(Writing this on my IPad so please forgive me).
THE SNIPER IN:
I came to New York looking to make a name for myself. I never realized it wouldn't be my own.
When I got to the Big Apple, they called me Dwayne Kinsky, but by the time I left, those very same people had ended up calling me 'The Sniper'. If you can't guess what my occupation was based on that name, than you're probably one of the zombie skull munching idiots who's brains I started splattering all the way from Harlem to Boston in the winter of 1940, and if you've never heard of me, as generic as my name is, than you deserve to either be eating out of a tube, or feeding the worms, six feet under.
My aunt lived in Harlem, I lived in Kansas, and when she originally heard about my dreams of being an actor, good old aunt Josey booked me on the first bus to the place, not once thinking about tiny matters like race relations, rampant unemployment, or even how much it would cost having two African Americans living under the same roof.
Everyday I thank God for the miracle of organized crime. Without it I'd have ended up one of those poor bastards begging for change on the sidewalk. It's kinda weird, back in the olden days of law and order, it was generally frowned upon between professional hitmen to have your name out there, yet as soon as I got in the papers, legends like "The Knife" and "The Bat" were all patting me on the back like I was one of them, and they hadn't been laughing in my face just a few weeks prior.
My first hit was in the winter of 1940, just before my killing spree, and two months after I'd first set foot on Manhattan island. It was some bigwig casting agent for RKO, who I remember had taken one look at me during my audition and sent me on my way, apparently he'd done the same to some mob boss' daughter, and the twenty thousand dollar mark on his head helped show just how big a mistake the fella had made. Hungry and thirsty and probably just a little bit bitter, I grabbed myself the first sniper rifle I could find and blew the guy's head off with such amazing accuracy and precision that the only sure fire way to tell he was dead in the back of his cab, was to poke a finger into the pin hole in his skull.
I never realised how much I hated humanity until they were all lined up under my scope. It was beautiful, and as the jobs started coming quickly, the money wasn't far behind, and I quickly developed a taste for a healthy mixture of blood, drugs and women. It was weird, any other gun, any other weapon and I was guaranteed a beating for the attempt, but with the rifle, there was never an 'attempt'. Only a single shot, a chuckle, and another headline for the Brooklyn Weekly that was guaranteed to fly off the presses. One time I made a seven kills in five days and still managed to make it home in time for my aunt's dinner on Friday.
Then HE showed up. I was the guy's first, surprisingly. Judging from the way he moved, I'd assumed he was a professional who'd been active for years, but by that time he'd been around for a week, beating up muggers and purse snatchers. The public called him Domino, the media called him Domino Dan, it was all on account of his black and white costume, and when the guy took me down, catching me trying to assassinate the Mayor, everyone seemed to forget about the Sniper, and shifted focus to the new freak of the week.
"No hard feelings." Domino had said before punching me so hard it broke my jaw.
It was halfway through 1941 when I finally got sent to Rikers, the Judge had said I was guilty of around thirty murders, I honestly thought it was a lot more than that, losing count around the tens. The guys in prison didn't seem to think so, or even care about my reputation on the outside. To them I was just fresh meat for them to tenderise, and those first months were hard, with them involving lots of crying and lots of hiding in my cell. Sometimes I'd get the crazy idea to try and escape the joint, but something always seemed to get in the way, be it nerves or a nosey guard at just the wrong time. One time I almost got over the wall during a riot, but that flying alien asshole, Icarus, quickly put a stop to that.
"No hard feelings!" He'd laughed before punching me in the skull and giving me a concussion.
That's how I lost my sense of smell, and also how I ended up staying in solitary confinement until Christmas, by which point the war over in Europe, between Germany, England and the other countries I can't remember, was well and truly rageing.
When the door to my cell opened, the light dazzled my eyes and I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen anything but darkness.
"Is this him?" A tall, lean, middle aged, white man wearing half a dozen medals and a green tunic asked from just outside my door, standing in the frame and casting a shadow over my face. I don't remember the reply, but I do remember the look of utter disgust he gave me, something not unlike the other prison guards that beat me regularly. "Shame." The fella had said before stepping into the little waste bucket that was my cell. His nose didn't seem to twitch at the smell of the place, in fact his body didn't seem to be doing much of anything, including breathing. Instead his eyes, literal balls of orange flame, were locked completely on me, and I suddenly began to feel very, very small.
"Captain Shade." He said as I got up to my feet, ragged and tired like all the other prisoners I'd seen exit this place of god awful torment. "United States Special Forces." Any response he wanted from me he didn't get, and seeing the man's face finally move, filled with irritation, made me feel proud. Even if he did look like he wanted to kill me.
"You're Dwayne Kinsky." He continued, staring directly into my soul and giving me very little breathing room in the already cramped cell. "And now I wanna know what you know about Pearl Harbour."
The sudden demand stunned me for a second, it seemed out of nowhere and irrelevant to everything.
"It's... Australian." I remember muttering, still weak and hungry from my time in lock up.
"Wrong. It's gone." The look of shock and stupidity on my face was enough to make the Captain chuckle to himself, a nasty little chuckle that I knew was older than I would ever be.
"We are at war, son."
The reason for this man's visit began to make sense in my mind,
"And you can either bring your skills and talents to the front lines, or you can cower behind and rot in here like the piece of vermin you are."
Obviously my immediate answer was yes.
By that point I'd have killed to get my hands on a rifle again, and that looked to be exactly what I'd be doing.
I' d heard horror stories about the War. The atrocities being committed, the things being done to other people... and the infamous Colonel Twilight that had the Allies running for the hills.
I figured none of it would be a patch on prison.
God only knows how wrong I was.