours the transfer was complete and the Valentine's could pay their rent once again.   Marcus went to bed never knowing he had not been quick enough to disarm the alarm that would trigger the events that would occur that night, never knowing two agents were on their way to his house even before he finished his transaction.