Abuse of Chikara (book 1) (13 page)

“I ain’t telling you shit cop! Leave me the fuck alone and eat some fucking donuts.”

Red smiles inwardly. “It would help if you cooperated with me, sir. I am sure you would like to press charges.”

“I ain’t pressing no fucking charges, dude, and I ain’t telling you shit.”

Baby Bear refuses any medical care from the ambulance and even refuses a ride home. Something about not riding in a pig’s car. Baby Bear would hear through the grapevine why this attack had happened. He would pay his rent or the late fees would get worse. He could even end up being evicted as Bill liked to say. Red starts on his paperwork. It was so nice dealing with thugs and gangsters. They often didn’t report crimes against them. Not to mention many of them aren’t credible witnesses because of their criminal past. Hell, he had even had some of his plants shoot some of the punks who were getting out of hand. Usually his guys didn’t get caught, and even when they did they didn’t go to prison. It is a little known fact to the public that many shooters do not get convicted and go free. If you had no witnesses or record, and just circumstantial evidence, you were screwed.

Not to mention that dumbass no snitching rule. How many times had he had some thug shot, and they refused to tell the police who shot them as they died on the street. That stop snitching campaign had become really fucking huge in 2004 after a group of thugs had made a DVD and shirts promoting it. Hell, that shit had caught on and shirts with yellow stop signs saying, “Stop snitching” had become popular in urban communities. You have spinoff shirts saying, “I’ll never tell and keep your mouth shut.” You had dumbasses going to court wearing those shirts and refusing to testify against people who had tried to harm them. All he had to say is the dude or dudes who came up with the concept were fucking brilliant. Those mother-fuckers were heroes to him. You abuse motherfuckers and shame and manipulate their dumbasses into not cooperating with law enforcment.You get the victims to side with the offender who’s harming them. He might have to find the guys responsible for creating that shit, and take then out to lunch or buy their surviving relatives a gift. That shit had made his job considerably easier over the years. He loved the system and how it could be played.

Quinton had been off work for some time now. Had it been maybe a month or more? He smelled, his beard was long and nappy. His hair always grew fast and it seemed worse lately. He looked like a hobo who had lived on the street for a few years. He had not bothered changing his clothing in the last three weeks. Quinton jumped as his doorbell rang repeatedly. It was that same deliveryman from UPS. He considered cursing him out briefly, but just opened the door. He snatched the package so quickly the delivery man didn’t have time to finish saying have a nice day. He kind of enjoyed slamming the door in the man’s face. He had been doing that a lot lately to family and friends alike. Of course, they were just concerned about him, but that hadn’t stopped him from slamming the door in their faces. Examining the small brown box; there was no return address on it. He quickly tore it open and found a DVD inside. His interest was extremely piqued at this point. Popping the DVD into his DVD player, his mouth fell open wide at what he was seeing. Someone had filmed a video of the murder of his wife and daughter. He knew this was going to be extremely painful, but he could not stop watching. Anger over took his body and he shook uncontrollably. Not only did this DVD show the murder, it even showed where the murderers were located. He could not understand why someone would commit this gruesome murder and basically tell him where they were at.

A white-hot rage overtook him, drowning out all logic in his mind. He grabbed his gun and hopped in his car, driving erratically towards the abandoned candy factory. His mind was focused like a laser on its target. He isn’t even sure what roads he is taking to the candy factory. Everything is a blur in his mind right now. He doesn’t even realize that he is crying and makes no attempt to clean the tears off his face. This anger won’t subside until the guilty party has been brought to justice. He finally pulls up two blocks from the old Brach’s candy factory. He still has enough of his senses to not just rush in. That DVD showed about 15 guys, and he didn’t know how many of them were there now. He had no real idea how he would handle that many guys. He had the firepower, but did not know what type of firepower they had. He would have to catch them off-guard somehow.

