Abuse of Chikara (book 1)

by Stanley Cowens

  “Been doing good, my man. Since I'm dead, I will need you to take care of some shit for me, okay. I need you to fuck with crackers for me all right.”

  “Red, I would do anything for you, but I don't have any problem with white people. Shit, I happen to be white myself.”

  “Look, white boy, I did not ask you that. I'm fucking dead; the least you could do is fuck with motherfuckers for me beyond the grave.”

  “Okay, you got a point Red. So what do you have in mind exactly.”

  He listened patiently as Red told him about some old scores he wanted to settle, and how he still wanted to screw those fucking crackers. Both him and Josh are tired and start to make their way home. Red’s revenge could wait until tomorrow at least.

  Quinton honest. He found his strange habit of repeating random words over three times amusing. Maybe it was just one small part of his life that had not changed. He would talk with the man whenever possible. Unfortunately, the Carpenter really did not want to talk much unless there was money involved. Anytime cash came into the picture he was your best friend. The Carpenter motioned for them to follow him. “Hey guys. Guys, guys. Let’s not hang-out on the street looking like were planning a robbery, okay. Let’s head into this restaurant and talk business over a hot meal.”did not know if the man sold drugs or was some type of undercover agent or what? Over the years he had always been able to find out things other people could not. Or in this case, locate people others could not. He had found someone that Quinton desperately wanted to see and had arranged a meeting. Quinton rather liked the man to be

  The Carpenter walks up to the table and inhales the smell of the food he has preordered for them. “Damn, daaaamn, daaaaaaaamn that smells good. Hope you guys didn’t mind me ordering ahead.” They both respond that this is not an issue and sit down on the wooded chairs and start to dig in. Scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast and jam. With his abnormal metabolism, he would have ordered 10 or 12 plates, but did not want to draw any attention to himself. They talk about his plan between bites of food.

  “So Quinton, you want to make Bill look bad, huh?”

  “His public image is the only thing that Bill really cares about. I can't get to him physically at the moment, so I’ll have to settle for pissing on his parade. So Bernard, you interested in helping us out here?”

  “I can’t stand that arrogant punk, so what do you guys have in mind?”

  “The plan that my man here has come up with is twisted, twisted, twisted. You’re going to impersonate Bill, and have sex with a minor on camera. This tape will be sent to a local prosecutor who will go after Bill. The chick you’ll be fucking has done some work for me before. She will do whatever I say as long as she gets well paid.”

  “Sounds like an interesting plan. So what's my cut?”

  “A million now and a million after the DVD is completed. Play by the script and deny everything to the police and authorities, and I will throw in another two million. The girl will be getting the same deal.”

  “Hot damn that sounds like a pretty good deal to me. I’d do it for free to piss that punk-ass bitch off.”

  That's exactly what Quinton had expected to hear. Bernard, the Carpenter, had done his job well researching Bill and his relationships with his family members. These two brothers had a deep-seated hatred that went back well into their childhoods. Most brothers or siblings had a little rivalry going on. Children competed for the affection of parents. They tried to outdo each other in school or athletics. They wanted to get better grades than the other. The problem is that Bill had always been a well-skilled person. Even as a child, he got perfect scores in school. He played football and was popular with the ladies. The man was a member of many popular after school clubs. Not only was he a jock, but he was extremely intelligent as well. He was nearly unbeatable at chess or other such games. To add insult to injury, their parents blatantly preferred Bill over his brother. Bill always received special treatment, which helped form a strong dislike and jealousy in Bernard.

  Bernard had never been good at sports, school, or anything else for that matter. Bernard was as much a loser as they come. He never kept a job and resorted to petty theft and robbery. The sad sack only got women he paid for. Fortunately, he had spent his time in prison working out and his physique could pass for Bill’s. The Carpenter had also informed him that Barney was barely making ends meet. Money was always a strong motivator for people of any race, creed or color. There were people who would murder their own mothers for a few thousand dollars. This man, who was eating baloney sandwiches, wearing worn-out, faded old clothing, would gladly screw around a sibling he despised for millions. This was going to be fun. For the first time he was going to do more than just piss Bill off. He was really going to hurt him. He was going to harm his lifelong ambitions like Bill had harmed his. Hopefully he would be able to figure out how to harm him physically soon.

