My name is David Spector, and I'm a superhero.

I'm looking back up at that line and suddenly thinking of an AA meeting... My name is David Spector (Hi, David!), and I'm a superhero (loud applause and sounds of encouragement). Maybe that isn't all that bad of a comparison, really, now that I think about it. You have to be a little addicted to the adrennalin rush to be a superhero, otherwise who would be crazy enough to do it? Going out into the dark city night after night, hunting down muggers and gangsters and the occassional megalomaniacal super-powered villain who wants to bring the entire world under his control isn't exactly a hobby for anyone who is normal in the head. Especially since most of us do it on our own time, which can really wreak havoc on having a personal life.

Well, anyway, whoever is reading this is probably sitting there and thinking I'm not all right in the head to begin with. Here you are, David, and you're a superhero, and you're writing it down in a journal so any of those megalomaniacal etc.-types who finds it will know who you are and can start trying to give you all the adrenallin rushes you can handle. Well you're right, as far as that goes. But I look at it this way: anyone who finds this book probably knows who I am already since they've taken the time to break into the UN compound and studiously managed to avoid the Ambassador's wing and the General Assembly, I might want to have the information which I will be putting here for my own use against those same people, I also might want to look back someday in the future and think about where I've been and what I've done - maybe self-reflection or a book of memoirs, and then there's my father.

My father. He was one of the best cops in Boston before he retired a couple of years ago. Spent more than twenty years walking a beat and when he couldn't do that anymore he took over desk duty to help those who still could without a single complaint even though he hated not being able to be out there himself. He always kept a diary, said it helped him to organize his thoughts, drain off some of the pain when he wasn't sure if he couldn't have done something a little different, a little better. He was the reason I joined the FBI all those years ago, and he probably had a twist in his gut when I left to work at the State Department. Looking back now, I don't think I really ever had the temperament for the FBI: I hate routine, I hate bureaucracy, I despise being under nearly constant surveillance, and there is this huge distrust most people have for any government investigator.

There's a scary thought for you. People have more trust these days for un-sanctioned vigilantes than they do for government agents whose job it is to uphold our democratic government and enforce it's laws. Maybe that's part of the problem - to the agents it's a job, to the vigilantes it's a labor of love.

Or maybe it's just the adrenal rush.

Am I rambling here? I guess I am, and I think I know why. I'm trying to avoid thinking about what happened earlier tonight. Well, David - the newspaper clipping is on the other side, and that's your own name staring you back in the face. The Times declared you a hero, and the New Zealand government sent a formal thank you to both yourself and your superiors for going above and beyond the call of duty.

So why can't I stop thinking of that man's family? Well, here's what happened...

My job often centers around escorting visiting dignitaries to social events and on trips to various parts of New York. With all the lunatics running around this burg, it's been decided that it is a good idea to have bodyguards there, but subtle ones, so we officially carry the title of Cultural Attache. In this case, a couple members of the new New Zealand delegation decided they wanted to go out to one of the finer restaurants around, and I was given the assignment.

One of the plusses of this job is that I get to eat on the government's tab in some of the best restaurants in the world, and my requests for a reservation are never refused. I took them down to Montrachet - the French Bistro on Broadway. I've been there a few times before, and the seafood is always fantastic, not to mention the fact that they have an incredible wine list. My selection was apparently very popular with the delegation as well, so much so that they insisted on staying after closing to meet with Chef Gesualdi.

So there I was, talking with a couple of the ladies on the staff as they tried to get the evening cleanup underway. The time flew fairly quickly and pleasantly... right up to the point when I overheard just the lowest of conversations. I recognized Richard's voice immediately, he was the manager that evening and had taken my reservation, and had also arranged for my charges to come back to the kitchen. The other voice I didn't recognize - but the words were enough to set my hair on edge. I couldn't possibly have stumbled on a robbery, but I was about to swear I had heard him demanding to be led to the safe.

