Ryder Smith: The New York City Vigilante

Incident on the East Side Select Bus

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.

This interviewee is “Brandon.” What follows is a transcription of a recorded interview.

---

Well, thanks Mister Harris for interviewing me. It’s not often anyone really cares about people that get the short-end of the stick—especially in this city.

So. Where to start? I was doing my usual nighttime routine—flossing and…sorry what?

Oh. Okay.

Let me bring the mic closer.

Can you hear me okay?

Yes? Okay. Good.

Yeah. In case you’re wondering—this is not my Robert F. Kennedy Junior impersonation. People say I sound just like him now—ever since the attack.

But yeah, back to the story. This all started with my usual night-time routine: floss, brush etcetera. Sometimes the floss shreds. It gets caught on a tooth or some stuck food. Usually, I saw back-and-forth with another piece of floss. Does the trick. But this one time it doesn’t. Pull down hard and the crown of my tooth breaks-off. I’m like holy smoke. So, it’s late at night. Dentist offices closed. Put the chunk of tooth in a piece of toilet paper. Put that in an envelope in case the dentist can attach the crown. Left a message for an emergency appointment.

So the dentist’s office gets back to me in the morning. Earliest they have is a one-fifteen. They’re downtown. Get myself together. Head to the express bus stop. Get my ticket at the sidewalk ticket kiosk. Check my phone’s app for the bus’s location and arrival time. Six buses pass before mine shows-up. Traffic due to construction uptown. Remember feeling a little wonky standing there. No breakfast due to exposed tooth nerves. Managed to get some juice down using a straw pushed to the back of my mouth—by-passed the exposed nerves.

The bus pulls up. One of those double-long buses with an accordion middle. A ticket from the kiosk lets you enter through any door. The back looks empty. Position myself at the rear hydraulic doors that finally open. Climbing in there are plenty of seats. One guy sitting at the very back corner of the bus glances up at me. Mumbles to himself. Seems like he could be a Vietnam Vet, but too young. Maybe a vet from some other ongoing war. Maybe not. He’s wearing a leather vest with patches sewn on. Maybe some kind of war vet? A biker? A biker who’d been kicked out of his motorcycle club?

My choice of seats— five rows ahead of this nut. I probably should have sat up front— near the driver, but then all the senior women get on and practically sit on your lap.

Anyway, the scene outside my bus window starts to move by pretty fast. We made it to the next express stop before I could finish reading the front page news on my phone. A woman gets on the bus. She struggles to climb into the seat situated across—and a little bit behind—from me. The crazy guy starts-up with his rambling. Says stuff like “friend zone no bone. All alone. Take the needle like a man. No pain no gain no brain. Walk like a man. Talk like a man dog cog God.” All this gets louder and more intense. It escalates with each word. From mumbling to fulltime crazy. Imagine comments becoming more vile and disgusting. Comments you can’t unthink.

That’s when the bus hum shifted. The forward momentum. Up ahead—through the front of the bus—through the front windshield there’s flashing lights; workers in fluorescent vests waving signs. Stuck in a traffic bottleneck.

Now the crazy guy is losing it. The stuff he’s spewing in rated-Z. Starts directing his firehose-of-shit at the woman who’d just got on. The bus jerks to a stop. The woman gets up out of her seat and moves—all the way up front. Crazy guy says some things. Hard to forget. ”That’s right you god-damn blank blankety blank of a horse blank—get the blank outta here. Get the blank outta my sight before I gut you and stuff ya’ like a haggis, you blanking blank cow from outer-space.”

That kind of stuff.

Yeah. That kind of language is burned deep into my memory. That’s when it crosses my mind to move as well, but don’t want to be the guy’s next target. Start thinking that it’s not this maniac that’s the problem. Maybe it’s me. It’s me that decided to move to this town. To stay here in this third world city. If you’re going to live in a big place like New York, you need to be prepared for crazy shit to happen. Millions of people rubbing-up against each other—all that friction. There’s bound to be some kind of trouble. Center of the planet really. All eyes here.

