Nexus 100 Ends
May. 15th, 2009 05:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
evillurksTitle: Justification
Fandom: The Shadow
Characters: The Shadow, Detective Joe Cardona
Prompt: 003 Ends
Word Count: 539
Rating: PG
Summary: A contemplation of pulp violence.
Author's Notes: This one turned out longer than I expected...
It was the very definition of a vigilante to work outside the law. The existence of one implied a firm belief that the forces of law were inadequate. Under these circumstances it could hardly be surprising that the police saw The Shadow as a grievous nuisance more often than as an aide. The assistance he provided them was sporadic at best. The clues and hints he passed the police were sometimes by phone or some other method that proved his hand. More often he granted subtle nudges, leading thoughts and casual comments as Lamont Cranston. The Commissioner would not have granted the poker-faced globetrotter the friendship he did had he known the mind that so often worked behind that mask. He should have known the real Cranston for the man that failed to provide insights into the latest case.
Those clues were not always the right ones. Several times over the years, it better suited the Shadow’s purposes to mislead the law. He thought of it as keeping them out of the way, all the while knowing they would curse him for it.
Misdirection and concealment of the full details were not the only aspect of his methods they disliked. Although he often tried to put criminals in a position such that they would land in police hands, this was not always the case. Shoot-outs inspired by a figure in black were a theme in Cardona’s reports. When thugs started letting the lead fly, The Shadow returned fire more often than he fled. There were extenuating circumstances, such as self-defense in a tight corner or the rescue of an agent or important clue. These were usually lost to the eye of even the diligent detective. Final encounters frequently resulted in criminal deaths, albeit sometimes at the hands of their own machinations. In the name of justice, The Shadow was rarely sorry to see karma strike the moment he stepped out of its way. There was a fitting irony to the death of a mastermind that occurred only because of their determination to see him dead. It was a mark of black humour that he often laughed. The deaths of gunmen by return fire held, to his mind, a similar note of direct repercussions. His own bullets were simply a mirror of theirs, a more successful reflection of their fire. The trail of bodies was an ugly necessity, but cleaned the streets of men of ugly purpose. Every death The Shadow delivered was a blow to crime.
The police were also meant to be a force for justice, but sometimes they were just the clean-up crew.
Joe Cardona nudged a gangster’s lifeless body with his foot, eyeing the bloody hole from a .45 straight through the man’s chest. He was one of roughly a dozen, found guarding stolen loot the police had thought untraceable. Only the stolen goods were intact, while the men who’d hoarded it lay riddled with bullets. As he turned away with a thoughtful frown, a glimpse of fluttering black caught his eye, but in the sweep of a flashlight the space was empty.
For the briefest of moments as he left the scene, The Shadow let himself wonder if the ends really justified the means.
Fandom: The Shadow
Characters: The Shadow, Detective Joe Cardona
Prompt: 003 Ends
Word Count: 539
Rating: PG
Summary: A contemplation of pulp violence.
Author's Notes: This one turned out longer than I expected...
It was the very definition of a vigilante to work outside the law. The existence of one implied a firm belief that the forces of law were inadequate. Under these circumstances it could hardly be surprising that the police saw The Shadow as a grievous nuisance more often than as an aide. The assistance he provided them was sporadic at best. The clues and hints he passed the police were sometimes by phone or some other method that proved his hand. More often he granted subtle nudges, leading thoughts and casual comments as Lamont Cranston. The Commissioner would not have granted the poker-faced globetrotter the friendship he did had he known the mind that so often worked behind that mask. He should have known the real Cranston for the man that failed to provide insights into the latest case.
Those clues were not always the right ones. Several times over the years, it better suited the Shadow’s purposes to mislead the law. He thought of it as keeping them out of the way, all the while knowing they would curse him for it.
Misdirection and concealment of the full details were not the only aspect of his methods they disliked. Although he often tried to put criminals in a position such that they would land in police hands, this was not always the case. Shoot-outs inspired by a figure in black were a theme in Cardona’s reports. When thugs started letting the lead fly, The Shadow returned fire more often than he fled. There were extenuating circumstances, such as self-defense in a tight corner or the rescue of an agent or important clue. These were usually lost to the eye of even the diligent detective. Final encounters frequently resulted in criminal deaths, albeit sometimes at the hands of their own machinations. In the name of justice, The Shadow was rarely sorry to see karma strike the moment he stepped out of its way. There was a fitting irony to the death of a mastermind that occurred only because of their determination to see him dead. It was a mark of black humour that he often laughed. The deaths of gunmen by return fire held, to his mind, a similar note of direct repercussions. His own bullets were simply a mirror of theirs, a more successful reflection of their fire. The trail of bodies was an ugly necessity, but cleaned the streets of men of ugly purpose. Every death The Shadow delivered was a blow to crime.
The police were also meant to be a force for justice, but sometimes they were just the clean-up crew.
Joe Cardona nudged a gangster’s lifeless body with his foot, eyeing the bloody hole from a .45 straight through the man’s chest. He was one of roughly a dozen, found guarding stolen loot the police had thought untraceable. Only the stolen goods were intact, while the men who’d hoarded it lay riddled with bullets. As he turned away with a thoughtful frown, a glimpse of fluttering black caught his eye, but in the sweep of a flashlight the space was empty.
For the briefest of moments as he left the scene, The Shadow let himself wonder if the ends really justified the means.