ACCIDENTS WILL HAPPEN

By James McKenna

Hell’s Kitchen; Five Days Ago

“Get out of my apartment,” Carson Knowles growled, clutching up a kitchen knife as Raoul Bushman entered his abode.

“No. I’m going to sit down and you’re going to put a pot of coffee on and then I’m going to tell you how you can help me. In doing so, you’ll be helping yourself and I’ll see to it that you’re well rewarded. This isn’t an apartment, this is a squalid closet. You will have luxury and want for nothing. Now do as I say,” the brutal man railroaded Carson Knowles with orders. After the vocal barrage he sat down and waited for the coffee.

With the pot brewing, Carson turned back to Bushman and set aside his knife, he folded his arms and scowled.

“What do you want?”

“Moon Knight. Dead.”

“Why is that?”

“Is it any matter to you? You want the same thing, I know. He ruined your life, sent you off to Ravencroft. How did it feel there by the way? Being carted off and tossed in with the crazies. You’re a great, you almost brought the Fist of Vengeance to his knees. And you yet could.”

“No, I was…unwell. That’s all. You’re confused.”

“I am not confused. You, Carson Knowles, almost defeated Moon Knight in your guise as Black Spectre. The Knight is really a man named Marc Spector, he also goes by Steven Grant.”

“Grant…the wallstreet whiz? Guy came out of nowhere years ago and amassed a fortune only to disappear. Spector’s a familiar name too, owns that company…SpectorCorp, right?”

“Correct,” Bushman answered. Knowles sat a cup of coffee down in front of him, with sugar and cream in case Raoul wanted any. Instead the skull-faced man swigged it down black, untainted and burning hot.

“We, you and I, are going to hit him at his house. He’s just had a long ordeal in prison, he’ll be weak still, though he won’t think so. I hate this man. I have studied him, everything I can find on him, I have gathered it all together. I think he’s headed towards a breakdown. He handled the prison ordeal well, but deep inside, he’s cracking. He feels like an angry beast, a killing machine. Hah! But being locked away like that, deep in his mind, he’s thinking that’s what he deserves for his years as a…downright terrible human being.”

“So we hit him hard and watch him fall to pieces?”

Bushman only grinned, his tattooed face contorting into a fearsome countenance.

Grant Manor; Now

Bushman lay on the ground, a medieval mace positioned above his head, ready to come down for a killing blow.

He’d been right, somewhat. The attack had pushed Marc over the edge, however, instead of pushing him towards a weak, broken down shell, it had unleashed the beast Marc feared.

The part of him that killed people for money, the part of him which shot and stabbed and maimed and was too callous to care, that part had been unleashed. That part was about to kill Bushman and it was all Bushman’s fault. What a pitiful irony.

As the mace came down, Bushman had a stroke of luck. Black Spectre had been disabled momentarily, but not taken out of the fight completely. With a hard tackle, Carson Knowles took Marc Spector down, the mace went flying as did the two men, through the wall and into the central foyer, with the grand sweeping staircases, marble floors, and a variety of adornments.

Bushman hurried down and readied to attack. All could be salvaged. The plan was nothing intricate, simply attack his most hated enemy at his lowest and eliminate him. It was law of the jungle, a law which Bushman adhered to adamantly.

Police Department Headquarters; Now

“A call’s just come in. Disturbance at Grant Manor, burglars or something.”

“Keene and I were just out there a few weeks ago, some business about Grant maybe being Moon Knight or something, some IRS shit too. We’ll take it,” veteran crooked cop Matt Hodgkin spoke up after hearing the dispatch. Someone shouted for Hodgkins partner Keene and soon they’d taken off in a squad car, siren ringing through the air.

“This Grant/Spector/Moonie case acting up again, Hodg? Bastard’s case got me nothing good, man. Got a call from some fruit Nighthawk awhile after bringin him in. He knew about our…extracurricular income as well. Fuckin’ A, more bad luck headed our way, man.”

“The call wasn’t clear, it was made from inside the house, frightened maid or something, there are burglars or thieves, some stupid shit, probably not connected.”

“Hope not. God damn I hate all these Halloween costumes popping up.”

Brooklyn; Now

Kesi Badru was so much like her father, though she didn’t know it. Only nineteen, her ferocity, strength of will and body was not belied by her pretty exterior. Born in Cairo, Egypt to an unwed mother, she never knew her father. He was a soldier who’d romanced her mother, she spoke of him as being ‘so cute’ and a couple weeks after they had broken up and his post had been moved, she found she was pregnant.

Maybe out of desperation, out of a need to control, or greed or sacrifice or any other motivators that could exist, she never told the soldier, though she could have contacted him. He never knew of the beautiful daughter that was his.

A couple years later, Kesi’s mother met another man, a diplomat from the United Kingdom, he and Kesi’s mother were wed and he took Kesi under his wing as a daughter. All around the world he was posted, from Cairo, back to England, the United States, Canada, China, Japan, Turkey, Greece, Italy, Russia, Brazil, and more. In every country, urged by her parents, she learned. Languages, culture, fighting.

