The barangay watchman—an old man—was ganged up on, beaten, and jailed by the police. But when the watchman’s son arrived at the precinct to visit him, the officers suddenly dropped to their knees and begged for mercy.

For the residents of Barangay Matatag, it wasn’t new to hear about the police being connected to all the illegal activities in their area. People felt powerless, because those who were supposed to protect them were the very ones they feared. Who could they run to if the authorities themselves were spreading wrongdoing and sin? So for a long time, most chose to stay silent, knowing exactly what would happen if they tried to fight such a powerful force.

One policeman was infamous among the people: Police Officer Santiago. He wasn’t known for good deeds, but for his bad habits. Though only a low-ranked PO1, he somehow owned a big house and luxury cars. No one dared question where his wealth came from.

“PO1 Santiago is something else—so much money. He got another new car yesterday. When will his evil stop?”
a man said while getting a haircut.

The barber replied,

“Just don’t meddle if you value your life. It’s better to keep quiet. They won’t bother us if we keep our heads down.”

The customer reasoned,

“I’m not saying I won’t stay quiet. I just don’t want my child growing up in a place like this—illegal drugs everywhere, and the police are on the syndicates’ payroll. What decent parent would want their kids to see that?”

The barber fell silent, fear written on his face—he didn’t want trouble or for anyone to overhear them.

Then an old man behind them spoke:

“All this evil and brutality by the police will end.”

They turned to see Mang Berting, a barangay watchman. No one knew exactly where he came from or who his family was, but one thing was clear: he was faithful to his duty—reporting to the barangay every afternoon to serve until nightfall.

“Oh, Mang Berting, you’re early today,” the barber greeted.

Mang Berting said,

“In my time, cops were corrupt too—maybe even worse. I fought them. I almost died, but I did what was right and had those animals jailed. I thought that would stop it, but I was wrong. Now we have new enemies. We need to work together to stop these criminals.”

His words were fiery, as if sheer goodness could defeat anyone.

The barber, uneasy, replied,

“Not that I don’t believe you, but please keep quiet. Something bad might happen to you. Maybe you jailed dirty cops in the past, but now you have no power. You’re old. And with all due respect, you’re just a barangay watchman—those syndicates are huge.”

Mang Berting smiled slightly.

“I don’t care how big they are. I won’t let the young grow up in a system that has lost its mind.”

Their conversation ended there. The barber kept quiet, letting the old man talk. They did not expect what would happen next: PO1 Santiago himself walked by with his police buddies. No wonder the barber had been so cautious—this terrifying cop was a regular customer.

“Chief, good day,” the barber greeted as the policeman entered.

PO1 Santiago smirked,

“What’s new, kid?”

The barber, deferential, asked how he was.
Santiago barked,

“Do you have more customers coming? Let me and my boys go first. We’re in a hurry—work to do.”

The barber could only nod, helpless. But Mang Berting had been waiting to be next and couldn’t wait for three policemen to be served before him. He stood up, gathering his courage:

“Excuse me. I’ve been in line. I’ll be quick. Please don’t cut in.”

The barber’s face drained. He knew how this could end.

“Mang Berting, please let them go first… or try the barbershop next door—my special customer is PO1 Santiago.”

But the old man stood firm.

“No. I’ve been waiting. That’s not how things work. And you—policeman—if you think I’m afraid of you, you’re wrong. I know who you are and what you do.”

The words enraged Santiago, who felt humiliated in front of his friends.

“Who do you think you are, old man?” he jabbed a finger in Berting’s face.
“I’ve let you mouth off long enough and you won’t stop?”

Though frail, trembling, and barely able to stand without a cane, the old man showed no fear.

“What do you want to happen? You want to end up somewhere?” the policeman threatened, cracking his knuckles.
“Where? In hell—where you belong,” the old man shot back.

Santiago said nothing more—he punched the old man and signaled his buddies to close the shop doors so people outside couldn’t see. They beat Mang Berting together, even though he was thin and could barely walk without a cane.

