It’s a wonder he’s not a villain. He’s got e v e r y excuse. Born to poverty, a broken family, a childhood spent in a squalid slum. Hounded and taunted and beaten by schoolyard bullies. To top it all off, he gets struck in the eyes by toxic waste and blinded for life. Blinded, bullied, impoverished. Surrounded by calamity. Role models? His mother, an enigma, long gone by the time he could walk. His father, a well-meaning loser who paid for his greatest moment of courage when a bullet splattered his brains across a grimy alley wall. His teacher, a gruff, foul-mouthed warrior who showed him the beauty in his dark world, then dismissed him as a wretched failure. His love life? Nothing short of disastrous.
He’s got all the makings of a villain. He’s a natural born rascal, a mischief-maker, a scrapper. He’s a liar, who wears a mask to betray the solemn oath he made to his father a t h o u s a n d times. He’s a dangerous adept, gifted with a nearly superhuman talent for violence. He’s a loner, a sinner, a lawyer who breaks the law. And then there’s that wicked t e m p e r of his. He’s got every excuse in the world, and within him are the makings.
But Matt Murdock is no villain and no victim.
There’s something strong inside him, passed from unknown mother and doomed father to son. Something tested by tragedy, tempered by conscience. Honed by discipline, something that holds back the bloodthirsty beast within and forces it to serve the cause of justice.
Most of the time, anyway.
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