Something beyond obvious genetics had instilled in her a love of pugilism and a need to see bad people get what they deserved. She was so much like her father.

Grant Manor; Now

Moon Knight furiously grappled with Black Spectre on the floor as Bushman hurried down to the foyer.

Marlene, Samuels, Nedda and Frenchie could only listen to the fight and hope their friend would come out on top. Or so Bushman had hoped. Jean Paul had been the pilot, a good mercenary, but for the most part he’d kept himself out of the dirty work.

Frenchie ran to Marc’s study, where he knew his friend kept an old revolver, after loading up the weapon, Jean Paul hurried out to the fight and took aim. Moon Knight finished his match with Black Spectre, as Marc kicked his dark reflection off of him and into the wall, just in time for Bushman to pounce on the fractured Fist of Vengeance.

Though in fine fighting form, Marc’s psyche was deteriorating; his most hated foes, men who’d brought him to psychological lows time and again, had attacked him in concert and the effect on his mind had been devastating.

Black Spectre noticed Frenchie on the steps above the foyer, trying to take aim at Bushman. Frenchie had thought the Spectre incapacitated but was wrong as Carson Knowles attacked Jean Paul, taking him by surprise. Knowles wrestled with the man, trying to get the gun away from him, their hands gripping at the awful bit of metal until Carson headbutt the faithful friend of Marc’s, dazing him long enough for Knowles to get the gun and drop kick Jean Paul into unconsciousness.

Knowles leapt down the stairs to the fight, gun in hand to dispatch Spector. Marc noticed him, he hit Bushman hard in a nerve cluster, dropping the big man to his knees, using the downed man as a platform, Moon Knight jumped off of Bushman and with a suave savate kick to the chest he made Knowles reel back. Disoriented and hurt, the man knocked back into the wall, and by accident the revolver went off.

En Route to Grant Manor; Now

Seamus Keene and Matt Hodgkin waited in agitation to get to Grant Manor, where a few weeks ago they’d arrested its owner and sent him to Ryker’s. There was some disturbance in the house, they hoped it was nothing.

Matt had volunteered them for the call, no squad cars were in the area and if they left from the station they could get there faster than a car moving in from a different area. Plus Seamus and Matt both had questions they wanted to ask Grant.

Soon they pulled up to the Manor, and as they clambered out of the car, from inside the house they heard a gunshot.

Grant Manor; Now

Bushman, who’d been in the process of trying to get up, fell promptly back to the floor, his heart pierced by a bullet. Blood foamed out of his mouth, he cursed lightly and was dead. Even in death, with his tattoos and massive frame, the man looked imposing and dangerous.

Two cops, ones Marc recognized, burst in to find a dead man on the floor and the Black Spectre holding a gun.

Moon Knight had escaped the scene, into the shadows and out a hidden door, deep underground to his lair and used another tunnel to get into Steven Grant’s bedroom. Soon enough, Steven Grant came walking down the stairs.

“Officers…to what do I owe this visit?”

Marlene watched from the hallway, knowing that this transformation, from enraged broken Knight to suave Grant was an intimate glimpse at how fractured Marc Spector was.

Brooklyn; Now

Kesi got on her computer and started to search. She looked through several phone-listing websites for the name her mother gave her when Kesi had asked about her biological father.

After that, she decided to simply type his name into Google. After several tweaks, she came up with recent newspaper articles from the New York Times and Daily Bugle, and she had an address. Standing up and taking her coat, she stood still for a minute.

She’d never known this man, but he in his own way had helped bring her into this world. She’d had a good fulfilling life before leaving to go find him, and she wasn’t sure what to expect upon meeting him. The information gleaned in the newspaper articles was interesting, lots of insights into the man who was her father.

But that couldn’t be all. What was he really like, she wondered, did he want her in his life, would he care at all about her, would he be upset or happy or…what? She didn’t know. So much to wonder about and she was scared, perhaps truly scared for the first time in her life.

However, she was a strong girl, and Kesi steeled her nerves, putting on her coat and descending down the stairwell she walked a few blocks to the subway station, to her father and unbeknownst to her, her new life.

Ryker’s; The next day

Fred Myers smiled as he walked out of the godforsaken prison. Though Sunset Bain was out of commission, she kept her promise and her team of lawyers had Myers out of prison. Sure the job didn’t go like she planned, in the end Bain got nipped and Moon Knight—Marc Spector, was alive and well and out of prison. But she’d made Myers sign a contract, and part of the contract was a guarantee to get Myers out of prison. It wouldn’t have taken so long except for other investigations going on as to what happened exactly with Spector, Bain, and the goings on at Ryker’s.

After being ferried to the mainland by the police, Myers was truly free, out in the world again. There was something about Ryker’s he couldn’t shake though, he’d come face to face with Moon Knight and the Punisher, for what he did he should have been dead. There had to be a better way to make a buck, he thought, there had to be a way to stay in the business and not attract that sort of attention. He wasn’t truly a bad guy, he’d thought about reforming, but being bad just seemed more lucrative.