I had to check on it of course, so I took a casual look around the corner into the offices. Sure enough, there was Richard, along with one of the biggest and hairiest men I had ever seen. From his lack of suit and tie, not to mention the mangy cut of his hair, I came to the rather easy conclusion that this person was not an employee or patron of this establishment. That, and the fact that he was force-marching the manager across the room with his hand in a position to snap his neck in an instant.

So what do you do? Well, the first thing I did was to get people out of there. I was on my cellular phone and hissing for the limousine and backup within three steps and guiding everyone out into the main room in under twenty seconds. While everyone else ran out the front door, I ducked back into the kitchen to see if there was anything I could do.

What I could do was watch Richard's lifeless body slump to the floor. I don't know why this moron chose to kill him. Maybe he thought his life wasn't worth anything after he had showed him the location of the safe. Maybe he didn't want to leave any witnesses. Maybe he was trying to make a point of some kind. Or maybe he just gets a sick thrill from it. Or maybe it's that adrenal rush again. Do supervillains get that too?

From that point, it gets a little hazy. Everything started to happen fast - I remember drawing my pistol and instructing him to stay put. That worked really well. I might as well have waved a red cape in front of a bull. About a half second later two gunshots had gone off and I had to drop the weapon to protect myself against this lunatic. He wasn't exactly the most subtle of fighters, but he was damned strong and fast. His initial charge would have been enough to kill me, more than likely, if I hadn't managed to use his own momentum to throw him past me into the main dining area.

The kitchen doors collapsed under the abuse of his body being thrown through them and I scrambled to my feet and gave chase. Adrenal rush or stupidity? You choose. I had already figured this guy could snap my neck like a twig if he got ahold of it, and here I was running back into the breach in violation of everything they tell you to do in police work and in those "How to Survive a Superhero Battle" manuals. Got chewed out for that by the director later, but who else was going to keep this guy from just tearing into the street outside? We're talking Broadway on a Friday night, for God's sake.

I had to duck a couple of tables thrown in my direction, along with a serving cart before he lunged again. Like I said, subtlety wasn't his strongest point. I stepped out of the way in the hopes that the concrete wall behind me might have an effect. If nothing else, Montrachet now has a unique conversation piece, as his head left a very artistic impression. Not that it seemed to do more than faze him for a heartbeat.

I was now officially worried. The police would be here any moment, and I honestly had no idea whether or not they would be able to do any good against this guy. I tried a couple of kicks while his back was turned, one to his head and one to his leg, with pretty minimal effect. He felt them, but they sure didn't seem to hurt him much, and I sure wasn't pulling my punch. He turned around with a look of absolute hatred and drove towards me, his huge fists swinging madly. It was all I could do to keep him off of me as I backed across the room, each blow missing by the smallest of margins.

So what do you do in that sort of situation? Well, my teachers probably wouldn't approve but I'm sure the guys at the Bureau wouldn't object to it. I ducked and punched him squarely between the legs. Suddenly, I wasn't the focus of his attention anymore and he actually staggered away from me for the first time in what seemed like an eternity.

Okay, I'm stupid. I tried to drive home the advantage and wound up not being able to have any noticable effect as we went back across the room in the other direction. We had just reached the kitchen doors when I heard the front doors open with a crash and the shouts of the police. I got out of the way and a hail of bullets followed this Mastiff (so I'm told) guy through the kitchen. Another crash as he decided to take the rear door out with him. By the time the officers and I got to the back alley, there was no one in sight. We figured he had taken to the rooftops, but the search turned up nothing in the end.

So what happened that night? Well, one person got killed, I probably came closer to dying than I care too. Montrachet got to collect on its insurance claims. The police got a little exercise.

Oh. And I found something to occupy my nights for a while. This Mastiff guy isn't exactly the type of person to hide easily. He'd draw attention walking down to the corner grocery store. Which means either somebody runs his errands for him, or he has to steal everything. Either way, somebody knows where he is.

And I'm going to find that somebody.

Well, it's getting late. Maybe my father is right, and putting these things down will help me to get to sleep. Or maybe they won't, and I'll wind up spending another evening running from rooftop to rooftop trying to burn off all that adrenallin so I can catch a few precious hours. Either way, David, until the next time...