Vigilante, by Joe Cunningham 7th Grade

My heart pounded loudly in my chest as I ran out of breath. There was no doubt about it. They were getting closer. Damn, sometimes I hate what I do. Being a vigilante was incredibly hard. The cops are always after you. Just because you kill a guy for robbing a bank doesn’t mean the frikin’ police have to come after you.
I climbed up a fire escape to the top of a building, watching the cops drive away with their packs of wild hounds, thirsty for the blood of any bringer of justice who has their own way of doin’ things. If this is always the case, how the hell did Batman become so well-liked? To most people, I’m just another roach on the violent induced cities of New York. Everyone’s a damn critic.
As I watched the cops drive away, I was thinking about just WHY I became what I am.
Back when I was in school, I saw the crap of people scattered about. Lying, cheating, greed, selfishness, I saw it all. My entire world was corrupt. Even still in college. So I donned this mask, right after I finished high school. 21 years old and running from the police. Makes you wonder.
This God-forsaken city, more than Minneapolis, needs justice. No, that’s not right. The whole damn world does. I’m not the best choice, probably, but that hinder me. That’s why I dress like a lunatic, that’s why I run from the police. To bring justice to the whole damn world.

The next morning I woke up, as usual in my apartment in Newark. Yes, I live in New Jersey but fight crime in New York. And I don’t want to hear a damned thing about it. I don’t care. I don’t like living in crime infested areas. I prefer the quiet Midwestern life. But when you’re a superhero, what can you do? Well, that’s not the correct term. More like a dumbass who dresses like a moron. My costume is really stupid, sure, but I didn’t want to have my enemies just laugh at me. I wanted them to be surprised when I kicked their ass. If I dressed in a bat suit, or something like a stupid spider, none would take me seriously. No, I wanted something that can’t be tamed.
The Falcon.
I walked outside, and then started my way to work. I’m a freelance writer, so I write wherever there’s work. But that’s hardly ever. My current job is with a newspaper called the “New Jersey Herald.” The pay is decent enough, $45 bucks an hour. I know their desperate, but then again, so are the writers.
I walked into the office building, and I’m greeted with a friendly “Get your rear-end into my office!” By my lovely boss, Mr. Parkson.
“Stonson, I need you to write an article about that freak, the Eagle!”
“ It’s the Falcon, sir.”
“Him too! Now get your rear-end out there and write me a Pulitzer Award winning story!”
I get this load of garbage every day. On my way to my cubicle, I passed my co-worker, Peter, who’s a total dingbat.
“What’s up my man?”
“Fine Peter. Everything’s fine.”
“I just wanted to tell you I’m having a little party this Saturday, and you can come. The address is 1402 Windchester Avenue, New Jersey. I have a friend who has this nice mansion there. There’s a lot of valuable crap in there.”
“I’ll be sure to be there.”
“Cool. See you then.”

After writing my article, I walked home, waiting until nightfall, where The Falcon would soar again.
At about 8:00, I donned my brown outfit, and usual weaponary. My hawk blades, my grappling hook, and my hand guns. I don’t have a utility belt, but who would care anyway?

I began walking an ally-way and ducked beneath a large dark green trash can. I turned on my transit police radio, from when I infiltrated a station, in the holding cells, in order to free a wrongly imprisoned inmate. I swiped it on the way out.
“We have a chase in downtown, requesting back-up”
There’s no need when I’m around. I leaped over the trash can and started scurrying up a building. Once up, I jumped off and glided with the wind underneath my cape. I flew to the downtown area, and spotted the scumbags. I followed them from building to building, and once I thought I had enough gliding distance, I jumped off and landed on the car.