Ryder Smith: The New York City Vigilante
Incident on the A 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 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.
“James” is my next interviewee. He responded to an advertisement—placed by me—seeking information regarding vigilante activity in New York City. Below is the transcription of the recorded interview recently conducted at a private location.
Okay. This isn’t easy to talk about. Standing there looking at the bodies mere feet away was not something I’d ever experienced. Never saw people killed right in front of me like that. The guy who did it was a little taller than me. Maybe late twenties early thirties. Hard to say. On his way out of the train he told me to say if anyone asks tell them Ryder Smith did this. Left me standing right there. Then he disappeared. Listen this is confidential right Mister Harris? I don’t want any chance of getting fingered for anything for what happened. I was under the influence at the time, too. Memory’s pretty blurry.
This all happened on the downtown A train. Nearly fell-down the stairs trying to catch the next train out. At that time of night—must have been around one a.m.—you can end up waiting close to an hour or more for another train. Stupid to be out that late, but when you live in—what used to be—the greatest city in the world you stay home? Nah. Tight apartments create a never-ending cabin-fever epidemic. A friend I hadn’t seen since college—she’d invited me to her brother’s bar for some free drinks. That was an easy “yes.” Given the cost of drinks these days you need a corporate expense account.
At the bar we took a booth. Kicked back. Traded stories. Caught-up. Talked about relationships. Jobs. Stupid bosses. Current events. The usual. She had a boyfriend she wanted to marry. Blah blah blah. Five rounds in she told me she had a stalker. Many stalkers in fact. She said guys are always after her. Some just don’t take no for an answer. She talked about this one guy who was bugging and bugging her. He was younger than she was by about ten years. “I just fucked him,” she said. “Lucky for me he was a great fuck.”
Trying to maintain a poker face, I said “Isn’t that a little risky. I mean—not to sound like a prude, but just hooking-up with anyone who doesn’t take “no thanks” for an answer. You barely know them. So many things could go wrong.”
“Yeah well, what are you going to do?” she said. “Gotta lives your life. I just take them for a tumble. A roll in the hay. Boff ‘em.”
“So, you get a hotel room or something, right?” I said.
“Mmmm. Sometimes. That’s too complicated. Easier to do it anywhere.” she said. “I’ve screwed guys in the bathroom of a bar, coffee shops—Starbucks is always good. Sometimes, if they live near-by, they’d take me back to their place. I remember one-time a guy followed me home late. I really didn’t want to fuck him. So we actually did it between two subway train cars.
“While the train was moving?” I said.
“Yeah. It was a little crazy. The guy almost fell between the cars after he came. If you don’t let them get it out of their system then they never fucking leave you alone,” she said. “Then I give them a fake number. Tell them to call me. I never see them again.”
Maybe it was the drinks, but I started to think this was the kind of woman who was telling me that even I could do whatever I wanted to do to her. Why else would she be telling me all this—unless she was as shit-faced as me. Hard not to think about what we could be doing right there in the booth at the bar. Hard not to see myself slapping her ass. Pulling her hair. Pinching her labia while licking her clit. After everything she told me it was hard not to think she had at least one STD. So no. We would NOT be making the beast with two backs. No fan of barrier sex here either. Who wants to think twice about what you’re going to do—or not going do—when you let your fuck-monkey out of its cage?
So, around midnight or so we left the bar. The bouncer caught me by the arm when my foot slipped on the steps on the way out. Did some sidewalk pinball to the train. My friend tried to hold me steady. Nice looking lady. Not very strong. Offered to escort her home. She accepted.
“Last uptown stop on the A,” she said. That was a long- long way for me to go. Then turn around and come back downtown—but honored my offer. At the end of the train ride, we said our so-long-good-to-see-yous. She gave me the “wanna come up to my place” eyes.
“That’s very nice,” I said. “But it’s late and I should get going.”
Pecked her on the cheek. Took me and my two big blue balls to the downtown A train. Got into the car with two cops standing by the doors. Maybe a spattering of two or three other people in the subway car. Grabbed a seat at the far end—away from the other passengers, and ear the door that had one of those locked NO EXIT doors between the cars. Not a good feeling to be trapped. Not all cars have them locked. 1-2-3 trains are usually open: 7 line too. Makes it easy to move to another car if you have to avoid panhandlers—the stench of a homeless person. Started reading a book on my phone. The train pulled out and ripped down the tracks. Stopping and starting at each station. Looking up from my phone the cops were gone by the next chapter. Not a fan of cops, but it felt better with them there. Hoped to have a police escort all the way home.
