Hatman, The Dark Crusader

A shadow among the shadows, he surveyed the surviving streetlights from the balcony of his five star hotel room. Loadshedding had just ended.

What evil was being perpetrated even now down in those dark streets and alleyways? Rape, murder, robbery? No rest for a crusader. He fingered the brim of his fedora, one of his favourites, bought in a Grey Street store. No, now Dr Yusaf Dadoo Street. Yes, name changes  - the proud symbols of the peace  and prosperity that came with democracy and his Party. He flinched at a volley of gunshots from the street below. Well, he corrected himself, the peace and prosperity still to come.

More gunshots, running footsteps and yells drifted up to  him. Let the police handle it, he thought. He had a far more important mission on his hands. He remembered the mass rapes, the armed robberies, the assassinations... Always, he'd been on the scene. There were people calling for his head. Claiming that he was failing at his crime-fighting job. 

What did they know? There are only so many speeches that one man can make at the funerals of celebrities. Only so many exhausting business class flights that one man can take. Only so many hats that one man can wear. But he'd always been there at the post-crime scenes, dispensing wisdom, threats, wisecracks, promises. Oh, he'd done his part in the grim struggle against rampant, violent crime in South Africa. His flashes of wit, his homespun wisdom would be writ large in the annals of crime-fighting. 

Who could forget the revelations about tattoos, alcohol, zama zamas and pretty girls? The epiphany about population growth and crime? Dramatic clashes with insolent activists?

The wailing of police sirens broke into his reverie.  Hmm, an hour after the first shots. They were getting better.

He tugged at his hatbrim.

'Robbin', he called.

Robbin appeared silently, munching on a Streetwise Two.

'Get the Hatmobile. We've got an important speech to tavern owners to go to'

Robbin sped away, the sound of munching accompanying his quiet footsteps.

'Boy's getting fat', he thought. 'Too much KFC.'

He tilted his hat and squared his shoulders.

'The show must go on.'

The Daf.., oops, Dark Crusader glided away into the night.

Tips for the blogger gratefully accepted 

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