[A sign to the left of the stage reads: “Dawson City Municipal Park." Back stage are large potted plants and other such props suggesting a park scene. To the right is a trash can under a sign that reads: “Please Help Keep Your Park Clean.” Seated center stage on a bench is BILL, mid 20's, somewhat unkempt, modestly attired, as might someone on a tight budget. He is reading a newspaper. Presently, FRED, a smallish elderly man, attired in a coat a size too big for him, trudging on a walker for support and toting a satchel, enters. He approaches the bench, sets walker and satchel within easy reach and sits next to BILL. For reasons that will be obvious later, the part of the old fellow should be played by a physically fit young man in disguise.]
BILL: Hi!
FRED: Hi!
BILL: Beautiful day isn’t it? [Extending a hand to Fred.] I’m Bill, a grad student at the university.
FRED: Pleased to meet you, Bill. [Shaking Bill’s hand] Fred here. My wife Helena and I are residents of the Mellow Brook nursing home, the one by the golf course.
BILL: The Mellow Brook. Yeah, I know the place. Drive by there everyday on my way to school.
FRED: [Scanning the surrounding area] Looks like another lovely Indian summer day. Must enjoy them while they last. [Then pointing to Bill’s newspaper.] Riveting story, isn’t it?
BILL: Which story? The one about the serial killings?
FRED: Yes, that one. Some guy goes around shooting people, toys with them for a while, then finishes them off with a coup de grâce to the left eye.
BILL: News media fodder, to say the least. Reporters all over the world have picked up the story.
FRED: Small wonder. The guy is no ordinary killer. Though his coup de grâce flair never varies, as if performing a ritual, he uses a different guns, to confound the police,
BILL: I don't know much about guns. Never fired one, in fact. Guns scare me.
FRED: Well, you’re not alone. Most people are like you, afraid of guns.
BILL: In my opinion, all guns should be outlawed, Second Amendment rights or not.
FRED: [Ignoring Bill’s comment and pointing again to the newspaper.] The efficiency with which this guy stalks and kills tells me he's a former soldier, Special Forces, probably.
BILL: Yeah. Five killings in two months, and the cops have no clue who he might be.
FRED: The cops will never catch him. He's too clever for them.
BILL: You’re probably right. Most serial killers never get caught.
FRED: Unless they turn themselves in.
BILL: But why would they do that?
FRED: To make a final statement. This guy, clearly, is on a mission of some sort. Eventually, he will want the world to know what he’s about.
BILL: A brainy sort of guy, I suppose.
FRED: And in great physical shape. In one of the killings he had to scale the side of a three-story building to get to his victim.
BILL: Yeah, that was quite a feat.
[FRED takes Bill’s newspaper and starts reading it. Bill eyes Fred quizzically.]
BILL: But tell me, Sir. How do you know so much about this serial killer? Seems that you have spent a great deal of time following the story.
FRED: Well, at our nursing home there's not much else to do. Helena and I, we keep up with the news, try to read between the lines, and draw conclusions.
BILL: So, what’s your take on this serial killing thing?
FRED: Serial killing, I believe, is a variant of the natural hunting instinct.
BILL: Really? How so?
FRED: Well, just as some hunters go after small game--birds, rabbits, and such--some serial killers, the majority in fact, target helpless people.
BILL: Like lone women, old folks, kids, winos, homeless types, people like that?
FRED: Yes, precisely.
BILL: And what kind of hunter do you think our serial killer is?
FRED: Our guy, he is a big game hunter. Targets only abusive types who would have killed him had he given them the chance. Takes pleasure in the challenge.
BILL: You might be right. All his victims thus far seem to fit that description.
FRED: A crooked contractor, a loan shark, an amoral defense lawyer, a sadistic cop, a corrupt judge, and a drug-dealing gang leader, the latest.
BILL: This big-game hunter, as you describe him, sounds more like a vigilante.
