An Unusual Hero

by Barrel-of-fun

A better class of monster

Hey there, my name’s Deadshot and I kill people for a living.

Now that we have that out of the way…wait, is that not enough? I have to explain myself?

Fine!

My real name isn’t Deadshot of course, that would be completely ridiculous. I mean could you imagine announcing that you had named your child Deadshot? You would probably end up giving some dear, caring relative (probably a mother or grandmother) a heart attack. No. I took the name Deadshot a few years back as a protective measure for those few people I have left that I care about. I figured that if people didn’t know my name, they might have some trouble threatening my loved ones. Oh go ahead and laugh if you must…the unstoppable assassin Deadshot, tearing up over a few murdered friends. Oh woe is he!

Did I mention the assassin thing? Yes? Oh good.

Well as a young man I found I was quite gifted both academically and physically. My grades had been far above those of my classmates and whilst I couldn’t exactly be called godlike in terms of physical status I was no wimp. Tall and lean as a spear, my thin, flexible arms held a surprising amount of strength which allowed me to easily deal with the rather negative ‘attention’ that a straight A student seems to attract. The one thing that God had not seen gracious enough to gift me with was motivation. I never be bothered to try at anything with even half of my potential. Throughout my entire school life the only time I ever felt alive was when I was beating up bullies.

So that’s what I continued to do.

Eventually tales of my bully-hunting spread and I began to be regarded as some sort of hero. A noble defender of the weak and the downtrodden.

I got a good laugh out of that.

You see it wasn’t just beating up bullies that made me feel alive. It was any act of violence on my fellow human beings. I eventually began to attack those who considered me to be their shield against bullies. I was no monster hunter, I was just a better class of monster.

After I had finished school I went into higher education but ended up dropping out of that. Far too boring, not enough violence. I entered some boxing tournaments but ended up quickly getting bored of that as well. Too many rules on how I could and could not hurt people. It grew so tiresome. I then went into underground fighting, quickly rising through the ranks and becoming a well respected fighter.

It was there that I first killed a man.

At this point in my life I had begun to refine my fighting technique. The initial punches and kicks I had used as the false defender of the weak whilst in school no longer gave me any joy. They no longer excited that rush within me that I had first felt. My years of fighting, combined with the education given to me by all too proficient school system, meant that I had a very good grasp of human anatomy. I knew exactly where to strike to put a man down for the count. I began to get flamboyant in my matches, boasting that I would take out the enemy with a single hit, or with both hands tied behind my back, or using only one finger.

Damn I was good.

A month after these charades began I received a challenge from a very famous underground fighter. A Russian who simply known as Boris. A man of immense stature, a mountain that walked, he was nearly twice my height and at least three times my weight. As I stepped into the ring with him I knew there would be no showing off now. Boris could snap me like a twig and, despite my love of violence, I had no intention of dying just yet. I began the match by dancing around the edge of the mesh cage that the any honourable fighter would be hesitant to call a ring. To those of us with less uptight morals it was a home away from home, and I knew it well. Keeping in mind the exact position of myself in relation to both Boris and the walls of the cage I made use of my superior agility and the reach of my legs. Boris was clearly not used to kicks. Whilst he was nearly twice my height much of that height was centred in his torso and shoulders. His legs, whilst well muscled, probably couldn’t handle anything more strenuous than holding up that immense body. His fists dented the walls of the cage, occasionally ripping through the steel wire like it was string, and before long the once sturdy cage closely resembled Swiss cheese. Do not think this meant Boris was slow though. He moved his body with an economy of effort that I had to admire and his fighting technique was almost perfect. Almost.

I begun my counter-attack when I saw a flash of rage fire behind Boris’ steely pupils. Well finally! I thought he would never get mad. I ducked beneath the wild right hook he had just thrown and danced around the left uppercut he used as a defence. I drew in a breath to steady myself and unleashed my perfect technique. Precise blows rained down on Boris’ overgrown body. A devastating punch to the muscles in each arm, causing them to temporarily cease up. Next a finger strike to the eyes, which caused Boris to stumble back, trying to defend his vision. Merely a distraction. I had no intention of blinding him I just wanted him to expose his greatest weakness. His neck. A grin threatened to tear apart my face as a malicious glint entered my eyes. My hand shot forward, swift as a snake, fingers clamping on that oh so soft skin. I clenched my hand and I felt my fingers break the skin. The smell of blood threatened to overwhelm me and I almost lost it right there, but I restrained myself. I wanted, no, I needed this to last! My fingers clenched until I could feel them touching inside of the man’s throat and I looked into his eyes and could see the pain I was causing and the mercy he so dearly wanted from me. Mercy was something I didn’t feel like giving. I looked deep into his eyes, into his very soul perhaps (but that borders on the philosophical) and slowly ripped out his throat. The smell of blood and death rose into my nose and my mind as his body fell to the floor.

Around the ring the spectators stared in shock. Sure they were used to deaths happening in the cage but that had been something else. That was clearly no accident. That was barbaric. Sadistic. Murder.

Needless to say my fighting career took a downward spiral after that. It not really surprising that no one wants to get into the ring with a mad man. I cared not. I had found a new vocation. A new careers.

A career in death

And I was so very good at it.