Matthew Murdock stood up in the cell he was being held in ever since his contempt of court charge earlier in the day*. He reached out as he saw his supposedly dead best friend, Foggy Nelson, standing before him.
Wait…Matt thought.
“I see you,” Matt said, his shoulders slumping at the realization. “You’re not real.”
‘Foggy’ scratched the back of his neck. “Well, Matt…someone in your line of work should know that reality isn’t always what you can perceive.”
Matt had slumped back onto the cot in his cell, not even facing Foggy. “What are you, then?”
Foggy drew his hand from the back of his neck, and seemed to be investigating some speck between his fingers. “That’s another tough one. I guess there are several possibilities.”
“Such as--?”
“Well, I could be your best friend come back as a ghost to haunt you. Or maybe I’m your guardian angel, set down from Heaven to guide you through these dark times, and I took the form of your dead friend to make it easier for you to accept me.”
“In that case, you failed.”
“Yes,” Foggy agreed. “That wound is still pretty raw, and it would be a pretty mean thing for an agent of God to rub salt in it this soon.”
“I have another theory,” Matt said, and sprung toward and through Foggy, surprised at the insubstantiality.
Foggy turned to where Matt had landed. “What? That I’m one of your old enemies, come to gloat? You forget you can see me. A more likely possibility is that I’m a figment of your imagination.”
“So I’m hallucinating?”
Foggy winked and tapped a finger on the side of his nose. “Bingo, buddy. I’m a representation of your subconscious mind that’s recognized that you’ve gone a bit loony tunes.”
“That’s crazy,” said Matt as he walked back to his cot.
“Exactly, Matt…and so are you,” Foggy said flatly. “Everything I’m telling you is something you already know, at least deep down. Matt, you’ve never been the model for mental health. You’ve had at least several breakdowns or psychotic episodes in the last few years. You managed to pull yourself back each time, but your psyche’s been held together by the equivalent of a band aid on a leaking dam for longer than you think. My death was what it took for the dam to burst.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“Of course you don’t!! You may be a lawyer, but you’ve done enough insanity pleas for clients to know a thing or two about psychology! You know one of the symptoms of being psychotic is not realizing that you’re two sandwiches short of a picnic basket!”
“I—can’t deal with this now. I’ll just block you out until after the trial…”
“Matt, I may not be real, but your mind made me appear for a reason. You know you could always trust what Foggy told you, so listen to him now. You. Need. Help. Go to the judge and beg for a continuance until a psychiatrist can check you out.”
“The…the judge is crooked. In Fisk’s pocket. I’m sure of it,” Matt muttered.
“An even better reason to play an insanity card!” Foggy began waving his arms and walking in a circle, a trait Matthew remembered his best friend doing when he got excited. “You’ll be more able to fight Fisk and his crooked help if you’re in your right mind. As it is now, you’re just playing into the fat man’s hands!”
Though Matthew still did not believe he was crazy, he knew what the apparition had said about him trusting Foggy was right on. “Fine. We’ll try it your way for now.”
Matt almost yelped in pain as the sharp sound of a police officer knocking his nightstick on the bars of his cell assaulted his hypersensitive ears. The image of Foggy had disappeared.
“Hey!” The officer barked, his eyes scanning the cell. “Who you talking to in there?”
“Just…just my legal counsel,” Matt said with a slight smile.
# # # # #
Andrew ‘Nuts N’ Boltson was happy with his life. Granted, in the grand scheme of things, he was merely a small fish in the great ocean of existence, but by his standards, he was doing well. Andy was a money runner for the Kingpin. He would wait on a certain corner each day for various collectors of Fisk’s protection rackets, drug sales, and other illicit activities to show up and give him the day’s take. After all the money was collected, Andy would take a different route to a different location each day, where awaiting him at his destination would be his boss, to whom he would give the money. From there he didn’t know where the money went, nor did he really care. He was paid well, especially considering the small amount he would skim off the top before handing the money over.
Andy considered himself street smart, and always kept an eye around him for any suspicious activity. However, he never really expected any trouble he couldn’t handle, because anyone who knew what he was carrying also knew whom he worked for, and no one wanted to mess with the Kingpin of Crime. Andy was wrong.