FRED: Yes, you could call him that, a vigilante, but a special kind of vigilante, like the Charles Bronson character in the film Death Wish.
BILL: Charles Bronson?
FRED: Sorry, I forget. You are too young to have heard of him. That film he starred in, an iconic classic of sorts, came out long before you were born, in 1974, if I recall. It was based on a novel.
BILL: Death Wish. Sounds interesting. I'll look for the DVD on the Internet.
FRED: Do. The film raises some thought-provoking moral issues. The senseless murder of his wife and rape of daughter was what the set Bronson off.
BILL: I can understand why something like that would drive a man to murder.
FRED: Yet, Bronson never killed the juvenile punks who committed the crimes, nor were they ever caught. Bronson got his satisfaction whacking other punks like them.
BILL: Righteous justice, I suppose.
FRED: Yes, that’s made him special.
[A homeless man of uncertain age pushing his worldly possession in a creaky shopping cart crosses the stage, stops by the trash can, and proceeds to rifle through it for food. He eats some of the morsels he finds, saves the rest in a plastic satchel, and moves on. Bill points with his chin to the man.]
BILL: Hardly the kind of person our self-righteous vigilante would target.
FRED: Ummm. I see that I that I got you thinking about him.
BILL: Yes. Until now he was just a faceless character in the newspaper. But now, after talking to you, I feel I've met the guy.
[Fred locks eyes with Bill and chuckles.]
FRED: Actually, you have.
BILL: I have? Met the vigilante? Where? When?
FRED: Fifteen minutes ago. On this bench. [Pausing a long moment, for dramatic effect.] You are looking at him right now. Me. I’m the vigilante.
BILL: You? the vigilante? The killer who can scale buildings to get to his victims? [Looking at the old man up and down in a gesture of disbelief]You've got to be kidding!
FRED: I see I had you fooled too. You're no more perceptive than the cops.
BILL: But . . .
FRED: Look closely, young man. I’m not what I appear to be. My stoop, my shuffle, it’s all an act. And this walker [lifting the walker] and this oversized coat [tugging at the coat] are my disguise.
BILL: Your disguise?
FRED: Yes. My disguise. How do you think I manage to surprise my prey? No one would suspect that a doddering old man would attack him. Nor would the cops be on the lookout for someone so harmless-looking.
BILL: [Chuckling] You’ve got quite an imagination, Sir.
FRED: You don’t believe me?
BILL: Frankly, no. I don’t believe a word you’re saying.
FRED: Then observe.
[Fred springs to his feet and doffs his overcoat coat, revealing a taught, muscular body clad in a Spandex exercise outfit. He does 10 effortless jumping jacks, dons his overcoat and, showing no signs of exertion, sits back down on the bench.]
BILL: O.K., O.K., so you are in amazing shape for a senior citizen. But that’s no proof you’re the vigilante.
FRED: Want further proof? Here, take a look.
[Fred opens the satchel he was carrying and hands it to Bill. Bill peers into the satchel and recoils in fear.]
BILL: A gun!
FRED: Yes, to be precise, A Colt .45 pistol and its silencer. The silencer, you screw on, like so. [Fred slowly screws the silencer on and off the barrel of the pistol to demonstrate.]
BILL: Please, Sir, put that gun away. I told you I’m afraid of guns.
[Fred puts the pistol and silencer back in the satchel and sets the satchel down between his legs.]
FRED: Part of my arsenal. The ammo I keep in a storage bin near our nursing home.
[Three teenagers in street gang regalia, their loud chatter punctuated with truculent “mother-fuckers” enter the scene, deliberately, tossing fast-food wrapper on the ground, deliberately ignoring the nearby trash can. Patently scared, Bill avoids making eye contact with them but Fred glares angrily at them.]
BILL: Please, Sir, don’t antagonize them.
FRED: O.K., for your sake, I won’t. But they better not screw with me.
[The teenagers flick them a middle finger and move on. Bill, breathes a sigh of relief, then turns to Fred .]
