A Villain’s Selected Journal Entries

April 7

Christ. Another ribbon-cutting ceremony. He’s the guest of honor, of course. That cleft-chinned, cliché-spewing sack of otherworldly muscle. Worse yet, it’s the opening of an aviary. What does he know about birds? I am The Raven, after all. Who is he? Captain Thunder. Yep. A big bluster of noise and no action. Fitting.

And she’s there. My love. My unrequited love. Lenore Lamb, columnist for The Daily Times. I can’t read most of that glorified tabloid tripe, but she is different. Oh, the piercing power of her keyboard clack. What is she doing with that manchild in tights? That beer-swilling Bluto brute holding Olive Oyl hostage.

I watch it all unfold perched in my hidden nest. He snips the ribbon with oversized scissors. How I’d love to drive those twin blades into the flab of his sucked-in stomach. The city cheers when the smug superhero shears. His head is as hollow as the bones of that American robin. He flies. The one thing he has in common with these beautiful creatures. Like them, he comes from another land. Unlike them, he doesn’t belong here.

No matter. I shall eradicate him soon enough. Lenore will see him for what he truly is. And me for what I am. For spring is upon us and The Raven’s migration begins today. What will they think of their new savior? This city can either rise on my wings or be crushed by my talons.

July 19

His funeral was today, that crooked politician. They say north of a thousand people came to pay their respects. Pff. A hero’s send-off for that corrupt little prune. As the city treasurer, this humble public servant invested our surplus in his Mercedes-Benz S-Class, a new swimming pool, and semi-annual gambling/fornicating trips to Las Vegas. Meanwhile, our public schools are distributing textbooks that still tout Pluto as a planet.

Fortunately, the more vices the enemy possesses, the easier he is to destroy. Maybe a little raven delivered a message to the treasurer’s wife. Maybe she discovered him in a hotel suite, wrapped between the sheets with a prostitute, and unloaded 13 bullets into his body. You see, ravens are foragers. We don’t partake in the kill. We simply arrive afterward to feast on the carnage.

He is my sixth one this season. Politicians, police officers, bankers. The vile ones all have their weaknesses, whether it be money, sex, booze, drugs, or (of course) power. And who has been front and center at all their eternal resting plots? You got it. Captain Thunder. The idiot swears vengeance, and I’m going to have mine. The summer is heating up. I can’t wait.

October 27

What a wonderful day. It began with a walk through the dewy newness of an autumn morning. Oh, the splendor of bleeding trees, their red foliage desperately clinging to the wind-rattled branches. There is no artist more masterful than the steady hand of Death. I see red.

Later, in the library checking out, I couldn’t locate my card. I saw red. Lenore Lamb reaching out to me. “Is this yours?” she asked. I nodded. “Here you go, Jason Allan Crow...Now, where have I heard that name?”

I accepted the card; our fingers danced. “It was in the newspapers a long time ago,” I said. “My parents, they were gunned down by the local police force. Mistaken identity. Some theorize they saw something they shouldn’t have. Who knows? All we know is they were found with ravens picking at their bones.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said and meant it. “I didn’t mean to--”

“--It’s okay. I was too young to remember it. I was told they were wonderful people.”

“I’m sure they were.”

“Don’t feel too sorry for me now. I was given a large settlement. Never had to worry about money.” I turned to scan my volume of gothic poetry.

A smile formed on her face when she observed the ornate tome. “I love that dark stuff. Especially this time of year.”

“Me too,” I said. Me too.

January 2

I’m usually not one for New Year’s resolutions, but this one couldn’t wait. Despite prior attempts to reveal my fortress, the big lug couldn’t seem to crack the code. And so I sent a final note. A pitiful puzzle, I must admit. I urged him to meet me at the “Raven Nest,” this being a thinly veiled anagram for “Sternn Ave,” location of our fine city’s tallest skyscraper.

How glorious it was when at last we met, his pathetic cape flapping helplessly atop the great edifice, flapping as if some fairytale flag symbolizing the justice and honor mythologized in children’s books. For I knew his weakness. It was a weakness shared by nearly every living creature, a weakness I admit to possessing. It was love.

I dangled sweet Lenore Lamb over the ledge. God, she looked like an angel. He begged me to let her live, begged me with an icy spirit mist shooting from his lips as if his very soul. Snowflakes fluttered in the calm sky, not one alike. I looked into Lenore’s eyes, for I too loved her, had sunk even deeper into the maddening pit over our last two months together. Yet I knew she could never love me. That I was nothing more than the psychopath next door. I let her go.

He couldn’t save her. And yet he went to her. Flew to her unmoving form. I would have escaped had the coward not called for backup. A wave of officers crashed down upon me, wrestled me into the back of a car. But what to do with me? The penitentiary was no place for a man cloaked in a black trenchcoat and raven mask. They knew you don’t cage a bird.

And so here I am, in the loving embrace of this private institution. I am to be their subject, to be studied and poked and prodded. What do they think, I wonder, when they see that devilish grin crawl across my face? I doubt they suspect that it appears each time I relive Captain Thunder’s agony, the moment our loves shattered simultaneously. And why should they? I’m just another patient watching the snowflakes fall toward earth.