Ryder Smith: The New York City Vigilante
Incident on the R Train
Disclaimer: this is a self-initiated, independent, investigative journalism project by me—Marshall G. Harris. As a “citizen-journalist” I will be examining a series of criminal cases: cold, closed, unsolved—or otherwise unreported to the so-called authorities. The eye-witness accounts may or may not be related to each other. Nonetheless; the intention of this project is to locate the truth.
Witnesses and/or victims were willing to go on record with the condition of anonymity. It is my duty as a journalist to protect the identity of my sources and the privileged information they share.
The individual described by eye-witnesses seems to have been involved in the deaths of many individuals. This person—or persons—of interest has been doling out their own form of justice. This individual may or may not be the same person described in other testimonies, but information provided thus far seems to indicate a pattern. “Ryder Smith” is the name given by some witnesses—perhaps a pseudonym.
Those who wish to contact me with leads, information, or wish to be interviewed: please email me marshallgharris@proton.me
The following content contains violence images, language, and behavior some readers may find disturbing. It is intended for mature audiences. Reader discretion is advised.
To protect my sources, “Frank” is the ficticious name of this person. He generously shared his experiences with regard to a vigilante-at-large. What follows is a transcription of a recorded interview.
Sure. Thanks. Yeah, hope this helps. Since I’m anonymous, I’m gonna speak the truth of what I saw that day—gonna be honest.
There needs to be an army of people like that kid I saw. Think he was a kid. He was adult sized but moved like a kid. Nimble. Quick. We need thousands just like him. That’s what it’ll take to clean up this city. The place has gone to shit. Pure shit. This one kid—he took those punks apart. Literally. If I had to compare it to anything, it was the way a seasoned slaughter-house worker might do it. Only faster. A lot faster. Maybe one part slaughterhouse one part sushi-chef. There wasn’t really that much blood at first. Maybe it was being contained. Or maybe the people standing near-by absorbed the blood with their clothes. Anyway—at the next subway-stop—when the train pulled into the station—people were running and screaming. All of them trying to get off the train at the time. People getting trampled. Not me. I. Was. Thrilled. I stayed and watched. Not that I’m sick or deranged. Just exhausted from living in constant fear. Looking over your shoulder all the time—any idea what that’s like? You know what else? I’m angry. I’m really angry. That’s my other full-time job now. Pissed-off office worker. Politicians ain’t doin’ fuck-all. Payin’ taxes for what? I was absolutely thrilled to see those punks get shredded.
Same scum you see on the news—see ‘em in those overhead security cameras. They’re either pulling a gun on some lonely retail worker; sucker-punching unsuspecting people—from seniors to kids walking down the street. These thugs are kicking people down subway stairs; three or four or five of them ganging up on a single person. Breaking their bones. Kicking their brains out. Literally. Weird thing’s that they’re all starting to look the same to me—these punks. Low-resolution low lives in my head. Choppy lobby-cameras; outdoor security cameras that haven’t been cleaned in years; elevator cameras positioned overhead. Smudged from years of dust and grime and crime. Preying on unsuspecting people. Politicians don’t do shit. Voters are morons. Always vote against their interests. Every. Single. Time. Now these scumbags on the street have the upper hand.
You never know who’s who. You see some guy wearing a hoody and he walks into a store, or someone walking towards you coming the other way on the street; or behind you. You size these people up as one of these animals. Next thing you know you hear him speaking to staff and people using pleases and thank yous. What the hell. Very confusing when you’re trying to be tolerant. When you're trying to survive an environment; trying not to be ugly and judgmental like all the public service announcements accuse people of being. But you can’t help it. You see them in person, your defenses go up. Human nature. If you dress like these animals then you’re going to be associated with them. I’m sorry.
So, yeah…that morning was the usual grind. Headed to the R-train into the city. Don’t take trains anymore. The wife wants me alive a little while longer. But just thinking about that train event still triggers my PTSD. Looking around the platform that morning my mind was on the lookout for anyone who seemed remotely unstable. Just like any other day. So many of these fuckups at every station now—hanging around the stairwells, sleeping on the trains—on the platforms. I’m always looking for someone who could snap in a second. But how do you really know? A pusher might be well dressed, might not. Psychopaths and sociopaths come in all types of clothing. So many just hanging around. Is there some factory or something spitting out clones? Did the psych wards release everyone?
