Chapter 1
While your hero was attending a funeral, dressed to the nines by his butler, and gifted an empire at the age of eight, I was avoiding rocks aimed for my head.
Young James Fryan and his gang of unnerving imbeciles had picked on me since my arrival at this dump. Normally it was witless comments and the occasional shove. Today they had escalated their attack with stones found during our play time in the yard. Luckily their aim was as dull as their insults.
“Stop hiding, bird lover.” Again, witless.
I was less insulted by the comments than I was by the flying rocks that buzzed by my head and off the log I laid behind for cover.
It was 1966. Surely these young thugs could do better with their verbal jabs after their years of schooling. Our physical education wasn’t up to par, as supported by the lack of direct throws. But I had better hopes for our language training. I shouldn’t have.
“Come on, Bird Boy.” Byron Hopper, arguably the dumbest guy in Fryan’s posse, quite an accomplishment, thought his line clever enough to laugh at as he hurled another rock well off target.
I waited patiently, whistling the tune of my favorite bird call, that of the budgerigar, or as the common folk call it, the parakeet. What a simple name for such a complex creature. Most simpletons think them harmless because of their small beaks. Those same simple minded cretins don’t seem to think the budgerigar’s large brain should be considered a weapon. They’d be wrong. Again.
I continued the tune as I took off my cap and placed it on the backside of the log just high enough for Fryan’s gang of dolts to see it. Their aim was so bad I was more worried they would hit me the further I crawled away from that hat. I made it to the tree line to the left of the boys still chucking rocks at the headless headwear.
Jonathan Bose was the stone slinger closest to me. He also had the strongest arm, hurling the rocks faster than the others and missing by such a distance I questioned his eyesight. Within seconds I questioned his future ability to walk. His knee made a certain sound when it met the wooden end of my umbrella handle. The crunch was satisfying, like the snap of a Galapagos large ground finch on a set of seeds. That bird species has a bite force over 300 times stronger than that of a tyrannosaurus rex. It was a fact not many people knew, and the kind of knowledge that had me bullied by the likes of small brained humans like those throwing rocks at a hat.
Still, one crippled dunce did not make my situation much better, despite the relishing contentment I took in his pain. The budgerigar was an especially violent creature, even at its small stature. Maybe that is why I connected with it so. It’s calm yet ruthless dichotomy called to me, and I felt obliged to call back. That’s why I continued on. I moved forward hiding myself in the cover of overgrown tree brush until I was upon the next of Fryan’s ever witless terrors.
Simon Parky was a loud kid. Any argument he entered ended with him yelling louder than his opponent, and his simple mind considered that a victory. Unfortunately his hip had no such winning luck when met with my umbrella. Just like Jonathan, Simon crashed to the ground after one swing. It sure was a sight to see. It looked as though he was about to cry out in pain from the blow, but I didn’t want him to think he won anything by being loud so I silenced him with a swift stroke of the umbrella to his temple. The good thing about fighting with these Neanderthals was I rarely had to worry about causing brain damage. It was truly a blessing.
Only Byron and James were left, although they both continued to hurl rocks unsuccessfully at the hat. It felt almost shameful defeating these young men like this. I was walking behind them, striking them down one by one as they threw rocks at a piece of garment. Sad really.
“Hey bird lover, come out. Or at least put up some kind of fight instead of hiding like a chicken.” Maybe not the best words Byron Hopper could have chosen as his last before serious injury, but nonetheless I was as impressed as could be that he thought of a bird reference. Although to be honest, I doubt he even realized it himself. Still, those were his final words before the handle of my umbrella tripped his leg and he stumbled face first onto the large boulder in front of him. I thought it wrong to let him turn over and see the face that brought him pain. It was best to end it there. And the hard blow to his ribs left him limp and lifeless on the stone.
I will give Mr. Fryan some credit here, as he seemed to observe the lack of stones being thrown and realize that something was wrong. He turned side to side, looking for his friends and surely finding nothing but silence. It must have been quite the realization for the young fellow. I could imagine him crying, but that would be a short lived fantasy as I saw him take a few startled steps back. Surely he would have to have figured out that I wasn’t behind the log any longer. The question then, was how long until he realized I was behind him?
The answer was just two more scared steps. The leader of the gang of dimwits tripped over my outstretched foot, landing sprawled out over the dirt path that led back to the schoolhouse. Surely he would make a run for it, I thought. However, James Fryan was not one to be outdone by a fifth grade freak, as he often reminded me I was, especially not when he was still thought his friends may be watching, unaware of their painful demises.
“Do you really want to fight, freak?”
Of course, James, I’m the freak. I like to read and write, do arithmetic, and use my brain. That so obviously makes me a freak compared to the fourteen year old still in the fifth grade.
“Come on, big nose. Do something,” he said, unapologetically as he made his way to his feet and dusted off the dirt on his jacket.
I tried to stand there quietly, not really one to escalate situations against those less mentally fortunate. But I couldn’t help it. At that very moment I heard the beautiful song of a common wood thrush and I had to laugh. The beauty and elegance of that bird’s song playing over the bashed bodies that lay behind me made me cackle. And what a cackle it was.
“You even sound like a bird when you laugh, you freak. A retarded bird.”
Such harsh words. And the only way to deal with harsh words was by not allowing him to speak any further. As he quickly lunged forward my right arm reached out, the umbrella outstretched in my hand. He stopped immediately. The point had pierced his left oculus and left him bleeding quite profusely.
“My fuckin’ eye! Ahhh!” The other school children gathered around to see the impending violence all witnessed James’ ensuing profanity laced screams.
I tried to wedge my umbrella out of his face, but it seemed to be deeper than I originally thought. My first fencing instructor, Sir William Scott, would have been proud, I thought as I yanked back on the handle. To my surprise, and the disgust or intrigue of my fellow students around me, James’ entire eye came out along with the tip of my umbrella.
At least the screaming stopped.
So too did my time at St. Katherine’s Boarding School. The headmaster was forced to call my parents after what the other students called the “Eyeball Incident”. A clever if not simple name, I must admit.
Before the next day, a large black town car with windows darker than my jet black hair pulled up to the school’s driveway and I was hauled off...again. It was my third school in the last two years. All experiences ending with some type of misconstrued idea that I, and not those instigating me, was the problem.
Either way, I ended up at a different school every year until I graduated from secondary two years early. Still every situation ended up relatively the same, a fairly simple minded bully was bested by me, the freak with the long nose and the affinity for our aviatory friends.
It wasn’t until I decided to use my intelligence, not to hurt those dumber than me, but to use them, that I became a true force. Something more than a simple child defending himself against bullies. By the time I had arrived in this city, it was mine for the taking. The authorities were dumb, and the criminals dumber. This was a city ripe for the taking. Gotham belonged to me.
