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He crashes through the double doors and bursts into the night. He catches his breath while he looks around for his car. It's untouched and still under the street light. He inches towards the car slowly as his adrenaline starts to siphon out of his body in the form of steam and sweat.

He catches a glimpse of himself in the side mirror -- he still is wearing his rubber chicken mask. He used to care about his outwards appearance but those thoughts quickly fade when he's searching for answers, night after night. He's one step closer tonight.

His whitened knuckles finally loosen their vice-grip on his aluminum baseball bat. The bat clatters onto the ground, the sound piercing through the midnight silence. The bat still carries the dried blood of whomever obscured his way during his warpath for answers. He takes off his mask and throws it in the car. He stares off into the distance as the smell of blood and sweat seeps into his nostrils. He catches his conscious and gets into the driver's seat.

The streetlights strobe repeatedly throughout his car during the drive home. Silence, barring the occasional bump of uneven road. He wears a stoic expression as he plays back the previous warpath in his head -- the bludgeoning of anonymous faces, eluding knives searching for his flesh, the bullets whirring past as he surgically moved from cover to cover.

"Shit," he mutters as a shrewd smirk creeps slightly at the corner of his mouth.

He's become desensitized to the intense violence. He's been driven down the path where nothing matters anymore -- life is a tangible commodity to him now, he offers no solace. He just wants to find the answer. The same answers that has been haunting him for months now. His smirk goes away as he approaches his apartment.

He staggers up the stairs, mask in hand. The adrenaline has completely left him, replaced by pangs of pain at each step -- reminders of the of the previous hour's organized catastrophe.

The unkempt apartment's appearance and disarray serves as an extension of him. He disregards the mess and takes off his bloodstained baseball jacket as he contemplates getting it dry-cleaned. He decides it not worth it -- he'll wait until its all over. He throws the mask towards the coffee table and lays on the couch until the night strings him into slumber.

***

He sleeps through the next day to awaken to an intermittent faint light. It's his answering machine. He creeps out of lethargy and plays the message.

"Hello, it's 'Linda'... I need a babysitter right away. Got a few kids that need to be disciplined here. I'm at East 7th Street. Make sure you have a long talk with them, I really need someone to get through to these rascals. And like last time... please be discreet!"

His face hardens as he glances towards his mask. His body starts to slowly curdle with adrenaline. He grabs his mask and heads out the door.

END