At the George Washington Bridge stop the train was held in the station. That’s when three guys in hoodies—and what appeared to be a female—got on the train at the other far-end of the subway car. Shouting. Laughing. Cursing. Screaming. One started swinging on the overhead poles trying to kick out the opposite subway door windows. Two of the guys sat down on either side of the only woman on the train. Started talking to her. She had two shopping bags in front of her on the floor. Couldn’t hear what they were saying to her, but the woman’s head drooped down a little; her shoulders rounded; hands moved to her pocketbook while she tucked her knees together tight. Probably not getting a sales pitch for Jesus from this guy.
The female with these troublemakers was hanging back—checking out the train car. Looking over the subway. Stared at me all the way at the other end of the car, and then looking over the other passenger sitting near the middle set of subway doors. He was wearing one of those blue surgical masks. Older.
The third guy stood over the woman. Kicked the woman’s bags. The others laughed. Hard to hear what was going on. Trains make a racket when they’re moving fast or slow. Shouting over the noise of the train I heard them say something like, “You went to the store for us lady?” the standing guy said.
“Please sir…I don’t want any trouble,” the seated woman said.
My jaw muscles started to grind down on my molars. Getting involved would probably get me carved up. Shot. Both. That subway vigilante guy came to mind. Gets or something. Bernie Gets. Spelled it funny. G-O-E-T-Z I think.
What I’m about to say I’m afraid to say because most people won’t. The one’s with. their mouths shut— all a bunch of high-and-mighties. Limousine liberals is what someone once called them. Truth is there’s a certain element—certain population of the species running rampant. As if a lab experiment went wrong. An entire layer of people roaming the earth’s crust who seem to think the entire world owes them whatever they want—whenever they want. Like some factory spitting out these smashed and broken people. A dysfunctional murderous assembly line out there somewhere. Nothing being done. Nothing. Maybe if everyone withheld their tax payment—put them in escrow—then the overlords would do their jobs.
Anyway, the other two guys sitting held the woman down. She started kicking and screaming. Her bags knocked over. Contents spilled-out. The group’s female friend moved in to start undoing the woman’s pants. The guy standing over her started unbuckling his pants. The woman started kicking. “Motherfuckers! Let me go! “Tried to break-free.
The female slapped the woman in the face, “Did we say you could get up lady? My boys like you as you are.”
Frantic panic filled the train’s interior. Screaming. Slapping. Punches thrown. Shins kicked. From where I was sitting all the way at the other end of the train it looked like they managed to get the woman’s pants down to her ankles. They were going to take what they wanted. No: not an answer. A flurry of arms and legs and shouts and shadows and blurs. Almost like tree branches and limbs and leaves getting yanked into an industrial strength wood-chipper. The woman’s scream was too much to take. “Help! Oh my GOD! Someone! Please! Help!” Still echoes in my head.
I’ll be honest. I wanted out. These people were nuts. I was drunk. Unarmed. Wasn’t going to get myself fucking killed for a stranger. Besides, maybe she had it coming to her. Maybe she did something in a past life. Maybe she beat her kids. Maybe getting raped was karma. I checked the end of the car exit door next to me—the one that lets you pass between cars. Sign on it said NO EXIT. Reached for the handle. Locked. No luck. From my seat I lifted my leg and kicked the handle. It didn’t budge. Moved a few seats toward the chaotic scene at the other end of the train. Tried to get the other passengers attention. He glanced over at me. I waved that we should go over and help. He looked at me, then back down at the floor. Minding his business. Him and his mask. Pussy. What else was I expecting? Reached into my pocket. Put my apartment keys in my fist with some of the tips peeking out between my fingers. Hardly brass knuckles, but they’d do. Looking at the situation it seemed that the best time to intervene would be when these animals were all distracted—deep into the rape. Outnumbered I needed every advantage. A surprise attack on my part would be the only way. Approaching these whackos drunk and head-on while the train was bouncing down the tracks was not a good idea. Letting a rape take place was an even worse idea. They’d see me coming. People like that: definitely armed with something.
