A Night On The Town 

 The cotton slips over his torso like a second skin. His fingers trail lightly over the motif of two, interlocked Ds sewed into chest. The leggings are next, followed by the red leather boxing shorts that he laces up and fastens with a thick, red leather belt. He fastens the holster for his twin billy clubs to his thigh before sliding them into the holster. He pulls on the two red, leather globes that he laces up with one hand each.

 Last is the cowl.

 Red leather, like the rest, he pulls it over his head and laces it up along the back on his neck. He adjusts it, pulling it into place. He rolls his head around on his shoulders, cracking his neck and loosening up the leather. He stretches his muscles, limbering up. He says a short prayer.

 Then he leaves through the window.

~~

 It was a blisteringly hot night in Hell’s Kitchen. Someone had turned up the heat. A shadowed figure crouched atop a water tower on the rooftop of an apartment building, listening to the sounds of the city.

 It was quiet. Deathly quiet, especially for the Kitchen where there was almost always something going on. Initially, he blamed the heat. It had been only week since his little… display. Could word have gotten around so fast? Very possible, but the idea that it had put the fear of God in the people of the Kitchen was laughable.

 And then, at long last, something happened.

 Two blocks to the east. He could hear it as if he were in the same room. Domestic disturbance. Guy was drunk, angry and taking it out on his wife. He could smell the liquor from here. It took him less than a minute to cross the distance, leaping from rooftop to rooftop with silent grace. He touched down on the window sill without a sound. Ninja training comes in handy like that.

 On a night as hot as this they kept the window wide open and he just slipped right in. She was crying and screaming, cowering in the corner of the room as he towered over her, bottle in hand. Matt didn’t say a word as he crossed the room in a flash and wrapped his arm around the guy’s throat, crushing his windpipe. The guy’s eyes bulged as he gasped for air, his legs turning to jelly and his limp fingers dropping the bottle to the floor. He was out cold in seconds.

 ”You should leave,” he said to the woman. “Do you have family near here?” She nodded, her eyes wide with fear. “Good. Go to them. Don’t let him near you ever again. File for divorce. Press charges. Get this scumbag behind bars. Talk to Murdock. He’s a lawyer, a good one. He can help you.”

 She took her eyes off of the man in the devil costume for just a moment, stealing a glance down at the prone form of her husband. How had he known she was married? He’d heard rumours that he was blind. But when she looked back up to thank him, he was gone.

His City. 

 His city is alive. She talks to him, whispering sweet nothings in one ear while screaming bloody murder in the other. She touches him, with the sweetest caress one second and a blow that would drive the wind from him the next. She smells so sweet, fragrant, and like garbage all at the same time.

 She’s a city of contradictions, his city.

 And he wouldn’t have her any other way.

 He stopped walking to work when the Daily Globe printed their article exposing his secret identity. Even he could see, who would want to walk anywhere while being harassed by a crowd of reporters and photographers? Taking a car to the offices, and being escorted to the car by his bodyguard, Jessica Jones, was easier, but nowhere near as fun.

 Walking to work, he could just absorb the city. Open his sense and let everything flood in. It let him build and rebuild and improve on the image of the city he had in his head. Sure, he would get the bad along with the good; he would hear the junkies two blocks over shooting up, he would hear the wannabe gangsters in basements plotting on how they were “gonna shoot that Captain America fuck”, he would hear the weak being abused all over.

 And he couldn’t do anything about it. But that’s what a city is. A gathering of contradictions. But when he got home at night, when he put on his costume and when he slipped out of the window he was free to bring justice to those who deserved.

 And now, as “Kingpin”, he would rebuild the Kitchen from the ground up. No more junkies, no more whores, no more wifebeaters, no more carjackers, no more racists. No more criminal scum that had brought the city he grew up in down to its knees and beat it black and blue.

 No. As Kingpin he would make the difference.

Kingpin Of Hell’s Kitchen

Decalogue

namorthefirst:

headofhorns:

namorthefirst:

headofhorns started following you

You are the lawyer, correct?

Yeah. Matt Murdock. Can I help you?

No, but I am going to keep you in mind if that is alright for the time being.

Sure. Here’s my card. Call if you need any kind of legal counsel.

namorthefirst:

headofhorns started following you

You are the lawyer, correct?

Yeah. Matt Murdock. Can I help you?

whateverhappenedtomary:

headofhorns:

whateverhappenedtomary:

headofhorns:

Mary. What are you doing in my city?

Wasn’t aware I was not allowed to be here.

My city. My rules.

Well, then, can I stay if I ask nicely? 

No.

whateverhappenedtomary:

headofhorns:

whateverhappenedtomary started following you

Mary. What are you doing in my city?

Wasn’t aware I was not allowed to be here.

My city. My rules.

whateverhappenedtomary started following you

Mary. What are you doing in my city?