A group of Mexicans came out of the factory just then and loaded up into a black van. He counted 10 in all. That would mean that at least five could be inside, plus the ringleader. Being the chief of police, he had access to high-powered assault rifles. He followed them discreetly from a distance to Madison and Kildare. These guys seemed oblivious to his presence. As they were heading back to their van from buying snacks in the convenience store at the gas station, he pulls up. He opens fire with his assault rifle and lights them up before they can even think to react. Quinton sprays the van multiple times before hopping out of his vehicle. He checks the van for survivors. He sees two guys still crawling around like roaches, and finishes them off with no remorse. You didn’t feel sorry for spraying roaches with Raid. He quickly speeds off in his car, heading back towards the factory. He briefly considers ramming through the locked gates, but that would ruin his element of surprise. There could still be five to six guys in there and he wanted to catch them off-guard if possible.

He parks his vehicle two blocks away and studies the factory with his binoculars. He does not see any movement anywhere. Most of the windows to this place were missing, except for the bottom level. No lookout was any place in sight. These guys either didn’t think anyone would notice them or didn’t care. He quickly climbs the chain gate on the west side of the building, and runs up next to the wall. The windows had been painted black, so no one could see inside. That worked in his favor as they could not see outside as well. He takes the glass cutter and cuts a small hole in the glass slowly. He sees five guys stumbling around drunk as hell. Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard after all. Emboldened by his enemies obvious state of uneasiness, he shoots the window up with his assault rifle, kicks in the remaining glass and jumps in. Only two of them are even alert enough to respond to his appearance.

He quickly lights up Chopper and Munchie. Big Hombre and the others get shot while snoring in their sleep, dying a more merciful death than his wife does and child did. Last on his hit list is the ringleader, who is sitting in an old beat up sofa about 15 feet from him. These guys had gone through some effort to bring two sofas, a crock-pot and microwave here. Obviously, they planned to stay here for some time. The DVD had identified who everyone was, so he knew this Mexican was named The Producer. He had seen a few news programs on The Producer, but had never thought to meet him under these circumstances. The Producer made no effort to get away or even rise. He seemed unconcerned that his life was in jeopardy.

“I guess you must be Nick, the Producer.”

“You would be right, my friend.”

“I am not your damn friend,” Quinton growled. “I’m the one who’s going to end your sick existence.”

Nick again seemed unconcerned with his impending doom and yawns. The Producer leaned back into his chair even more and started to talk again. “You could kill me and very likely will. You won’t kill me until I tell you why first. I killed your family for my art. I am a great master who needs realism in my films, and I choose you and your family to help me create that art.”

Quinton knew this man was sick before they had even met. It was hard to imagine this level of non-concern over killing humans. The veins on his neck and forehead throbbed. He forced himself to ask the question that had been burning in his mind since watching the DVD.

“Why me and my family?”

Nick stared at the ceiling for what seemed like an eternity before answering. “Because you fit the role of the hero. You’re the stereotypical hero that Hollywood loves. You’re in great shape, handsome, never takes bribes or commits immoral actions. The only thing you could do to improve is being white. That’s okay, we need somebody to replace Denzel anyway. Hell, I bet you never did any wild stuff as a teenager like smoking weed or staying out late.”

Quinton considered the Producer’s comments for a moment. True, he was a basketball star in school, didn’t do any drugs and had no run-ins with the law or his parents. His shoulders dropped at the revelation that this had partially happened because he was a good man. The Producer continued to speak in a condescending manner.

“There are other reasons why I did what I did. The main reason is simply because I could. This world is made up of sheep, like you, who go around following rules and regulations. Then you have people, like me, who bend the system to achieve their goals. Men like Hitler, Stalin, Idi Amin, George Bush and me. They are strong men, and people gravitate towards them because of this. This is why people follow me. You can pull that trigger, but you’ll never have power over me. In the days to come, you will dream of me and remember this day for the rest of your life. I have no fear of you because you are just one of the sheep. I’ve taken away everything away in your life that mattered, and killing me won’t bring any of it back.”

Quinton could not stand anymore of this pompous jackass. Some part of his brain had expected to see this man beg for his life. He started to shake with rage and began shooting Nick relentlessly. When he was out of ammo, he reloaded his gun and shot up the dead until they looked like Swiss cheese. Finally, he stopped shooting the dead bodies and broke down emotionally. The pain of his family’s death and murdering 16 people finally hit him. He lay there on the cold, hard floor waiting to be arrested and jailed like a common criminal.