BILL: But how about your wife, Fred? Does she know what you do on the side?
FRED: Oh, yes, of course. Helena is my enabler, a very wealthy woman. Covers all the costs.
BILL: Costs? For what?
FRED: For the pistol, the ammo, the storage bin where I keep my gear, a motorbike I ride around in, other disguises, the nursing home itself. Stuff like that.
BILL: So you two work as a team?
FRED: Yes, Helena also is an experienced actress. Poses as an Alzheimer’s patient. That’s her disguise. In the privacy of her room, she helps me plan the executions.
BILL: Wow! This vigilante thing of yours is beginning to sound like a parody of that Bronson film.
FRED: I detect by the tone of your voice that you still don’t believe me. What do I have to do to convince you? Shoot you? [Fred reaches with mock anger into the satchel.]
BILL: No, please! No need to do that! I believe you mean what you’re saying. It’s just that . . .
FRED: Relax young man. I was only kidding. What I’ve been telling you, I realize, is a bit hard to swallow.
BILL: Sir, you may be physically fit and knowledgeable about guns, but you just don’t look like a serial killer to me.
FRED: You’re right. I’m no serial killer. I’m a vigilante. The Vigilante.
BILL: O.K. so you’re him. I believe you. But now that I know you and see that you have a rational, human side, I’m curious to know what sets you off.
FRED: Killing scumbags that need killing?
BILL: Yes, that.
FRED: Well, there were a number of bad experiences, going back to childhood. But what really got me cranked up was my stint with the Marines in Vietnam.
BILL: The war? What was that like?
FRED: Have you ever heard of tunnel rats?
BILL: Tunnel rats? No.
FRED: Well, the Viet Cong, our enemy, didn’t have bases like we did. They stored their food and weapons in tunnels, and when not fighting, hid out in them.
BILL: Now that you mention it, I do recall seeing a documentary about those tunnels.
FRED: Well, tunnel rat, was the name given American Marines and soldiers who crawled into the tunnels to blow them up.
BILL: But weren’t there guards inside the tunnels?
FRED: Yes, of course. Them the rat had to kill, or get killed in turn. The tunnels were so narrow that you couldn’t hide or turn around fast enough to retreat.
BILL: I get claustrophobia just thinking about it.
FRED: The rat had to go in alone, with nothing but a flashlight, a satchel of explosives, and a .45 with a silencer, like the one I showed you. The silencer was necessary to muffle the deafening noise a .45 would make inside the tunnel. A rat too deaf to detect the enemy’s soft sounds was a dead rat.
BILL: So I gather that you were one of those tunnel rats.
FRED: Yes, and one of the best. My compact size and physical strength were ideal qualifications for the job.
BILL: And were you forced into tunnel duty?
FRED: No, actually, I didn’t have to be forced or ordered. I volunteered.
BILL: Your true-blood Marine, I take it.
FRED: Yes, I enlisted convinced I’d be fighting for democracy, freedom, the flag, the Constitution, God, the whole patriotic ball of wax.
BILL: Then what happened?
FRED: [After gazing up at the sky for a long moment, reflecting]Once we soldiers—-Marines, as we distinguish ourselves--once we start seeing our buddies hit, hearing their screams, we usually shed our ideals, and very quickly.
BILL: Doesn’t surprise me.
FRED: From then on, survival is all that matters. You bond closely with your buddies because your personal survival depends on them, and theirs on yours.
BILL: But if that was all you wanted to do, survive, why would risk your life by volunteering to crawl into those hellish tunnels?
FRED: Because it maximized my chances of survival. If I didn’t go in and destroy the enemy, they would’ve come out at night, as was their usual tactic, and destroyed my unit, and me with it. Better to die fighting in a tunnel than to get slaughtered in your sleep.
BILL: I suppose it makes perfect sense, considering the circumstances.
FRED: I earned my share of medals for my tunnel-rat exploits, but there was nothing heroic about it. Nothing at all.