  To cover all these expenses he would have to really shakedown some thugs to get the money. Of course, he needed spending money himself and he had to pay the Carpenter’s fee as well. They spent at least another hour eating, drinking and talking BS. Bernard had more hatred of Bill than he realized. He seemed to hate Bill more than he did. No matter what they talked about, Bernard always brought the conversation back to Bill. It was always something negative. He only hoped the girl they were going to use could be motivated half as well as this man was. As much as he was enjoying himself, the day was dragging on. “All right, gentlemen, I need to push on. I have things to do and people to see. I'll see you all in a month. It should take me that long to get the rest of the money.” Bernard starts to smile at the mention of the rest of the money. He could swear that he sees a bit of drool running down the man’s chin. Bernard tilts his chin and seems lost in thought. No doubt imagining all the women, fine clothing and cars, he will be purchasing. “Okay guys, it’s been real, but I have other business to attend to. Until then you gentleman be safe and stay out of trouble.”

  The Carpenter receives a call on his cellphone and walks out. “Hey baby, I will be there in a minute. Don't start the operation without me; the doctor will be in, in, in, in a minute.” Quinton shakes Bernard’s hand and they both depart.

  In the past there would have been complaints about the noise from the other people living in the apartment building. Now that Psycho lived in this small house he had purchased that would be no problem. The home was on Lake around Cicero on the West Side of Chicago. Factor in the gruesome murderer of Nick the Producer committed in the old candy factory, and property values were way down. He had gotten this nice house dirt cheap. Too bad about the fire that mysteriously happened once he moved out of his old apartment. He had not done it himself, of course. The person he had hired was very good at what he did. It would be difficult to prove that it was the result of anything other than faulty wiring. The landlord had been in on it as well. With his help it had been easy to make certain people on that floor, and in most of the building, were not there that day.

  The landlord had scheduled the place be fumigated for roaches and insects. Residents had no choice as it was in their contracts. The landlord went from unit to unit making sure every one left before they usually started spraying. This had been the perfect opportunity for the fire to be set. Psycho had paid the landlord a king’s ransom to allow the unit to be burnt up. Once the fire was out, he would pay the man more than enough to repair the damage. Once the repairs had been made the place would be sealed up and left that way. Psycho would pay a monthly sum to keep the unit unoccupied forever. He had loved that apartment and therefore he had to destroy it. Since he was living in it at the time, he had resisted to completely demolish it. There was no restriction placed on him since he would no longer be living there. He did not particularly care about his old neighbors getting killed actually. If they pissed him off enough he would kill them without much thought over it.

  Psycho did not believe drugs made him hallucinate like other people. He thought drugstores were a gat
e way to experience visions that the mind was normally unable to see. The peyote Red had introduced him to allowed him to see these visions better than anything he had tried before. He also did not think dreams were just dreams. In his opinion, a person’s spirit exited the body and traveled unfettered by physical restraints. It was possible to have one of these spiritual journeys when awake, but you needed to put the mind in an abnormal or relaxed state just like sleeping did. This peyote allowed him to have these transcendent experiences bordering on clarity for lack of a better word. Under the effects of the drug, he and the president’s spirits or perhaps mental constructs of themselves had met. Perhaps the presidents was sleeping or had taken some type of drug himself to slip into this state of mind. From the moment their spirits or mental constructs had met, they had begun to do battle. He had no concrete reason why they fought. Perhaps spirits did not like occupying the same space? Maybe they were simply working out stress in their daily lives mentally. Being the president had to be a stressful job, all the political bs that went on.

  Bill, however, would not be happy to hear about innocent civilians being killed. He could kill thugs with mile long records, but Bill did not want people the public cared about being killed. He could only image the complaints they would be making if they could hear all the noise he was making now. This fight had been going on for at least two hours in Psycho’s mind. The current president was a good fighter he had to admit. Psycho was a pretty good fighter himself. He had learned a great deal over the years training with Bill. He fancied mixing moves from different fighting styles, depending on the situation. He changed his style to whatever was needed at the moment. He was an unpredictable fighter. He used Kenpo and Chun Kuk Do mostly, but could change up to suit the situation. What had Bruce Lee said? Style without style. The president was a more limited fighter, sticking to mostly karate. Not some of the newer styles, but the more classic stuff from what he could tell. He would have never expected that the president could take a punch so well. The man seemed able to shrug off any punishment he received and come back for more.