Far above the city streets, what at first glance appeared to be one of the seemingly endless number of gargoyles that adorned the city’s skyscrapers suddenly moved as it watched Boltson wind his way up and down avenues and side streets. Every once in a while the figure would spread its green wings and take flight, landing nearby on a new perch in order to keep sight of Andy. Adrian Toomes, the Vulture, was stalking his prey.
Like his namesake, the Vulture was awaiting the proper moment in which to strike. He did not want to attract any undue attention, so he waited patiently for a time when Andy was out of sight of anyone else. When his target cut through a dark alley, Toomes figure he had his chance. He leaped off the ledge, spread the mechanical wings attached to his arms wide, and spiraled down toward the ground.
# # # # #
As Andy wound his way down the shadowed alleyway, he heard a rustling in the trash to his left. He immediately put his hand inside his jacket, and gripped the .45 that was tucked inside his pants. Being a bit of a jittery person with delusions of his own courage, he couldn’t decide whether to run while firing off a hail of bullets behind him, or confronting what the noise was.
Before he could make a decision, though, a figure in ragged, dirty clothing rolled out from under a pile of old newspapers. A cap covered most of his face. Andy almost laughed in relief.
“Heh…just some bum,” Andy thought as he released the grip on his gun. The bum seemed pretty out of it, and Andy decided to see if he had anything worth stealing on him. Andy approached the bum and bent over to roll him, when suddenly an amazing gust of wind passed just over him, and knocked him forward into the bum.
# # # # #
For the last several weeks, he had wandered the streets of Manhattan, no memory of who he was, or where he lived. His thinking was fogged, as if he had just awoken after a very long sleep. The days had turned into an almost endless routine of sleeping in dark corners, eating out of trash, and wandering the streets in a daze. He had been trying to stay comfortable amid a pile of newspapers and sleep when he had heard the tall, lanky fellow coming down the alleyway. Though the baseball cap he had found in the trash a week ago was lowered over his eyes, he was still able to ‘see’ the outline of the figure in his head. This confused him almost as much as when, as the figure approached, he could smell not only the man’s cheap cologne (in fact, it smelled as if he had bathed in it for a week), but also he could smell gun oil on the stranger. He tensed up as the man approached him, ready to defend himself in necessary. Somehow, the figure knew of at least a dozen ways he could take out overly perfumed man without even trying.
At that moment, however, he suddenly heard a whooshing sound coming from above, and a new shape appeared in his head. It passed right over the stranger as he bent over, and knocked the lanky man into him. The overpowering scents on the man nearly overwhelmed him.
# # # # #
The Vulture spiraled down until he reached the top of the alleyway, where he then tucked his wings to his sides, and dived toward Andy. Andy had stopped and was looking at something on the ground as Toomes plunged toward him, intending to swoop him up and relieve Boltson of the money he was carrying.
It wasn’t a huge amount of money, but it was enough to help his partner, The Owl, get his organization up and running in some kind of capacity again. A few low-level money runners wouldn’t be missed by the upper echelon of the Kingpin’s empire for a week or two, and that would give The Owl and him plenty of time to get ready to make a play for the fat man’s empire.
“Knock out the bottom rungs, and the ladder will fall,” The Owl had explained to him, and it had sounded good to Toomes. Adrian was an old man, and didn’t have much to lose, so why not make a real grab for the gold ring?
The Vulture shoved these thoughts aside as he reached out for the quickly approaching Boltson, when Andy suddenly bent over. The Vulture soared just inches over Andy, the backwash from his wings knocking his intended target over into what appeared to be a pile of trash.
With a scowl of disgust, Vulture swooped back to near where Andy had landed and lighted upon the ground.
“Gimme your money, punk, and I might not drop you from forty stories!” The Vulture said with a scowl upon his face.
Andy rolled off the bum he had fallen on, and quickly reached for his gun. The Vulture had expected him to be armed, but was not worried. A quick sweep of his wings and superior strength would break the Boltson’s arm.
But to The Vulture’s surprise, a pair of arms shot out of the trash and grabbed Andy by his gun arm. The bum that emerged from the pile of newspapers then twisted Andy’s arm behind his back in a manner both efficient and painful. With a yelp, Andy dropped the gun. The bum got to his feet in a stance that seemed familiar to Toomes, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. But he had more important things to deal with than this mystery.
“Thanks, wretch,” the Vulture said toward the bum, “I might know someone who could use someone like you. But first…” he said as he turned toward and reached for a quivering Andy.