The barber and his customer wanted to help, but fear of getting dragged into it held them back. After about ten minutes, the beating stopped.

“Useless old man. Let’s get out of here—what a waste of time,” Santiago sneered. He glared at the barber. “Next time I’m here, don’t play games with me. Understand?”

The barber could only nod. When the policemen finally left, the barber and another man helped the old watchman, sat him down, and gave him water.

“I told you, Tatay, please keep quiet. Good thing they didn’t kill you,” the barber said, worried.

“They can’t kill me. I won’t allow it,” the old man said, trying to sound strong. Another man called for an ambulance, but the old man refused.
“No need. Take me to the barangay hall. I have friends there who can treat my wounds. I don’t want you dragged into the policeman’s anger.”

The barber agreed. At the barangay hall, Berting asked to rest and recover there—he didn’t want his son to see him like this.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go home?” an official asked, concerned.

“I’ll rest here. If my son sees me, he’ll worry and do something drastic,” the old man replied.

They treated his wounds and let him rest in a room.

“If you need anything, call us. Join us for dinner later,” someone reminded him.

“Thank you. I’ll come down if I need anything,” he said.

Alone, the old man began to plan how to have the policemen jailed and held accountable.

“They’ll pay. They don’t know who they’re up against. I can punish them myself,” he thought, aching all over but firm in his principles.

A few days later, once he’d recovered, he set his plan in motion. With no one willing to help, he went to the precinct where PO1 Santiago worked.

Santiago’s eyes widened when he saw him.

“What are you doing here? You’ve got some nerve coming back,” he threatened.

“I’m here to have you jailed. You and your buddies beat me up. You can’t get away with it,” the old man insisted.

Santiago laughed.

“Really? You’ll jail us? We own this place. You’ll need all the gods’ help to make that happen.”

Still, Mang Berting went inside to file a complaint. But no one took him seriously. They shoved random papers at him to sign; their faces were blank—no intention of helping.

“Why are you like this? One of your colleagues beat me. Won’t you take action?” he asked.

No one even looked at him—as if he were a ghost talking to thin air.

Santiago taunted him,

“What action? Want me to smack you? Want another beating?”

But the old man’s determination didn’t waver. Shockingly, he grabbed the policeman by the collar, ready to punch. Santiago dodged and dragged him outside to the back of the station.

The old man braced for another beating—worse than before. But he was wrong. The other officers barely touched him. They put on gloves, handed him a small packet, and secretly slipped it into his pocket.

“What did you do to me?” the old man asked, confused.

“Oh, now you’re scared, old man? I thought you were brave. Remember—we didn’t lay a hand on you today. You’ve got no injuries from us. Let’s see where your arrogance takes you,” Santiago mocked, laughing.

They let him leave the station. He barely got far when two officers chased him down and arrested him.

“You’re under arrest for possession of illegal drugs,” one said, cuffing the frail old man.

“What drugs? I know nothing about that!” he protested. But the police “found” the very packet they had planted in his pocket.
“You put that on me! You’ll even frame an old man like me?” he cried.

It didn’t matter. They took him back to the precinct, not to process his complaint, but to book him as a prisoner. He was quickly locked up as paperwork was prepared.

“I’m innocent! You’re the ones who are supposed to protect us, but you’re the criminals!” he shouted.

“Shut up, old man. If you don’t keep your mouth shut, we’ll silence you forever. Want to never see daylight again?” a cop threatened.

For the first time, the old man felt hopeless. He fell quiet, sat in a corner, and dozed off—still hearing their mockery:

“That’s what happens to people who fight us. We’re being patient—others, we kill on the spot,” Santiago boasted.
“Yeah, bro, you’re patient with that old man. I thought he was your father,” another joked.

Head bowed, Mang Berting thought it was the end. He fell asleep. When he opened his eyes, a familiar face was calling him:

“Papa, Papa… are you okay?”

As his vision cleared, he saw his son—Victor—worry etched on his face. The old man felt ashamed; he had tried to hide everything so his son wouldn’t worry. But the police were about to learn the truth the hard way.

