Abuse of Chikara (book 1)

by Stanley Cowens

  Nick, the producer, loved making his films; and to him they were a work of art. Never mind that his actors acted out many of the most violent scenes. He could recall back in the day when he had first started writing his first movie script about a Mexican gangster named Aranya. He had gone to film school to learn his craft at the age of 37, but found it somewhat lacking. Yes, he had learned to use a camera, write scripts, work with actors, and made contacts in the film industry. He had directed a few films and at least two big-budget movies, but he found the experience tiring. Where to start on the things he hated, big-name actors who whined about everything, stupid producers meddling with his scripts, and the rating system that forced him to edit the heart out of his films. He had gone to Mexico after film school and hooked up with a Mexican drug cartel to help finance a film about a local drug kingpin. He was shocked at the brutality of these drug dealers, but being there, and filming acts of violence had a profound effect on him. No longer did he have to pull emotions out of actors or worry about a budget, stupid producers or a rating system.

  He released his films on DVDs for free and at YouTube. He never cared about money as he came from a wealthy family to begin with. Being born with a silver spoon in your mouth had its advantage to be sure. He had hated how some of those no-talent hacks in Hollywood had rewritten his scripts robbing them of their heart and soul. It had started with the Latin Monarchs paying him, now he paid them to be in his films. They were very eager to rape, murder or kill for money, not to mention being in the films spread the fear and notoriety of their gangs. Of course, the Mexican government did not like them, but the right payments to the right people took care of that. His violent films were well-known in Mexico, but something of an underground sensation in the United States of America. His fans had started calling him “Nick the producer” or simply just the producer. Many saw his films as works of art, and some were just excited to be watching something taboo by many. Nick was, however, getting a bit bored shooting in the same locations in Mexico, China and parts of Africa. He really wanted to shoot something in the United States, but it would not be so easy to get away with there. Certain elements in the American government was crooked, but not as corrupt as the places he shot at; and even gobs of cash wouldn't erase the risk of prison if caught. That is what enticed him about shooting there, the threat of being caught. Nick gets the same feeling from shooting his films that people had when having sex in public or tagging buildings with graffiti and other similar activates. Nick was not the type of person that looked like he did such things to other people. He was five-foot, 11-inches tall with an athletic build and a face that looked like anybody. The fact that most people could not recall what he looked like had worked to his favor a number of times in the past though.

  Psycho is walking to the closest cemetery in the area thinking about his past life in Mexico. He was a teenage hit man in Mexico and called loco boy for some time until they finally started calling him Psycho Boy. His signature was cutting off people’s heads. Some people were kidnapped by the cartels, doped up on drugs, and forced into becoming teenage hit men. Psycho had sought them out and joined them willingly. He enjoyed getting high and killing people. Cutting off heads was a fun job in his opinion. Killing his abusive adopted father had awakened a joy in him that he never knew existed. Perhaps abusing others was only perpetuating the cycle of violence, or perhaps it was his way of getting back at his adoptive father somehow. He did not just cut off the heads, though; he often kept some of them and talked to them about a number of topics of the day. It was not unusual to see him talking to a head about politics, religion, the war on drugs or any number of personal problems. If you kept organs refrigerated properly, they could be maintained for a good amount of time.

  As Josh handed him a joint, he snapped out of his reflections of the past and remembered where he was. The local cemetery was one of his favorite places to unwind with his friend Josh. They had got drunk here a number of times and even fucked prostitutes here a few times. Psycho believed that people lingered around their graves for three days before leaving this earth. When they got high, he would often see people rising out of their graves. The spirits would be of all races, creeds and colors; Psycho was not a racist guy and would hang with any of them. Some of his best nights had been spent smoking weed and drinking with various spirits here. He did refuse to give any of the children alcohol or drugs, though, no point in stunting their growth even if they were dead.

  Josh looks at Psycho and sees his somewhat depressed expression. “What’s wrong dude you seem kind of down today?”

  “Man, Bill’s been talking about the new superintendent that’s taking over, and I do not like what I'm hearing. This person sounds like some Dudley Do-Right type of motherfucker who is pure as the driven snow. Bill thinks this guy’s going to try and clamp down on guys like us for sure as an example to the others to get in line or else.”

  “Why not just get a job doing something else, bro?” Josh asks.

  “Man, a guy like me doesn't really fit in doing too much else to be honest, Josh. I thought about going back into the military, but I would hate to leave behind the sweet deal that we got here in the Windy City, man. Why doesn't Dudley Do-Right stay in Milwaukee and fuck a mouse or something? What are you watching there and what the hell is that thing anyway?” says Psycho.

  “It’s an IPad bro and I'm watching this guy named the producer explaining one of his latest films about a man who has a month to live. He goes out and kills all the people who have pissed him off in life. This guy makes some pretty violent shit, but his films have good stories. I don't believe the crap he says in the director commentary about the violent scenes being real, though, just some shit to hype the films.”