The bum quickly stepped in between the two figure and spoke, a bit hoarsely at first, but quickly becoming surer of itself.
“I stopped him because I know I don’t like guns. But I also know that what you plan to do to this man is just as wrong.” But suddenly the bum was deluged with a flood of memories flashing across his mind like lightning. One memory in particular seemed to stand out. A promise made to a father to never use his fists against another. It distracted him just long enough for the Vulture to react.
The Vulture laughed. “Think you can stop me, you piece of garbage?” With that, he swung his left wing, knocking the bum several feet. His ire raised, he intended to teach this bum a lesson he would never forget.
Just then a doorway a few yards away opened, and a portly man wearing a dirty apron came out, lugging a bag of garbage. He looked at what was going on, then quickly rushed back inside.
“BLAST!” the Vulture yelled. He knew he couldn’t take the risk of that fool calling the police. He would have to take what he came for and flee quickly. He walked back to Andy, who was still too frightened to move, and shoved his hands into Andy’s jacket. He came out with a thick envelope. He opened it, and saw that it contained the money he was looking for. He tucked it into his belt and began to flap his wings.
As he took flight, he yelled back to the bum, who was stirring once again, “You’d better hope we never meet again, because next time I promise you won’t be so lucky!” With that, he was gone.
The bum stood, his head tilting toward the way the Vulture had flown. A scuffling noise to his left reminded him of Andy. He turned and, in a single leap, covered the distance between him and the gangster, who was attempting to scurry away. He grabbed Andy by the belt, and the thug turned, wildly swinging.
The bum could hear the directions the blows were coming from, and easily tilted his head this way and that, easily avoiding Andy’s thrashing. One lucky shot did knock off his baseball cap, exposing his face to Andy. Boltson stopped as his jaw dropped open. With a yell of terror, Andy tore loose from the bum’s grip and ran off out of the alleyway.
The bum momentarily considered chasing after him, but knew he wouldn’t be worth the trouble. He knew now who he was, and what he had to do. He bent down, and picked up the cap that had been knocked off. He ran his fingers over the ‘New Jersey Devils’ emblem, smiled, and placed the cap back on his head.
# # # # #
“Really, Mister Murdock, it’s a bit late to be changing to an insanity plea, isn’t it?” the judge asked Matt.
“I’m not changing my plea, your honor,” Matt explained. “I still maintain my innocence of all the charges leveled against me. However, I may have reason to believe that my mental state may not be as…healthy…as it should be, and I merely ask for a postponement until I have the opportunity to seek professional help.”
The judge shook his head. “This is really most unusual. This would perhaps explain your outburst earlier today, or it could be a ploy from an extremely acute legal mind to garner sympathy from the jury. I shall have to deliberate on this for a while. Court will be in recess for one hour, during which you will remain in the custody of the court, Mister Murdock,” and the judge banged his gavel.
As the judge left the courtroom, Matt suck into his chair, focusing his incredible hearing on the judge’s unique heartbeat. Luckily, the judge’s chamber was nearby, so it was easy for Matt to ignore all the other noises in the building. He listened as the telltale tone of a phone number being dialed sounded. After only a half a ring, Matt heard a familiar and hated voice answer.
“What is it?”
“M-Mister Fisk, sir. It’s Judge Chalmers…” The judge went on to explain what Matt had asked. “So I thought it best to call and ask you what I should do. If I decline and he goes to jail, a possible mental problem may make an appeal that much easier.”
“Relax,” the raspy voice of the Kingpin responded. “It’s like playing a game of chess. I am always several moves ahead of Murdock. Accept his request. I have the perfect ‘court appointed psychiatrist’ for you to use. I’ll send Doctor Faustus over right away.”
”My move now, fat man,” Matt thought, preparing for what would come next.
# # # # #
A little while later, Matt found himself in a small cell in the courthouse’s basement. He sat on the uncomfortable bed, his head drooping. What had come over him? Suddenly, a voice came from the other side of the bars.
“Well, you’ve sure made a mess out of this one, Matt. I thought I was the screw-up on this team?”
Matt was dumbstruck. He stood up, and walked to the bars. What his senses told him was impossible, yet the scent, the heartbeat, the outline on his radar sense…it was him.
“Foggy?”
To be continued…
Next Issue: Matt in a battle of wits with the evil Doctor Faustus! The Owl continues to build his empire! And finally…Daredevil returns!! (or at least a reasonable facsimile does!)