Oh well, he thought, more on this later, for now he was content to make his way to Satan’s Circus for a beer or two.

Grant Manor; Now

“Hello, officers, I believe we’ve already met. These men attacked me in my home, there was an altercation, one of them found a revolver of mine, a weapon I legally own and keep here in my house. The man in black then shot the man with the tattooed face. Anything I can do for you? Nedda, get a pot of coffee going,” Marc, or Steven, spoke calmly, even charismatically as he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt.

“Yeah…we’ll still need to take a look around, if that’s okay? We can come back with a permit later if you want to do it that way,” Seamus said, antagonistic by nature.

“No permit will be necessary, look about freely, refreshments will be in the kitchen should you need anything. How may I aide your investigation?”

“That’s fine, walk along with us and answer any questions we have.”

The two crooked cops went about the house, a big fight had evidently taken place.

“What did these two want here anyways?”

“Look around, gentlemen, I live in a mansion, I’ve made a nice life for myself…I can think of a few priceless articles I would purloin in their place. Super crooks must have thought I was that Moon Knight creep the papers said I was. I’m not, obviously, but things just went bad for them.”

“So the man who was killed, name was Bushman, you said?” Seamus asked.

“Yes, Raoul Bushman. I used to be in the mercenary business, I’d had some dealings with him before. He and Moon Knight have had a few tussels I believe, if he thought Moon Knight was me…that may have been incentive to attack and plunder the place.”

“Okay, Seamus, put it out over the radio, let the station know what’s going on.”

Satan’s Circus; The next day

Boomerang made his way to the bar and ordered a drink. This place was a bit more spirited than the Bar With No Name; at the Bar, fights were banned, you went, you drank and relaxed. Here, business was frowned upon but jobs could be found and about once a night two crooks would reach the apex of inebriation and fight one another. If one managed to stay out of the way of the fists and the debris, it could be an enjoyable show.

A new face in the game sat down next to Boomerang, and Fred Myers looked at him, he had no clue as to who the stranger was, fresh out of prison, Fred hoped to keep up with the times and maybe score a job, he spoke up.

“How’s it going, I’m Fred…Boomerang,”

“Macheath. Mack for short.”

“So you new to the scene? What’s your gimmick?”

“Eh…a little of this, a little of that, depends on what the pay is, ya dig?”

As the two crooks began to talk, a fight started out behind them. They stood and turned to watch as some A.I.M. goon and a low-level mutant nobody went at it. As they shifted position, Boomerang got his first good look at the stranger. He wore a loose leather jacket with a red liner and red detailing on the jacket, a casually worn blue dress shirt with a flap of cloth to hide the buttons. Elaborately stitched into the chest area of the shirt was an insignia depicting a knife with golden wings affixed.

From there the rest of his clothing may as well have been regular street clothes, a belt with an unassuming round silver belt buckle, light brown jeans almost reddish and black boots.

The A.I.M goon won out over the mutant and the bar was at peace for awhile, music started up again. Soon another crook, Jackie Dio, walked into the bar.

“Bushman’s dead, the Consultant is offering a half mil for anyone who helps secure the dead fuck’s business and territory for him. Who needs a job?”

Grant Manor; Now

The cops were leaving, Matt and Seamus had asked some basic questions, got the story and then left, Marc knew this situation could be trouble and vowed to keep an eye on it. Those were bad cops, a disservice to the force that Marc had worked with in the past and often admired.

He went into the kitchen to get a glass of water, Marlene and Frenchie were sitting down at the kitchen table, both reserved.

“Marc…we have to talk,” Marlene started in, her voice quiet but strong.

“Mon ami, earlier we saw you…break,” Frenchie continued.

“I can’t deal with this right now. Yes, something is happening, something happened to me and I don’t know what either, okay? Something bad happened and then five minutes later I was fine, charming and civilized even. With the Ryker’s debacle…my identities failed me, I couldn’t escape into Steven Grant, or Moon Knight or Jake or Marc. Worse, they got me in trouble. I don’t know what to do, I’ve gone schizo before…it’s no fun for any of us, I didn’t know it at the time, but all the people I am got mushed together in my mind and now…are they fighting back? I don’t know.”

“We’ll do anything we can to help, Marc. Do you want me to call a doctor or something?” Marlene responded.

“I don’t know…probably yeah, that would be a good idea,” Marc replied.

The doorbell rang.

“I’ll go get it,” Marc said, tired.

In front of Grant Manor, Kesi Badru found herself feeling very small. This house was so big, imposing, it made an already awkward situation even worse. What kind of man lived behind these walls?

Worse, her father had it listed under another name…she couldn’t help but wonder what the story behind that was.

The door opened, and a stern looking man opened the door. Dressed well, brown hair, brown eyes, tall and in good shape. Just like the pictures her mother had. Almost twenty years older of course, but still the same man.

“You are Marc Spector?” she asked the man at the door.

“Yes. Who are you?”

“My name is Kesi Badru. There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to say it, and hopefully we can talk more and I’ll explain and tell you all about it but…anyways, sorry I’m rambling. I’m your daughter.”