FicWad

Howdy guys! This is the first entry of the story, written by one of the 3 main characters. Basically, this is the 'setting the stage' phase. Some minor heads-up, there's some profanity in this latest chapter. Also, I included some words in Spanish to keep Roark's character more authentic. Don't worry though, it's nothing major and you should be able to have an idea what he's talking about. ^_^ For all you Dante fans, don't worry. After Roark's Day Dante is next so be sure to bring fruit punch and cookies for the party!


* Roark's Journal Entry 1 *

Today's my first day trying this out. My therapist suggested it. Supposedly this ought to clear my head, or something to that extent. I doubt it. There's a lotta things to do right now and this seems like a complete waste of time. Still, if it makes that cocksucker shut up then I'll give this thing a whirl. It wouldn't be the first time I tried something I didn't like.
Come to think of it, this is my first time writing in a journal. Even in grade school I blew off those journal assignments. When I did have to write about ninety-nine percent of it was bullshit, anything to get the teacher off my back. Having said that, this really is my first time doing this. So how should I start? Should I address you as 'journal' during our conversations? How about Mars? That sounds nice. It's my favorite planet too. So should I introduce myself to you, Mars? I guess that's a beginning.
My name's Roark Esperanza, named after some character from a book I never bothered acquiring about. I come from Spanish descent as my last name would imply. In case you don't speak Spanish, Mars, esperanza means hope. This was something I always felt ironic considering all the hardships my family and I had to endure. I'd like to skip this part of the movie but I got the feeling this was what my therapist was talking about, me being open and reviewing my past and all that fluff-fluff shit. Here goes.
My family was in the low-income range, living in a hell hole so to speak. Money got even tighter when that bastard of a father left us. I was nine. Mama felt it was her fault he ditched us but I knew, even at that age, the cut was much deeper than that. At around eleven my older brother, the only sibling I had, got mixed up in drugs and a crazy broad. Stupid fuck got himself so out of it one day that he blew his girlfriend away with a shotgun. Apparently, he thought she was a demon. Afterwards, he was sent to the ward where he was found dead a couple days later.
Now, I used to be a God-loving man. Having been initiated into the Catholic faith and raised to believe that there was an Almighty spirit always looking after me and whatnot. I believed my mama when she said things were going to turn around. By saying my 'hail Marys' and accepting the seven sacraments, I really believed our path would be clear of any more roadblocks. She was strong in her faith despite everything, almost to the point of becoming a saint herself. That woman had fire. Had heart.
Then she got diabetes. As the years progressed, I watched in silence as the disease started to slowly eat away at her precious life. With no money to pay for health care, dialysis, and proper medication, everything went downhill when the doctors amputated her foot, which was originally caused by a minor cut that had become infected. The entire leg went after that and the infection continued to spread like wildfire. She only lasted a couple weeks after that.
Lotta pricks don't take this disease as serious as AIDS. They also don't feel bad pointing the finger right back at the person with the disease. They all assume diabetic folks are just fat, lazy slobs who eat themselves to death. Whatever comes from the disease is entirely their fault. Fucking pricks. The fuck do they know.
When mama passed away I decided to steer clear of any illusions of a holy spirit capable of blessing all those who believed. Maybe there's an ounce of faith somewhere in me yet but I've exhausted myself in finding it. Faith didn't save my mamma or brother. It might not even save myself.
Okay, enough of that. I don't want to make this journal into a soapbox or anything sissy like that. I'll move on, Mars.
Despite some rough times in school I eventually grew up and became a cop. Yeah. I know. I sometimes find that hard to believe myself. At the time I made the decision it was out of sheer obligation towards my mamma. I wanted to make her proud. But cops don't get paid much as I soon discovered, especially when you consider how many times your ass is on the line. Now I'm going to admit, seeing as this is my personal journal and I'm free to expose whatever was in my nature at the time, that this wasn't the life I wanted. Sure, being a cop put food on the table and the bills got paid. Still, I wasn't looking forward to living the rest of my young years in a mediocre home with mediocre clothes on. I wanted things that only hard cash could buy. Cars. Suits. Women. The works. Let's face it, we live in a material world. No one gives a rat's ass about a cop. They really want to hear about the new celebrity split or next available millionaire-dollar bachelor. Why dwell over a gang bust when you could be tuning in to see the tits of a singer celeb suffering from a 'wardrobe malfunction?'