  Well, Josh, I heard about this person from some of my contacts in Mexico, and he is the real deal from what I hear. See, that is the type of shit I could see myself doing, but you have to know how to work a camera and write scripts and shit. From what my contacts say this guy went to film school here in the states, before hooking up with one of the drug cartels in Mexico to make his snuff films. Who would have thought there would be a market for snuff films with good story lines and acting psycho? This guy is fucked up in the skull, but he makes some damn good films from what I can see. I wonder where people like the producer, Wes Craven and Stephen King got all this shit from. You think maybe they made a deal with the devil to get all that creativity or something? Kind of like that TV show “Supernatural” where people are making a deal to receive something in exchange for going to hell in 10 years.”

  “You watch too much TV Josh, but that's a damn good show, however. I have watched it a few times myself. “What would you wish for if you could have anything Psycho?”

  Psycho takes another puff off his joint and a swig of Jack Daniels as he contemplates this. Josh was a TV addict and would watch tons of TV shows all day and night, and had tons of DVDs and programs downloaded to his computer. Psycho rather enjoyed these little “what if” conversations they often had about whatever latest show Josh was fixated on at the moment.

  “If I could wish for anything, I'd ask to be like the invisible man and then find that fucking Colt and open a can of whip ass on anybody that pissed me off.”

  “That's a good wish I guess, but you'd have to give your life up in 10 years Psycho, my man.”

  “Fuck that shit, Josh, I'd find all the demons and shoot their asses so they couldn't take me to hell. This would go on for a few hours until they had both fallen asleep in the cemetery unable to think or see straight from the copious amount of drugs and booze. This was one of Psycho’s favorite times as he was at the most peace while resting in this cemetery surrounded by spirits and his friend Josh.

  “Hey, Josh, I really like that IPad thing you got there. About how much did it cost?”

  “I got a friend who gets me good deals on any electronic stuff that happens to fall off the back of a truck, so a little over $150 bucks, bro.”

  “I’ll buy it off
you for a thousand homey. Sure, I’ll take that deal; here you go man, I can buy a new one and some other shit with this much.”

  Psycho plays with it for a few minutes and smashes it against a grave, shattering it into pieces. “Dude, why the fuck would you pay a thousand bucks and just break the shit?”

  “Don't try and understand me, Josh, I don't even understand myself, just take another hit of this joint and not worry about it. He made a note to himself that he would try some of that peyote crap Dirty Red was always attempting to get him to try one day before falling asleep.

  Bill and Etsuko are having lunch at Navy Pier at a small restaurant named the Harbor Street Cafe. They serve a large variety of foods such as fish, soups, burgers fajitas, pretty much a bit of everything. Bill likes being out among the people, shaking hands, smiling, cracking jokes and socializing. This restaurant is just some chairs in one of the plazas with a small kitchen in the back. The large windows to the north of Bill allow sunshine in and a great view of the pier.

  “You know, Bill, I think you should have been a politician with the way you deal with people.”

  “The thought has crossed my mind; you could say some form of government office is in my long- term plans.”

  “How do you do it Bill? It has taken you a much shorter amount of time than it did me, or anyone, to build up so much power and respect in the organization.

  In some cultures, you have what are called big men, village leaders who can sway fellow villagers through a process of gift giving and obligation. Anthropologists call these leaders big men. A big man develops a personal following of people who are obligated to him. Do you remember that underage white girl? The lieutenant that got pregnant who didn't want to get an abortion. She even threatened to tell his wife and report him to the office of professional standards. I seem to recall some rumor about a situation like that Bill. I got Red to have a few guys kick that bitch in the stomach a few thousand times until she lost the baby. When she tried to cause problems again, Red made sure that she was raped, and killed. Of course, the case is still open with no real leads, and Katie is just a distant memory to the world now. The lieutenant has been my best friend for a bit now, but it goes further than that. Any time an officer is killed; my officers come up with thousands for the family, and let us not forget all the barbecues and parties thrown by yours truly. So you do favors and help people get laid at parties,” she says laughing mockingly with a big grin.

  Bill loved her smile on that sweet- looking round Asian face. You would not think she was so cut throat and conniving from looking at her. What the hell's going on over there? “One minute Etsuko; it seems we got a bit of trouble outside.”

  Two white males are smacking around some white, young redhead as a crowd of people gather around watching. “See, Etsuko, this is a perfect chance to demonstrate my big man theory. Also, it's good publicity for the police department and us as well.”

  Bill and Etsuko step outside to take care of the issue. “All right gentleman, Chicago Police; here's my badge, now get off the girl and put your hands up against the vehicle here.”

  Bill holds the sobbing young girl to his chest and comforts her as he reads them their rights. This is perfect, a news truck is here filming him as the conquering hero and a positive headline for the police department. Bill is excellent at mugging for the cameras and playing the crowd.

  “Here is the patrol car to pick up these thugs, Bill.”

  “Hey Bill, they ran the girls ID, and you'll never guess whose daughter she is, seems the mayor has a little wild child on his hands.”

