By Chloe Vega | Investigative Reporter | Metrovale Beat
Let’s set the scene, shall we?
Midnight in Metrovale.
Rooftops slick with rain, neon signs flickering like they’re trying to warn someone, and the kind of wind that carries secrets across the skyline.
Then—gunfire. A grunt. The screech of boots on metal.
And suddenly?
Eddie “Red Fangs” Marrow is running for his life.
If you don’t know the name Eddie Marrow, congratulations on your well-adjusted lifestyle. The rest of us? We’ve heard the stories. Crimson Fang’s enforcer. A man who once chewed through a police cruiser’s seatbelt just to get to the driver. Big, fast, brutal. The kind of guy whose tattoos have body counts.
Tonight, he had something tucked under his arm—small, metal, humming. Something important. Something stolen.
But more importantly?
He had company.
Because right behind him—coat flapping, boots gripping slick steel like it was a sidewalk—was Metrovale’s most baffling vigilante: Blue Banana.
It started at the Eastbridge Transit Hub. I was following a lead on a weapons smuggling ring—don’t ask how I got the intel unless you’re buying me dinner and immunity. I saw Red Fangs emerge from a service tunnel like he owned the place, hurling a knocked-out guard off to the side like a bad memory.
Then I heard it.
That zip-thunk noise.
The sound of a grappling hook snagging a rooftop antenna.
And there he was… Blue Banana.
Bright blue suit. Yellow cape. Mask pulled low.
He didn’t say a word. Just ran.
What followed was a rooftop chase that felt like a mixtape of parkour, chaos, and something out of a Saturday morning cartoon—except the stakes were real, the punches louder, and one of the men had fangs filed to points.
Eddie smashed through a skylight. Banana followed.
They crashed through an office, over cubicles, past a very confused janitor who spilled his mop bucket and just whispered, “Nope.”
Back onto the roof.
Red Fangs grabbed a vent pipe, swung it like a bat. Banana ducked, rolled, popped up with—wait for it—a banana peel.
I was watching from two buildings over, phone recording, breath held. Thought maybe he was joking.
He wasn’t.
He tossed the peel. Perfect arc. Landed right beneath Eddie’s foot mid-sprint.
It was poetry.
Red Fangs stepped, slipped, spun like a cartoon villain, and slammed face-first into a rooftop access door with a metallic thud that echoed down the block.
He was out cold.
Drooling.
Unconscious.
Still clutching the stolen tech like a teddy bear.
By the time the cops showed up, Blue Banana was already gone.
Just a puddle of rain where he’d stood, and one severely concussed enforcer zip-tied to a satellite dish with a yellow note taped to his forehead:
“This Fang’s been filed down.”
I asked around afterward.
Some say BB’s just a myth with good PR.
Others say he’s ex-military. Government experiment.
There’s even a theory floating around that he’s a disgraced Olympic gymnast who lost it after a potassium deficiency.
What I do know is this:
Tonight, the Crimson Fang lost their top dog.
Metrovale got one more win.
And somewhere, in the shadows above the skyline, a man in blue is still running toward danger—banana peels at the ready.
Chloe Vega, out.
Still searching for the truth.
Still wondering who he is. Still impressed by the aim.
