Vigilante: Anatomy of Infinite Worlds

They have been going on like this for several hours now; he in mad pursuit of the other man who leads him circling around the city, into the intricacies of rush-hour long traffic along the boulevard, blaring horns, shimmying motor cars, sweating passengers waiting for the vehicles to move on, and ubiquitous carbon monoxide fumes, in a melange under a sunless, overcast sky; to the dreariness and filth along the road beneath the LRT tracks, to the maze-like streets of the Manila Metropolis. Everything is a damned vicious cycle of frustrated pursuit. Whenever he would run at an accelerated speed good enough to collar the other man, the latter showing slowness in its pace, when opportunity just stares at him in the face, when an outstretched hands could grab the other man by the shoulder, pull him to a stop, or thrust him, aikido style, the other man's momentum flinging himself to stumble, it is just then that there happens an automatic reversal in their speed, inversely proportionate; as his speed plummets the other man gains speed. It is as if everything were scripted, controlled, written and directed by an invisible hand, and the specter probably could be hidding somewhere behind the mass of gray clouds above. A couple of times he has lost sight of the other man, and each time he would dart, a great jump, onto corrugated iron roofs of houses and top decks of high-rise buildings, reconnoitering under the bleary, dim sky, always spotting the other man far ahead, towering a hundred feet over miniature houses and streets. The moment he spots the other man, the moment all the houses and buildings start to swell centrifugally, the center as the other man, hiding him again from his view. But by then, he knows where the other man is, and on again the damned pursuit. Now the other man has led him to a dimly lighted asphalted street, barren of cars and plying jeepneys, empty and sparse with people. Along the sidestreet, between thick columns bordering the pavement, an old, white-haired Chinese businessman stands before what looks like his two sons, pulling down the metal shutters of their cheap recording store. The old man turns around and gives him a death-like stare, mocking and sarcastic. Night and darkness has enveloped the city; the sky's hue pitch black. The other man has slipped to one of the narrow alleys leading to a wet and dry market and he spontaneously follows. Inside, where most of the stalls are closed, he catches a glimpse of the other man veering toward one fo the narrow aisles. With the space gap between him and the other man, the other man could have had managed to get away and escape his sight, totally leaving him, but why was the othe man still there, as if goosing him to follow him, as if the other man, though running away, were making sure he does not lose sight of him, cajolling and directing. With his service .45 caliber pistol cocked now, he sprints along the market aisles carpeted by mud to where the other man has run. He ends up at the back entrance of the market, opening to a cramped, crowded squatter residential area, where loiterers, children, men and women squatted on gutters and huddled in groups. The other man is nowhere in sight. He scans the direction the other could follow but there is no trace where he could have gone. There is a wake in front of him and the brass-colored coffin lies in the middle of the narrow street. A yellow-green canvas perched on top to cover it from a soft evening drizzle. He slowly strides toward the coffin, as if magnetized by it. He peers cautiously at the coffin. His balls tightens, his prostate aches in pain, as he sees himself, or what could be his clone, lying prostrate in it; pale, mouth agape, showing a stiff tongue and has the smell of.... Death....

to be continued....

Note: So here it is the intro for my short fiction Vigilante.