As Victor spoke with his father, the policemen stood speechless, their arrogance gone. Whispered panic spread:

“We’re dead—Mayor Victor is the old man’s son,” someone said.

PO1 Santiago stepped back as he watched father and son talk. The cell was opened so the mayor could speak to his father properly. Victor examined his father’s injuries.

“Where did those bruises come from, Tay? No wonder you didn’t come home for three days. I told you—call me if there’s a problem. I’m always reachable at the office,” Victor said, still anxious.

“How did you know I was here?” the old man asked.

“You wouldn’t answer, so I went to the barangay hall where you work as a watchman. They told me you left for the precinct—but I didn’t expect the police to do this to you,” the mayor replied.

“What do we do? We’re done for,” the policemen whispered among themselves. Santiago still couldn’t think of a way out.

After about thirty minutes, Mayor Victor stood and faced the officers responsible for his father’s ordeal.

“Who started this?” he asked, voice grim.

Silence.

The station chief tried to explain,

“Mayor, we thought—”

“Who started it?” the mayor repeated, louder and angrier. “All of you will pay. Point out the one who ordered my father’s jailing and beating. Who?”

They had no choice but to throw Santiago under the bus.

“PO1 Santiago, Mayor,” the chief said.

Victor walked up to Santiago.

“Stand up. Let’s settle this—man to man.”

Santiago didn’t understand at first.

“I said, man to man. I won’t let what you did to my father pass. Let’s finish this at the back of the station,” the mayor said, eyes blazing.

Santiago could only obey. They went behind the station. Victor took off his long sleeves, revealing a fighter’s physique. Santiago, by contrast, had a smoker’s gut and sagging skin. The mayor ordered him to remove his uniform and set aside his gun. Then they fought.

Santiago threw flurries of punches and kicks, but the mayor dodged them all. The other officers watched in shock—unable to believe how skilled their mayor was.

After a few exchanges, Santiago was panting.

“So you’re only brave when you have a gun. You’re a disgrace to the uniform,” Victor said, then kicked Santiago in the face. Santiago staggered, and the mayor followed up with more punches, avoiding the policeman’s wild swings. After three minutes, Santiago collapsed—gasping and battered.

“Let that be a lesson for what you did to my father. But this isn’t over. You’ll pay for everything,” the mayor said, then glared at the other officers. “You’re all shameful. There’s no place for people like you here.”

He took his father and helped him into his luxury car. Silence smothered the station. They knew what storm was coming.

Within three days, misfortune struck them one after another. First, the mayor launched an investigation into Santiago’s assets, quickly uncovering ties to illegal syndicates who bribed him to aid their operations. All his properties—including his house—were seized before he was jailed.

Then, all officers assigned at the station when Mang Berting was jailed were relieved of their posts by the mayor and replaced with better policemen, hoping to change the rotten system in the barangay.

At home, Mang Berting said to his son, embarrassed,

“You didn’t have to. I could’ve handled it.”

Victor answered,

“How many times must I say this? Your days as a soldier are over. You’ve done your duty. You’re old now—you need to rest. If you keep this up, you’ll make enemies you can no longer handle. That’s why I became mayor—to continue your good fight. I even allowed you to serve as barangay watchman and agreed not to tell anyone that I’m your son. What more do you want to prove?”

The old man fell silent, realizing his days of frontline service were done. He had once been a soldier, risking his life to defend what was right. Now he was old—and ready to pass the torch to his son, whom he had raised well.

“Maybe you’re right, son. Maybe it’s time to stop. But I’ll still serve as a watchman—at least that way I can still help, even in small ways,” the old man smiled.

Victor smiled back, proud.

“Yes, Tay. I won’t stop you from serving. I’ll handle the big problems. I promise I’ll do everything. Thank you for trusting me.”

He hugged his father, heart breaking as he looked at his wounds.

“How could they beat an old man like you? I can’t forgive them. We’ll fight the right way. I’ll continue everything you started—to wipe out people like them.”

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