He is a leader of men. The pied piper of murderous psychopaths. A figure of near-legendary charisma and charm. He is Fraker. The only human being in the history of planet earth to unite the races in a common cause. The cause is homicide, but even Martin Luther King, Jr. might have had to tip his cap. As the Big Apple rots and falls off the vine for what appears to be the last time, it is Fraker who has figured out how to stop racial prejudice and discrimination in their tracks.
Start with a little cocaine, add a few guns, stir in a Molotov cocktail, and promise that before the sun sets, you’ll get to slit the elderly throat of your choosing without fear of consequence. In theory, both heinous and a little sick. In practice, a more lasting impact than the Civil Rights Act of 1964. While you might rejoice at the idea of a black man being able to stay at a Holiday Inn, I’ll be across the street, standing in awe as that same black man shakes hands with a Nazi. One just makes you feel good, the other actually sets the world back on its axis.
In another life, Fraker may have been Mayor. Governor. Warden at Attica. The possibilities are endless. Despite the arrival of Paul Kersey on one sunny afternoon, Fraker may have supplanted the mafia itself as supreme leader of the underworld. His edicts, unquestioned. His ability to evade arrest, unparalleled. Even the cops knew the score. “He’s got a cleaner arrest record than you,” Shriker tells Kersey. He’s the one cop remaining who still gives a damn, but also the guy who knows what he’s up against. The Constitution sure looks nice, what with that pretty writing and all. But as a tool to combat crime? As useless as a limp dingus in an orgy. Even with three dozen witnesses, camera surveillance, and the eye of God himself, Fraker is still making bail.
We all know his resume. Hundreds of murders, and that’s not even counting the dozens more he sanctioned with a wink and a nod. Rapes so plentiful, few women in the area remember a time when consent was even a thing. And drugs? Good lord, a moment of sobriety is a moment wasted. “We’re gonna get high, high, HIGH!”, he cries, a mantra that may have replaced “In God We Trust” as the national motto had there been a president worth a damn to fight for it. From jail cell to street corner, he is always and forever in charge, glaring the faithful into submission with unchecked power. That said, lest we think he’s all business, Fraker is not above a bon mot or two to keep things light. “Tell you what,” he informs Kersey, “I’ll kill a little old lady, just for you. Catch it on the six o’clock news.” We never really know if he made good on his promise, but I’m not about to bet against it.
If there’s a fly in Fraker’s ointment, it’s that his gang members, while shining like the colors of a Benetton ad, are also united in their crippling stupidity. And while they might follow orders like good soldiers, they’re also the type to get pushed out of windows with broom handles, or try and jimmy open doors during a full-scale riot. It’s not an impossible notion to believe that to a man, these folks are not visiting libraries on their days off. As such, Fraker remains ever practical. While he might learn first names to separate the wheat from the chaff, he’s not about to carve out quality time for a heart to heart. These are the expendable sort, and if he has to sacrifice 500 men to take back a laundromat, he’ll do it. Apologies are for suckers. Fortunately, in a neighborhood with 95% unemployment, replacements are in place well before rigor mortis sets in.
And let’s not forget, despite Fraker’s bloodlust, he was not without sentiment. It’s not entirely ridiculous, for example, to believe that he loved the Giggler like a brother. Sure, his pragmatic side understands he’s lost the best purse snatcher this side of the Hudson, but when the lights are down, he also knows he’s lost the only member of the troop to insist on levity. Laughs were always hard to come by, now they won’t come at all. And let’s face it, if they can get to the Giggler, they can get to anyone. His death, more than anything else, let Fraker know that he was, despite the bravado, quite vulnerable. It could be why he took so many unnecessary chances near the end. Would a pre-Kersey Fraker have put himself so close to a rocket launcher without an escape plan? He got sloppy. It was the first and only sign he was ever human.
But, like all men ahead of their time, Fraker dies. In an instant at least, to know it was painless. But without a shred of him remaining, there’s nothing to bury. No burial, no gravesite. No gravesite, no place for pilgrimage. The legend becomes but a whisper, soon to fade away. Rudderless, with a collective IQ barely in the teens, the gang withers away. Overdoses skyrocket, arrests are made, and racism once again sets block against block, shanty against shanty. Shangri-La becomes just another ghetto. Crime without character. Death without panache. The sad, burnt husk of a dream deferred.
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