Wait…Matt thought.
“I see you,” Matt said, his shoulders slumping at the realization. “You’re not real.”
‘Foggy’ scratched the back of his neck. “Well, Matt…someone in your line of work should know that reality isn’t always what you can perceive.”
Matt had slumped back onto the cot in his cell, not even facing Foggy. “What are you, then?”
Foggy drew his hand from the back of his neck, and seemed to be investigating some speck between his fingers. “That’s another tough one. I guess there are several possibilities.”
“Such as--?”
“Well, I could be your best friend come back as a ghost to haunt you. Or maybe I’m your guardian angel, set down from Heaven to guide you through these dark times, and I took the form of your dead friend to make it easier for you to accept me.”
“In that case, you failed.”
“Yes,” Foggy agreed. “That wound is still pretty raw, and it would be a pretty mean thing for an agent of God to rub salt in it this soon.”
“I have another theory,” Matt said, and sprung toward and through Foggy, surprised at the insubstantiality.
Foggy turned to where Matt had landed. “What? That I’m one of your old enemies, come to gloat? You forget you can see me. A more likely possibility is that I’m a figment of your imagination.”
“So I’m hallucinating?”
Foggy winked and tapped a finger on the side of his nose. “Bingo, buddy. I’m a representation of your subconscious mind that’s recognized that you’ve gone a bit loony tunes.”
“That’s crazy,” said Matt as he walked back to his cot.
“Exactly, Matt…and so are you,” Foggy said flatly. “Everything I’m telling you is something you already know, at least deep down. Matt, you’ve never been the model for mental health. You’ve had at least several breakdowns or psychotic episodes in the last few years. You managed to pull yourself back each time, but your psyche’s been held together by the equivalent of a band aid on a leaking dam for longer than you think. My death was what it took for the dam to burst.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“Of course you don’t!! You may be a lawyer, but you’ve done enough insanity pleas for clients to know a thing or two about psychology! You know one of the symptoms of being psychotic is not realizing that you’re two sandwiches short of a picnic basket!”
“I—can’t deal with this now. I’ll just block you out until after the trial…”
“Matt, I may not be real, but your mind made me appear for a reason. You know you could always trust what Foggy told you, so listen to him now. You. Need. Help. Go to the judge and beg for a continuance until a psychiatrist can check you out.”
“The…the judge is crooked. In Fisk’s pocket. I’m sure of it,” Matt muttered.
“An even better reason to play an insanity card!” Foggy began waving his arms and walking in a circle, a trait Matthew remembered his best friend doing when he got excited. “You’ll be more able to fight Fisk and his crooked help if you’re in your right mind. As it is now, you’re just playing into the fat man’s hands!”
Though Matthew still did not believe he was crazy, he knew what the apparition had said about him trusting Foggy was right on. “Fine. We’ll try it your way for now.”
Matt almost yelped in pain as the sharp sound of a police officer knocking his nightstick on the bars of his cell assaulted his hypersensitive ears. The image of Foggy had disappeared.
“Hey!” The officer barked, his eyes scanning the cell. “Who you talking to in there?”
“Just…just my legal counsel,” Matt said with a slight smile.
# # # # #
Andrew ‘Nuts N’ Boltson was happy with his life. Granted, in the grand scheme of things, he was merely a small fish in the great ocean of existence, but by his standards, he was doing well. Andy was a money runner for the Kingpin. He would wait on a certain corner each day for various collectors of Fisk’s protection rackets, drug sales, and other illicit activities to show up and give him the day’s take. After all the money was collected, Andy would take a different route to a different location each day, where awaiting him at his destination would be his boss, to whom he would give the money. From there he didn’t know where the money went, nor did he really care. He was paid well, especially considering the small amount he would skim off the top before handing the money over.
Andy considered himself street smart, and always kept an eye around him for any suspicious activity. However, he never really expected any trouble he couldn’t handle, because anyone who knew what he was carrying also knew whom he worked for, and no one wanted to mess with the Kingpin of Crime. Andy was wrong.
Far above the city streets, what at first glance appeared to be one of the seemingly endless number of gargoyles that adorned the city’s skyscrapers suddenly moved as it watched Boltson wind his way up and down avenues and side streets. Every once in a while the figure would spread its green wings and take flight, landing nearby on a new perch in order to keep sight of Andy. Adrian Toomes, the Vulture, was stalking his prey.