  “You don't say, this is the perfect opportunity to get in even better with the mayor. I doubt he wants it getting out that his daughter is hanging out with white trash, getting high and boozing it up. She looks as high as a kite.”

  When Bill had comforted her, she was hardly coherent and smelled like a brewery. He had seen the type before, spoiled little rich girl who wanted to walk on the wild side. This type did not want a nice clean-cut guy with a few college degrees and a future ahead of him. No, some punk-ass bad boy with a GED and that give them hell attitude is what she wanted. Most people could not get the mayor, but Bill had a unique password that the mayor's people knew the mayor was to be contacted immediately. Bill was one of maybe 20 people who had this password. A rare honor that if misused would lead to very swift repercussions for those it was entrusted to.

  After talking to the mayor, Bill received his orders in code words of course. They often spoke in code when discussing the drugs, prostitutes or people the mayor wanted to go away without a trace. You think the mayor’s aid had actually committed suicide. Dirty Red had taken care of that job for Bill and made it look like a suicide. Once Bill had briefed Red and Alfonso, they took off in the squad car heading to the police station. About halfway to the station the engine starts to stall and gives out.

  “Hey Red, can you radio headquarters. I will check the engine out. Alfonso gets out and stretches his legs before popping the hood. No need to rush as the guys in custody don't have anything else on their schedule besides considering who their future boyfriends will be.

  “This is Red calling dispatch; we seem to have a dead vehicle, please send another car.”

  “Dispatch to Red, no problem, another squad car is in the area and will be there shortly.”

  Red got out of the vehicle to take a smoke, no need to watch itchy and scratchy here; they were not going any place.

  “Damn, I cannot believe we were arrested over that stupid little whore, Mike.”

  “Me neither and I got two misdemeanors and one felony on my record already man. Let’s make a run for it while these guys are dicking around.”

  “How the hell are we going to run with these cuffs on man? Besides, those pigs will just blast us to hell and back.”

  “Dude, those rent a cops didn't even search me worth a damn, they didn't even find the lock pick in my back pocket. A guy in prison taught me how to get my hands in front of me when cuffed.” Red and Alfonzo are too busy shooting the breeze to notice Big Chuck as they called him picking his lock and his friends as well. Big Chuck was 260 pounds of beef. Some said he looked like 260 pounds of chewed bubble gum.

  “Now that we have the cuffs off, how do we get away without them blasting us Chuck?”

  “I got an idea. Follow my lead and place your cuffs back around your wrist behind your back.”

  “Hey, there chief little dick, I got to piss.”

  “Wait until we get back to the station white boy.”

  “Either let me take a piss or I'll fuck up your upholstery back here.”

  Red opens the back car door and leads Chuck out to take a piss as Alfonso watches his back from a distance. Red unzips chucks pants and lets him do his business, as he zips him back up Chuck punches him in the stomach and grabs his gun. Mike takes this exact moment to attack Alfonso from behind as he rushes to help Red, also taking his gun from him. At this moment, the other squad car pulls up, and two more officers get out of the vehicle with one staying inside to radio the situation in to dispatch. A shootout with three cops was not what Chuck had in mind, but he would take his chances. With a gun in his hands, he would take on the world gladly. Whatever God protected thugs and a gangster was at least giving him a fair chance today. His mother had always said god looked out for fools. At that point, the Italian cop ran away; his friend Mike pointed the gun at him but did not fire for some reason. The two cops who had gotten out of the vehicle opened up on Mike, killing him before his body touched the ground. Chuck would not make the same mistake his buddy did; he grabbed the Indian cop and used him as a shield as he walked towards the car. The fact that they could not shoot through their buddy cop gave him an advantage that might help him get away.

  He would shoot those two and kill this one before taking their weapons and killing the one still in the car. Then he could use the working vehicle to escape before any backup arrived. Not a great plan, but given the situation it would do for now. />
  “All right chief little balls, don’t give me any trouble or I'll put a plug in your skull.”

  At that moment, Red broke loose and ran to the left. Chuck instinctively pointed the gun at Red and pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. Understanding flashed through his brain about what was going on here. This had all been a setup, the car breaking down, them missing the lock pick in his pocket, leaving them alone in the squad car to plot an escape. The reason Mike had not fired was because the gun was unloaded and posed no real threat. Of course, they would be fully loaded when the cops got back to the station. The entire situation would be recorded on the original police vehicles cameras, what a great headline it would make on the evening news. Chuck lay there on the ground, blood draining out of his body with his life flashing before his eyes. He had never been one to show emotion, but he was crying now thinking of his mother. How often over the years had she tried to talk him into changing his life. Shit, at 18, all he cared about was drinking, fucking and raising hell with his Hell's Angels buddies. At 18, he was much too big and strong for his ma to handle, and he did not need her financially as he could easily support himself with drug money or stealing cars when he wasn't robbing people. Some boys needed a father, but Chuck’s had been nothing, but a one-night stand. His mother had always been there for him, even visiting him in jail no matter what violent crime he committed and always prayed for him. His mother’s name was the last words from his lips before he died.