So yeah, I'll admit to you, Mars, I handle 'other' jobs. The type of jobs looked down upon with a frown. People consider them 'corrupt but hey, we already live in a corrupt world. Nothing I do will ever change that. And no one should judge me until they've judged themselves. You'd be surprised how many hypocrites we got living among us. Am I right? Am I right? Of course I am, damn it. I mean, take all those people who want to stop porn. The way I see it, they're just jealous that they can't tap that ass or at least watch it because of their wives. So what do they do? Come up with some legislation crap that restricts people from viewing of it. Because if they can't have that ass then no one can. You know what I mean? Sure you do, Mars. That's how we tick tock.
In my opinion, this world only wears two types of /pantalones/: slacks and jeans. Those wearing the jeans are the ones working their asses off but ain't seeing much cash flow. On the other hand, the ones with the slacks get to have it all and not put their backs into it. They got the world at their feet. Anyone who says they'd rather be wearing jeans is either too naive for their own good or needs to accept the world as it is. I've already made up my mind and I'm aiming to have my slacks fitted into me.
I didn't stay low for too long. Sure, I made a lotta friends and connections but I didn't like the hours. Being paid as an honest man will cover just as much as food stamps do. I also didn't like being the go-to-guy. The grunt. Anytime some pendejo needed supplies they came to me and paid me only half of what a middleman got. No, I moved on and ranked up, becoming a Lieutenant and doing criminal investigation work. The irony, eh?
Nowadays I get more control over my work and better privileges. I've also gained respect from both my colleagues and contacts. Right now I'm in the position I want to be in. On the front, I am a respectable detective serving justice the American way. I pay my taxes. Recycle my cans. I even go to schools on career day, talking about how utterly 'wonderful'/ /it is to be a detective and to stay in school. Or some crap like that. On the sidelines, though, I'm guaranteed a spot when major scores come into play. So far, my contacts have helped pay for this lovely house in Sharontin street I've always wanted as a kid.
I'm not worried about getting snitched on. I've got my back covered because several people in the Force, from squad section, narcotics, to even top guys, are in the same situation I'm in. We look after each other. It's almost like a Brotherhood here. We respect each other. I mean, we're all trying to earn a good living,. Nothing wrong with that. I don't care what my partner says. Even my ex-partner was a saint wannabe.
Ah, Frankie. The poster boy. Still thinks the world spins with innocence. And yet, there's a very blurry line between innocence and being just naive.
I haven't seen Frankie for awhile now. He used to be my partner years back before Nate took his spot. The man was an interesting fellow, I'll say that. He was around my age but was already talking like an old man past his prime. All this talk about family and shit, and being morally content. Whatever. The sooner he accepts reality the sooner he can get a piece of the action. He won't have to worry about taking out loans to get his kids into college. The poor guy's already got enough on his plate. Not just with the mortgage but with his wife, who's a major puta and thinks he's a pushover. She's banged almost the entire Force minus the Chief and the women. I even tapped some of that ass myself, but that's between you and me, Mars. Anyway, I've been thinking of calling him up for a drink, for old time's sake, but I hear he's busy on a crazy case. Speaking of which...
Like I said, Frankie is an interesting fellow. Sure, he talks like an old man and all. He nags about the corruption in the Force. Gripes about the gas prices and global warming. Wonders what type of people his kids are going to grow up to be. But that boy definitely has an odd streak. He's really into the supernatural. Ghosts. Witches. Vampires. Cannibals. Demons. You name it. Anything out of the ordinary and he is all over it like flies on shit. I think he's fucking nuts but he insists it's just an innocent hobby he picked up during his teenage years.
Every night we went on patrol he'd tell me some rowdy stories. He often talked about a man in a red trench coat who, in his own words, was a devil. Even though he never met the Devil Man, which he preferred calling him, Frankie said there were cases that reported seeing a mysterious man. According to them, Devil Man wore a red coat, carried a huge sword, had scary eyes, and could fly. I haven't read any of those reports myself but I can smell bullshit a mile away. Still, Frankie told me he'd find Devil Man someday. It was his destiny. Yeah. Whatever.
I guess this about does it, Mars. Time to write off. I'll probably contact Frankie soon. Check up on him. I can't help but to feel sorry for him. He won't accept the world as it truly is. Sure I may be a no-good-for-nothing son-of-a-bitch who's willing to sell his soul for a decent life, but hey, at least I live in the real world. I don't live in la-la land with devils dressed in red trench coats. Who's kidding who?

- Roark