Months later Lucian sat back in his nice limo, drinking fine wine and eating grapes. So it seemed Quinton had finally snapped and killed The Producer. It was a bit of a shame as he had always enjoyed the Producer’s films. Hell, he would easily welcome someone like him. Perhaps he would even be given the chance to join The Order and help procure souls for the master? A very high honor was given to a small number of people who were going to hell. In any case, this was a good thing for him. Quinton would be in the right frame of mind to accept his special help now. Lucian thought about going to the jail Quinton was being kept at. Fernando instantly obeyed his request without a word being spoken. Familiars rarely spoke and did not question their masters. They were children acquired at birth and trained to be subservient to the needs of The Order. Familiars were completely attuned to their masters. Lucian could see, hear or even feel what his familiar felt, and give him mental commands. These mental links were completely controlled by the members of The Order; the familiar served of course and could be shut down and activated again any time by Lucian.
Soon Quinton, soon, we will make a proper denizen of hell out of you.

Sitting in his cell thinking about his actions, Quinton did not regret them at all. He wasn’t happy about going to jail or the way his trial had gone. It almost seemed as if judge wang had it out for him or something Almost all of his attorney’s objections had been over ruled. Evidence had been allowed in without his attorney having proper time to study it. He hated taking things personally, but maybe the judge was trying to make an example out of him. Maybe the power of the city government wanted to make an example out of him. Most likely the judge had pressure on him to show no one was above the law. As long as the person responsible for his family’s death had met justice, he could endure prison.

Laying back in his bed he started to drift off to sleep. He was awakened and told he had a visitor named Lucian to see him. Quinton detested speaking through these phones and being separated by this glass. Lucian looked to be in a good mood and generally happy to see him. He looked like he had won the lottery or something. Lucian sat down in the chair provided for visitors, and started to speak.

“So Quinton, it seems as if you have gotten yourself into a bit of trouble.” “I’m sure you’ve seen it all over the news, so I won’t bore you with the details Lucian. I don’t mind being here so much, as long as the bastards responsible paid for their crimes.”

Lucian pauses takes out a white handkerchief and wipes his brow before responding.

“What if I told you the person responsible got off scot-free.”

Quinton gave him a piercing stare as the muscles in his jaw tightened. “Don’t joke with me man; this is nothing to play games about.”

Lucian noticed the change in Quinton’s demeanor and facial expressions. He resumed talking to him in a soothing, reassuring voice. I can show you exactly what happened and why; the only thing I need is permission to enter your mind my friend. Quinton’s expression went from one of anger to amusement.

“I don’t know if this is some of your religious clap trap, but do whatever you want.”

Members of The Order had incredible powers, but had restrictions as to when and how they could be used. He could read people minds; but to speak to them telepathically or plant images in others minds, he needed their permission. Quinton began to see images in his mind. These images showed all the wheeling and dealing Bill had a hand in. Everything was laid bare for him. Bill buying off the trial judge, setting The Producer on him, buying off the white shirts under his command. Quinton fell off his chair on to the cold, hard floor from the shock of these powerful images. Mental projections usually had a staggering effect the first time. Sometimes they induced head-aches, vomiting or even unconsciousness Quinton was on the floor being helped up by the jail guards.

Lucian left as there was really no need to stay. He and Quinton would be speaking again soon. It would take him some time to digest mentally and emotionally. The mental anguish of the situation would push him over the edge. Best of all, he could now communicate with him telepathically. No need to waste time physically coming to this disgusting jail. He detested jails, prisons or any type of forced imprisonment. Better for a man to die in combat or some act of bravery than being caged like an animal. No being, man, animal, or otherwise, could serve its purpose in a cage. His father was locked in a cage for a time until judgment day, and he had hated it. Nothing to do now, but wait a few days. He lays back in his fancy white limousine and turns on the TV. The original Nightmare on Elm Street was on. Wes Craven had done well with the deal they had made years ago to give him incredible writing talent. Too bad he couldn’t convince him to sell his soul, though.