Like his namesake, the Vulture was awaiting the proper moment in which to strike. He did not want to attract any undue attention, so he waited patiently for a time when Andy was out of sight of anyone else. When his target cut through a dark alley, Toomes figure he had his chance. He leaped off the ledge, spread the mechanical wings attached to his arms wide, and spiraled down toward the ground.
# # # # #
As Andy wound his way down the shadowed alleyway, he heard a rustling in the trash to his left. He immediately put his hand inside his jacket, and gripped the .45 that was tucked inside his pants. Being a bit of a jittery person with delusions of his own courage, he couldn’t decide whether to run while firing off a hail of bullets behind him, or confronting what the noise was.
Before he could make a decision, though, a figure in ragged, dirty clothing rolled out from under a pile of old newspapers. A cap covered most of his face. Andy almost laughed in relief.
“Heh…just some bum,” Andy thought as he released the grip on his gun. The bum seemed pretty out of it, and Andy decided to see if he had anything worth stealing on him. Andy approached the bum and bent over to roll him, when suddenly an amazing gust of wind passed just over him, and knocked him forward into the bum.
# # # # #
For the last several weeks, he had wandered the streets of Manhattan, no memory of who he was, or where he lived. His thinking was fogged, as if he had just awoken after a very long sleep. The days had turned into an almost endless routine of sleeping in dark corners, eating out of trash, and wandering the streets in a daze. He had been trying to stay comfortable amid a pile of newspapers and sleep when he had heard the tall, lanky fellow coming down the alleyway. Though the baseball cap he had found in the trash a week ago was lowered over his eyes, he was still able to ‘see’ the outline of the figure in his head. This confused him almost as much as when, as the figure approached, he could smell not only the man’s cheap cologne (in fact, it smelled as if he had bathed in it for a week), but also he could smell gun oil on the stranger. He tensed up as the man approached him, ready to defend himself in necessary. Somehow, the figure knew of at least a dozen ways he could take out overly perfumed man without even trying.
At that moment, however, he suddenly heard a whooshing sound coming from above, and a new shape appeared in his head. It passed right over the stranger as he bent over, and knocked the lanky man into him. The overpowering scents on the man nearly overwhelmed him.
# # # # #
The Vulture spiraled down until he reached the top of the alleyway, where he then tucked his wings to his sides, and dived toward Andy. Andy had stopped and was looking at something on the ground as Toomes plunged toward him, intending to swoop him up and relieve Boltson of the money he was carrying.
It wasn’t a huge amount of money, but it was enough to help his partner, The Owl, get his organization up and running in some kind of capacity again. A few low-level money runners wouldn’t be missed by the upper echelon of the Kingpin’s empire for a week or two, and that would give The Owl and him plenty of time to get ready to make a play for the fat man’s empire.
“Knock out the bottom rungs, and the ladder will fall,” The Owl had explained to him, and it had sounded good to Toomes. Adrian was an old man, and didn’t have much to lose, so why not make a real grab for the gold ring?
The Vulture shoved these thoughts aside as he reached out for the quickly approaching Boltson, when Andy suddenly bent over. The Vulture soared just inches over Andy, the backwash from his wings knocking his intended target over into what appeared to be a pile of trash.
With a scowl of disgust, Vulture swooped back to near where Andy had landed and lighted upon the ground.
“Gimme your money, punk, and I might not drop you from forty stories!” The Vulture said with a scowl upon his face.
Andy rolled off the bum he had fallen on, and quickly reached for his gun. The Vulture had expected him to be armed, but was not worried. A quick sweep of his wings and superior strength would break the Boltson’s arm.
But to The Vulture’s surprise, a pair of arms shot out of the trash and grabbed Andy by his gun arm. The bum that emerged from the pile of newspapers then twisted Andy’s arm behind his back in a manner both efficient and painful. With a yelp, Andy dropped the gun. The bum got to his feet in a stance that seemed familiar to Toomes, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. But he had more important things to deal with than this mystery.
“Thanks, wretch,” the Vulture said toward the bum, “I might know someone who could use someone like you. But first…” he said as he turned toward and reached for a quivering Andy.
The bum quickly stepped in between the two figure and spoke, a bit hoarsely at first, but quickly becoming surer of itself.