BILL: So, let me guess. It was this seething hatred of your Vietnamese enemies that decades later flared up and turned you into a vigilante.
FRED: No. It wasn’t the enemy I came to hate. They were just kids, like me, caught in the same nightmare. I actually felt a kinship with them.
BILL: So who, then, was it that you hated?
FRED: The politicians, the rapacious CEO’s, the fat cats who instigated and profited from the war, and the military brass that fomented it to promote their careers.
BILL: You realized they used you.
FRED: Yes. All the scumbags that I kill--execute would be a better word for it--remind me of them.
BILL: And you let the hate fester all these years?
FRED: No, I didn’t let fester. Not for long, anyway. My first execution took place right there in Vietnam.
BILL: Who?
FRED: A major who got his kicks sending his men out on hopeless missions. Shot the guy dead while he was taking a leak. Fragging, we called it back then.
BILL: Where there others after him?
FRED: In Vietnam, two more. After the war, as age crept up on me, I upped production, so to speak, before my lease on life, or luck, ran out.
BILL: How many thus far?
FRED: Over the years, Twenty-one, including the last five, the ones with the coup de grâce to the left eye.
BILL: Wow! That’s quite a record. And I assume that you’re not done yet.
FRED: No, I’m not. I still have a few more executions left in me.
BILL: And what’s with the shot to the left eye?
FRED: That signature flair I added later. It was suggested to me by voodoo believer acquaintance of mine. It combines two ancient superstitions: The evil eye and the left side.
BILL: Very creative.
FRED: Our English word “sinister” derives from the Latin sinistra, left.
BILL:Yes, I knew that.
FRED: [Chuckling] An erudite touch to my otherwise primeval acts of justice.
BILL: So, did you make the Marines your career?
FRED: No, I served my four years, went on to college, earned a Ph.D., in physics, and taught at various universities, until my retirement two years ago.
BILL: You were a professor?
FRED: Yes, and a distinguished one at that. And so was my wife. Her field was drama. We met at faculty party.
BILL: Fascinating story. A distinguished professor in polite society and a vigilante on the side.
FRED: The university provided us with a perfect front back then, just as the nursing home does now.
BILL: But don’t you ever feel a pang of guilt? The scumbags you kill may need killing, as you say, but how about their families and loved ones, aren’t they hurt by it?
FRED: Guilt? No, I have no reason to feel guilt. You see, I choose my prey carefully. Only scumbags whose family, if they have any, would be glad they’re dead. Helena helps me with the research.
BILL: Still, stalking and killing a human being who has done you no harm personally seems a bit . . .
FRED: Criminal? No, with me it was constructively therapeutic. If I hadn’t taken my hatred out on them, I would have turned it against myself, or a loved one, as have a lot of war veterans.
BILL: Many a book has been written about such veterans.
FRED: Alcoholics, drug addicts, frightened, confused, homeless men—that’s how they ended up, in the thousands. Some become outlaws, join motorcycles gangs for camaraderie.
BILL: The father of a classmate of mine ended up a hopeless wino.
FRED: A case close to us was Helena’s little brother. A timid, sensitive kid, drafted into the Army and sent to Vietnam, at age 19.
BILL: What happened to him?
FRED: Came down with dysentery his first month in Vietnam. After a short stay in the hospital, he was ordered back to duty, but dreading the horrors that awaited him, he shot himself.
BILL: Which would explain why your wife supports you.
FRED: Maybe if those soldiers had taken it out on the real enemy, as I did, they might have survived, emotionally and socially.
BILL: You’re probably right.
FRED: I know I’m right, Unless one happens to be a total sociopath, most of us have an inborn need to contribute something to the wellbeing of our fellowmen.
BILL: And you, exactly what do you contribute?
FRED: By my reckoning, for every scum I execute I spare ten or more innocent people the harm he would caused them had he lived longer.
BILL: You realize, of course, that you’re playing God.
FRED: Really? How so?