The scene outside the window is moving at the same pace as some skinny-goth looking guy—maybe a kid. Couldn’t get a clear look. Hair hanging in his face. Not walking. More like gliding. Gliding along with the bus’s steady five miles an hour. Look back down at my phone. Two fists come over the top of my head. Past my temples. A cold wire pulls against my throat. Scorching pain. Eyes whites of boiled eggs getting pushed out of my sockets. The sound of the leather-vest guy’s voice is behind my head “Gotcha!” The idea of having my head cut-off with a wire never crossed my mind. Pretty sure the guy is trying to decapitate me. Grope to grab his wrists behind me—like grabbing two-by-fours. He pulls twice as hard. My hands reach for my throat. No way to get my fingers under the wire. Immobilized since he’s pulling me back into my seat. My legs are kicking involuntarily trying to get hold of anything that might save me. Can’t tell if it’s me blacking out or something dark passed over my eyes. A black velvet cape flashing in my mind. Reminded me of something you might see in an old allegory painting at a museum. The ripping and yanking and pulling of the wire cuts off my air. Each end of the wire wrapped tight around a wooden dowel the leather-vest guy was using as handles. I’m thinking I’m going to die on this stupid city bus. By now my hands were soaked with the blood spurting from my neck. That’s when the crunching and cracking sounds filled my ears. Gasps. Not the sound of my body—but the sound of my assailant’s body. The wire loosens from my neck. Flashes of reds, whites, blacks, the blues of the seats, the metal hand poles, bars, the floor, yellow bars, yellow caution stripes, fluorescent interior lights, flashes of the kid from a moment ago. The goth-kid gliding along outside my bus window. Then everything went black.

When I came to, I was leaning forward in my seat gurgling blood, but breathing.

Looking around—the back of the bus was splattered with what appeared to be blood. Couldn't tell if was mine, or my attacker’s. A body in a leather-vest slumped in the back corner seat of the bus—head split clean down the middle. Nausea washed over me and my morning orange juice came-up mixed with blood. The scene out my window was moving faster now. The driver was still driving. Just keeps going. Like nothing happened. With one hand to my throat, I reach to pull the stop-request cord. A mechanical voice says the next stop is twenty-sixth street. Hospitals are an avenue east. Getting off the bus there are a handful of delivery guys on lunch break in front of the ninety-nine cent pizza shop. They drop their slices when they see me. Others move away. Two of them were decent enough. One ran and got a clean rag from the pizza place to press on my throat to help stop the bleeding. They walk me to the closest ER. The folks there stitched me up pretty well, but couldn't save my voice box. Some of the tendons were severed too. They asked me if I wanted to file a police report.

Unable to speak I wrote ‘Why bother?’ on a smudged note pad. ‘They’re not going to do anything.’

All-in-all, there’s no telling what really took place. My blood sugar was low. Stress from the broken tooth and nerve ending pain might have been clouding my ability to think rationally—or recall things. But I can say one thing—and this is going to sound nuts—I’m pretty sure it was that kid in black. The one I saw gliding alongside with the bus. It was him that I saw. How he got into the bus I have no clue.

Not sure who saved me. Maybe it was someone else on that bus. I don't care. Just thankful to be alive. Whoever it was—that goth-kid—whoever. If they should read this: thank you. Thank you for saving my life. To anyone else out there: if you’re getting on any public transportation just remember it’s the same as Russian Roulette. The same as getting a revolver. Opening the barrel. Load one bullet. Close the barrel back in place. Spin the chamber. Put the barrel to your head. Pull the trigger. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Or you can get a gun on the black market. Keep it with you at all times. Blow-away any piece-of-shit that messes with you in any way, shape, or form. Or, if there’s a crazy person—get off the damn bus and wait for the next one.

©2022 Stephen Conway