I remember one guy on the train was wearing a suit. Disheveled. Maybe out all night. There was a little kid with him bouncing around the train, hopping on seats, making a real racket. I hadn't sleep much that night. My tolerance levels were low. I said to the man excuse me would you mind asking the child to calm down a little?
Guy said "what?"
“Would you mind asking the child to take a seat?” I said. My one rule is to never address a stranger in a big city. Figured the guy was halfway normal if he was wearing a suit.
“Oh, sure. Sorry. Very sorry,” the man said rubbing his eyes. “My wife…she just died at the hospital. The boy’s mother. Sammy. Have a seat Sammy. Sammy, please sit down.”
Wow. Did I feel like a jerk. So, you never know who’s who. You never know what’s going on in their life. There I am a little tired from insomnia, and this guy's wife died—leaving him a single parent.
Some people on the subway platforms are always on the look-out. Others oblivious. Sucked into their phone screens. Sorry—meant to say smart-phones. Does anyone call these things cell phones anymore? They probably stopped marketing them as cell phones because it was getting too obvious that we all live in an open-air prison we can’t see. Yeah. Smart phones. Gotta be pretty smart to have enough money to buy one of those things. Yet you see all these punks walking around with them. Where’d they get the money?
The train became more crowded with each stop. More angry people getting on. No room. People fed up with the system. Not just the subway system.
Most trying save a few bucks by taking the train. But at what cost?
A few stops later a small group of loud kids wearing masks got on the train. You could tell they were looking for any excuse to start something. They forced their way past a bunch of stuffed-in rush-hour people. One grabbed some girl’s ass. The kid even announced it. "Got me some booty in my fist. What's your number baaaayyybee!" She didn’t react. Smart. Naturally, no cops around. maybe you remember when the city ran a campaign that tried to put the idea into people’s heads that there were undercover cops all over?
One of these punks walked by me stepped on my foot.
“Watch it old man. Don't’ be trying to trip me,” he said.
“Sorry. Sorry sir. My fault. My fault,” I said. “Very sorry sir.
“Sorry is right bitch,” he said.
Buried my head down into my chest. The group shoved their way through the dense bodies. Went over to one of the biggest guys on the train. He was sitting down. Had long blonde hair. Looked a little like that singer Robert Plant. The guy said something to them like please leave me alone. Naturally this got them more riled up.
“Hey faggot. What are you gonna do, huh pussy? You daddy must be proud knowin' he’s got a faggot-bitch for a son,” one of the punks said to him.
“Please. Please. Go away. I don't want any trouble,” the blonde haired man said.
“Go away? This is a public train, bitch. You’re the one who’s going away. Who you think you are?” the toublemaker said.
“He thinks he's trouble?” one of them said. You hear that my brothers. Pale-face-faggot bitch here don’t want no trouble.”
Quiet. There was nothing but quiet. It was as if the train was suspended. Floating in space.
All at once: a mashed flurry of people. Yelling. Screaming. Howling. It was hard to see what was going on. People cleared the train car. Slashes and flashes. A sightline revealed some kid. He was carving-up these punks like a hot knife through butter. Some kind of samurai sword. Fast. So clean. So. Yeah! Cheers erupted from my throat. I know. It was horrible to cheer but I couldn’t help myself. This kid. He was pretty tall—maybe around six foot or more. Thin. Pale. Black hair. Think he was wearing dark clothing. Hair in face. No clear view of features. Not a Hollywood fight scene. A murder ballet with Warner Brothers’ cartoon blurs. I watched in awe as deliciously carved bodies fell to the linoleum floor. The train pulled into the next station. People were running for the doors. Tripping. Falling. One woman slipped between the train and the platform. She became an instant door mat. Most people cleared out of there in ten seconds.
The train was taken out of service. Cops would eventually show-up. I made sure to get out before they started asking questions. Before leaving the platform for an alternate route I leaned toward a filthy scratched window. On the inside was the thick waxy splatter of revenge. It looked almost black as the plateletts stuck to the inside of the train. Clinging to the walls. To the seats. Hate to admit it, but it was the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in years. Thos sad gangbangers were mere lumps of mosit clothing; crying for their mothers. Where the carving kid went—no clue. Even if I did know, do you think you’d hear me saying a word to the cops or anyone about this? Get the kid into trouble?
Nuh-nuh-nuh.
No way.
Dude’s my hero.