“I stopped him because I know I don’t like guns. But I also know that what you plan to do to this man is just as wrong.” But suddenly the bum was deluged with a flood of memories flashing across his mind like lightning. One memory in particular seemed to stand out. A promise made to a father to never use his fists against another. It distracted him just long enough for the Vulture to react.
The Vulture laughed. “Think you can stop me, you piece of garbage?” With that, he swung his left wing, knocking the bum several feet. His ire raised, he intended to teach this bum a lesson he would never forget.
Just then a doorway a few yards away opened, and a portly man wearing a dirty apron came out, lugging a bag of garbage. He looked at what was going on, then quickly rushed back inside.
“BLAST!” the Vulture yelled. He knew he couldn’t take the risk of that fool calling the police. He would have to take what he came for and flee quickly. He walked back to Andy, who was still too frightened to move, and shoved his hands into Andy’s jacket. He came out with a thick envelope. He opened it, and saw that it contained the money he was looking for. He tucked it into his belt and began to flap his wings.
As he took flight, he yelled back to the bum, who was stirring once again, “You’d better hope we never meet again, because next time I promise you won’t be so lucky!” With that, he was gone.
The bum stood, his head tilting toward the way the Vulture had flown. A scuffling noise to his left reminded him of Andy. He turned and, in a single leap, covered the distance between him and the gangster, who was attempting to scurry away. He grabbed Andy by the belt, and the thug turned, wildly swinging.
The bum could hear the directions the blows were coming from, and easily tilted his head this way and that, easily avoiding Andy’s thrashing. One lucky shot did knock off his baseball cap, exposing his face to Andy. Boltson stopped as his jaw dropped open. With a yell of terror, Andy tore loose from the bum’s grip and ran off out of the alleyway.
The bum momentarily considered chasing after him, but knew he wouldn’t be worth the trouble. He knew now who he was, and what he had to do. He bent down, and picked up the cap that had been knocked off. He ran his fingers over the ‘New Jersey Devils’ emblem, smiled, and placed the cap back on his head.
# # # # #
“Really, Mister Murdock, it’s a bit late to be changing to an insanity plea, isn’t it?” the judge asked Matt.
“I’m not changing my plea, your honor,” Matt explained. “I still maintain my innocence of all the charges leveled against me. However, I may have reason to believe that my mental state may not be as…healthy…as it should be, and I merely ask for a postponement until I have the opportunity to seek professional help.”
The judge shook his head. “This is really most unusual. This would perhaps explain your outburst earlier today, or it could be a ploy from an extremely acute legal mind to garner sympathy from the jury. I shall have to deliberate on this for a while. Court will be in recess for one hour, during which you will remain in the custody of the court, Mister Murdock,” and the judge banged his gavel.
As the judge left the courtroom, Matt suck into his chair, focusing his incredible hearing on the judge’s unique heartbeat. Luckily, the judge’s chamber was nearby, so it was easy for Matt to ignore all the other noises in the building. He listened as the telltale tone of a phone number being dialed sounded. After only a half a ring, Matt heard a familiar and hated voice answer.
“What is it?”
“M-Mister Fisk, sir. It’s Judge Chalmers…” The judge went on to explain what Matt had asked. “So I thought it best to call and ask you what I should do. If I decline and he goes to jail, a possible mental problem may make an appeal that much easier.”
“Relax,” the raspy voice of the Kingpin responded. “It’s like playing a game of chess. I am always several moves ahead of Murdock. Accept his request. I have the perfect ‘court appointed psychiatrist’ for you to use. I’ll send Doctor Faustus over right away.”
”My move now, fat man,” Matt thought, preparing for what would come next.
# # # # #
A little while later, Matt found himself in a small cell in the courthouse’s basement. He sat on the uncomfortable bed, his head drooping. What had come over him? Suddenly, a voice came from the other side of the bars.
“Well, you’ve sure made a mess out of this one, Matt. I thought I was the screw-up on this team?”
Matt was dumbstruck. He stood up, and walked to the bars. What his senses told him was impossible, yet the scent, the heartbeat, the outline on his radar sense…it was him.
“Foggy?”
To be continued…
Next Issue: Matt in a battle of wits with the evil Doctor Faustus! The Owl continues to build his empire! And finally…Daredevil returns!! (or at least a reasonable facsimile does!)