BILL: Well, I’m not a religious person, a diehard agnostic, in fact, yet I believe there’s much wisdom to be had in the Bible, and when the Deity says “vengeance is mine,” it makes a lot of sense to me.
FRED: To begin with, it’s presumptuous for mortals to claim, the writers of the Bible included, that they know what the Creator of the Universe, if there’s such a being, is thinking. For all we know, he couldn’t care less what we do or don’t do.
BILL: But surely the time-tested words of the Scriptures . . .
FRED: Study the Bible from cover to cover, as I have several times over, And you’ll see that the Lord wreaks his vengeance through human agents. The Assyrians and Babylonian armies that laid waste to a sinning Israel were sent by the Lord. All the major heroes of the Old Testament—-Moses, Joshua, Samuel, David, Elijah--had blood on their hands. All committed or urged genocide under orders from the Lord himself.
BILL: So, are you telling me that you’re an agent of God?
FRED: No, what I’m telling you is that your hackneyed Biblical argument is bunk. If God’s mind is so easy to decipher, then he wouldn’t be God. All that stuff you read in the Bible, profound or not, is the work of human minds. But let’s not go there.
BILL: Agreed. Those kinds of arguments are pointless.
[Bill gets up to stretch his legs, and Fred, leaning on the walker, resuming his frail-old man guise, follows suit. After a minute, both sit back down.]
BILL: But why are you telling me all this? Aren’t you afraid I’ll report you to the police?
FRED: No, because, first, they wouldn’t believe you and, second, because you and I need each other.
BILL: We need each other? Two strangers who until now never met.? Please explain.
FRED: I may be a stranger to you, but you are no stranger to me. You see, Helena and I have researched your background.
BILL: [suddenly upset] What? Who gave you permission? Look here, Sir. I’ve had of enough of this conversation. Have a nice day. I’m leaving [Bill gets up. Fred reaches for the gun satchel, as if to open it)
FRED: Sit down! I’m not through with you yet.
[Bill glances apprehensively at the satchel, at Fred, and does as told.]
BILL: O.K.,O.K., I’m listening.
FRED: Your name is William Fielding Welkind, an English Lit grad student with no marketable skills, and no career prospects to speak of. Correct?
BILL: My name and grad school major you got right, but the rest I would dispute.
FRED: Face it, Mr. Welkind, English grads like you are a dime a dozen in today’s job market.
BILL: But that doesn’t mean . . .
FRED: The best you can hope for with an M.A. is a stressful middle school job. With a Ph.D., visiting professor stints in no-name colleges, laboring for peanuts.
BILL: Careers in education are not as bleak you paint them. There are always opportunities and promotions to be had once you get you foot in the door.
FRED: Your foot up your ass, you mean, if you’ll pardon my language. The only thing you got going for you is that you have decent writing skills.
BILL: And how would you know that?
FRED: Because Helena and I have read the stories and novel chapters you’ve posted on the Internet. Which brings me to the reason I came to sit on this bench with you.
BILL: So this little meeting ours was planned all along.
FRED: Yes. Weeks in advance.
BILL: How did you know I’d be here?
FRED: Because, like all animals, you're a creature of habit. Remember, we vigilantes have a strong predator instinct. I know that every morning when the weather is good you come to sit in the park, on this very same bench.
BILL: O.K, then, you’ve got me all figured out. So go on. I’m all ears.
FRED: The vigilante justice I’ve meted over the years has made headline news, but once I call it quits, as I eventually must, no one will remember me.
BILL: Ummm. I see where you are going with this. You want me to immortalize you in a book.
FRED: Not exactly. The book I have in mind would not be about me personally. It’s not glory or fame and, certainly, not financial profit that I seek. My identity is to remain secret.
BILL: So what, then, do you seek?
FRED: The message. The idea. The example. If I could inspire others to follow my lead, that would be is all the reward I needed. I would go to my grave in peace.
BILL: You wish to spawn a legion of vigilantes? Is that it?