The other option was to pull the emergency brake. Would have stopped the train dead in the middle of nowhere. Pulling the brake would possibly interrupt the rape, but it would take a conductor at least five to ten minutes to make it through all the locked interconnecting doors. That’s a long time in this city. Other crazy shit would go down. The woman would be raped by then. They’d be looking for witnesses. Me and the old guy in the surgical mask. Eliminating witnesses was a likely strategy. Yeah, my judgement was off from the drinks. In hindsight maybe it would have been better to have pulled the emergency brake. But who’s to say. Conductor probably wouldn’t have got involved anyway. They’re not allowed to carry weapons, and they’d be the target of these rapists. Way above their paygrade.
The train rocketed into the next station. These scum bags swayed and stumbled a little as the train started braking and squealing to a stop. The side subway doors slid open to reveal the platform. I leapt out. Sprinted down to enter at the doors where the rapists were—my fist of metal keys ready. They would have seen me charging them from inside the train. Running down towards them on the platform—outside the train—gave me the slight advantage of surprise from behind. As I’m about to enter the train and jump the guy with his pants down—the locked NO EXIT door between cars—opens. I screech to a stop outside the doors on the platform—at the threshold of the platform side doors. I’m hoping it’s a cop or a conductor or a train employee entering. It wasn’t. It was the Ryder guy. Ryder Smith. Mind you— I’m still pretty drunk, but it was almost like he floated in slow-motion through the door. That movie slo-mo. Like when you’re in a car wreck and everything is a disastrous ballet. This guy was like a cloud of black bloody smoke. Something out of Carrie, but dry. A shadowy blur-cloud. The guy raping the woman didn’t notice what was going on. He was pounding away. Ryder grabbed the arm of the one guy holding the woman down. Broke it in two places while tossing him to the floor like a doll. The other guy holding the woman down froze. Mouth gaping. It was as if one of those hydraulic arms they use in slaughterhouses to kill cows shot out from Ryder. Think it’s called a cow punch. Hit the punk right in the forehead. Didn’t puncture his skull. Close. His eyes rolled back. He collapsed. Their female friend pulled a gun and Ryder kicked her in the face before she had it raised. Heard the sound of vertebrae crunching in her neck as her head snapped back— crumbling to the floor like a sack of potatoes. The whole thing was surreal. Something out of that martial art—what’s it called again…crave maga? No. Krav Maga. But faster. No contest.
This all happened as the rapist was pulling himself out of the woman. Ryder reached between the rapist’s legs. Didn’t see what happened but heard the sound of meat being cleaved. Sort of a moist ripping sound.
Ryder grabbed the rapist by the throat. Forced him to his knees. In the other hand Ryder held the guys bloodied genitals in his fist. Waved them in the rapist’s face. Then shoved the guy’s own dick and balls into his mouth. Pushed them all the way in. Ryder then grabbed the guy by the hair with one hand, jaw with the other and started moving the guys jaw up-and-down. Up-and-down on his own dick and balls.
Okay.
Hold on. Can we take a break here?
I need a sip of water.
Better. Yes. Thank you.
Yeah. Okay. So, Ryder, the sick fuck— Ryder gouges his thumbs into the guys eyes. Drops him to the floor. Ryder leans over, takes the gun from the female’s hand and shoots her point blank in the head. The sound shattered my ear drums. The guy on the floor with the broken arm was crying and screaming for help. Calling for his mama. “Mama please. Don’t wanna die Mama.” That ended when Ryder raised his knee to his chest and stomped the guy’s throat with his boot. The crunch made my eyes clamp closed. An icy-cold drip of something from the base of my skull. Trickled down my spine.
The rape victim looked up at Ryder. Mouthed the words “thank you.” Ryder’s head turned toward me. Hair in his face. No clear read on his features. Very pale skin though. “Cousin-It” from The Addams Family meets a young Trent Reznor. He says to me “If anyone asks tell them Ryder Smith did this.”
Standing there stunned on the platform, he blew past me like a subway train blast of tunnel wind. A few steps down the platform he turned a corner under a stairwell. Gone.
The carnage in front of me was nothing like I’d ever seen before. Feels like I’m having an out-of-body experience whenever I talk about it.
Then I heard “Stand clear of the closing doors please.”
“BLEEeee-BLOOOooo”
The doors closed. The woman who was getting raped—saw her sitting there through the glass doors. Sitting there in shock. She made the sign of the cross. The A train pulled out of the station.