FRED: Yes, though not necessarily in my image. There are ways to dispense justice other than by killing. Killing just happens to be what I do best.
BILL: But why choose me? There are other, more skilled and better connected writers. All my stuff has been rejected out of hand.
FRED: Because you’re a kindred soul. A would-be vigilante at heart. That’s why Helena and I picked you. That same kind of hatred we harbor we see in your writings.
BILL: Very perceptive of you.
FRED: You’ve had your share of bad experiences, too. Abandoned by your father at age ten, bullied in school, lost you mother to a stroke.
BILL: You’ve done your research thoroughly.
FRED: You can give Helena credit for that.
BILL: You’re right. I’m too much of a wimp to vent my hatred physically, like you, so I do it vicariously through my fictional character, a sort of catharsis.
FRED: If it makes you feel better, why not?
BILL: But tell me. If I write the book using the inside the information you feed me, won’t the police suspect that I’m a collaborator?
FRED: No, because they’ll never know we met. Even if you say you did, no one would believe you.
BILL: I see. The book then will come across as a work of fiction, based solely on information I cobbled together from the news media.
FRED: Precisely. But because the information is, in fact, real, to the last detail, the story will ring true, unlike all the stuff you've written.
BILL: My stuff?
FRED: Yes, though it’s well-written, the reason it doesn’t sell is because your heroes are not convincing. They talk and act big, but are really wimps at heart, like you.
BILL: That’s more or less what a well-meaning friend once told me.
FRED: So it’ll be a win-win for both us. I would get my message out to the world, and you would have material for a best seller, which would embark you on a remunerative career. Other books, film scripts and lecture tours would be sure to follow. You wouldn’t need to go on groveling for a dead-end English degree.
BILL: But how would I get a publisher to read the manuscript, or enter it in a contest? I don’t have a cent to my name.
FRED: Not to worry. That part of the deal my wife and I will handle. We have, as I said, the financial means, and the all the necessary connections that money can buy.
BILL: And where would we meet to discuss this secret project of ours project without arousing suspicion? Here in the park?
FRED: No, there’ll be no need to for us to meet in person. We’ll keep in touch by phone. Once the book is published and stocked in bookstores, Helena and will leave the country.
BILL: Where to?
FRED: Europe, Asia, South America, wherever the sprit moves us.
BILL: Does that mean you plan to resume your vigilante mission abroad?
FRED: For a while, maybe. But once our message is out and people start acting on it, Helena and I will retire and fade into oblivion. No one will know we existed. What we leave behind, the seed we plant, is all that matters to us. You will never hear of us again.
[For a long while Bill gazes pensively at the space between his feet.]
BILL: O.K., I’ll give it some serious thought
FRED: Do. And for definitive proof that I’m the Vigilante, I’ll tell you who my next victim will be.
BILL: Yeah? Who?
FRED: A tenured professor in your English Department.
BILL: Which one?
FRED: That S.O.B. who is deliberately holding up your thesis to make you beg.
BILL: Al Ruggiero?
FRED: Yes, him. We have investigated him as well. A man without family or friends. No one will mourn him.
BILL: No, no one will, I’m sure. [Exchanging camaraderie nods with Fred] So when will you do it?
FRED: This afternoon, in his office. You’ll hear about it in the evening news.
BILL: But what if I warn him?
FRED: You won’t. You can’t.
BILL: You’re right. Even if I had the guts, I couldn’t do it without getting involved.
FRED: Here’s my phone number. [handing Bill a card.] Yours, I already know. Should you decide to write the book, give me a call. If you decide not to, don’t bother calling. Helena and I will find someone else.
[ gets up and trudges off on his walker, lugging the gun satchel, as if it weighed a ton --the picture of feeble old man on his way to his nursing home. Bill watches Fred exit. After taking a moment to ponder, he draws from his jacket a small recorder and speaks into it.]
BILL: Vigilante Justice, by William Welkind. "Chapter One: The Park Bench Pact."
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