  The fight between them may not be real, but the damage caused by it was. He put holes in walls, smashed mirrors, shattered windows and turned over appliances in his battle. He and the president took turns hurling insults at each other. The commander in chief loved calling him a cracker, ofey and a number of other racial insults. Psycho gave as good as he got verbally as well. He could see the commander in chief was getting sloppy with his attacks. Missing blows and failing to evade, block or parry his. He let loose a flurry of punches to the man’s face, body and stomach. A strong uppercut knocked the president down on the floor. Unlike other times the man did not get back up swiftly. “It’s over, Mr. President, stay down you can 't win this like you did reelection. Psycho is the shit, so no, you can't bitch.” The lean and muscular African American smiled looking up at him and faded away. He was a pretty good fighter, but the guy really needed to fight in something other than a business suit. He did like the grey pants, white shirt, black shoes and grey and white tie. Unlike the current president, he wore specially designed blue jeans that allowed a free range of movement for fighting.

  Chuck Norris was a badass white dude. Not only did he create his own fighting style, but he had made some cool-ass jeans that you could kick ass in. Nice of Bill to give him a few pairs or at least the ones that existed in reality. He guessed the pair he wore in his hallucination were based on those. He sat down and looked around the room, taking in the damage. This place looked like a grenade had went off in it. Had the damage really been a result of his and the dark-skinned president fighting? Did their spiritual battle also effect the real world or had he caused this damage himself? His body thrashing about reacting to what his mind saw. He estimated it would take a few thousand to fix everything up. Guess he would have to rob a few drug dealers tomorrow to cover the cost of repairs. He would have robbed them anyway actually. Dirty Red had been asking him to get revenge on white people for him since he been communing with his spirit. He sat there meditating for hours and thinking about tomorrow’s activities.

  Quenton had to admit that he had doubts at first about his own plan. Seeing Bernard dressed up in a police uniform that matched Bill’s completely had quieted those doubts somewhat. This hotel had been one that Bill had a history of frequenting. Bernard had been ordered to make a point of kissing the young teenage redhead in public. As many witnesses seeing this man would think it was Bill feeling a young over- developed girl up. Quinton thought the more the better. He had to admit, even though she was a teenager, she had the body of a goddess. She had a hour-glass figure. Her buxom figure had turned heads everywhere they went in the hotel. He felt like a bit of a pervert watching Bernard bang this 16-year-old white girl. The man had her moaning and groaning like a banshee. He put her in every position known to man. The young redhead seemed to enjoy having her brains screwed out. They had instructed her to make sure she called Bernard by his brother’s name Bill while they filmed them. The Carpenter, as they called him on the streets, had taken great care to set this up. He had found out what type of car Bill drove and even had a duplicate plate made with the same license. The police uniform was perfect and even had the name plate correct. They called the man The Carpenter because he could fix anything for a price.

  Come to think of it he, did not even know what the Carpenter’s real name was. In any case, it did not matter long as he took care of business. They made sure to frequent places Bill hung out at. Everyone who saw Bernard would think it was Bill, since very few people knew Bill actually had a twin brother. The Carpenter would alter the time on the camera, so the dates would match up with time periods that Bill was known to hangout in those places. Of course, there would be discrepancies that may be hard to explain. The thing was, he did not need Bill to be convicted of this particular crime. Just being investigated for having sex with a minor was bad enough. The DVD would be copied and distributed to anyone who wanted to see it. Thousands of people would see a man looking like Bill, and he would automatically be guilty in their minds. He would get off most likely, but his planned career in police work and politics would be over. At the very least this would dog him for years.

  Quinton had not cared what race the girl getting boned was, but the Carpenter had insisted she be white. “Quinton, she has got to be white, got to be white, got to be white.” His thinking had made sense once you thought about it. Caucasian Americans would care more about a sweet, innocent young white girl getting violated by this big black buck. This would work on many levels. It would enrage those who were racist and hated black men. Those who simply wanted to protect minors from those who would exploit them. They would make this tape to offend people as much as possible. They took a short break for the two love birds to recoup some of their stamina. The Carpenter had the idea that they should use a bit of symbolism in the recording. Bernard had knocked on the door and identified himself as the Big Bad Wolf. The girl was wearing a Red Riding Hood costume, complete with basket. Intelligent people would not miss the symbolism. Big black man as the wolf, deflowering innocent, young white girl. Of course, they would not know the girl was a nympho who would sleep with anyone for the right price. If it worked, this would be something that would give Quinton great joy. After filming for hours, they finally had enough for the Carpenter to work with. He would take everything they filmed and cut for best effect. Once they had enough copies, they would have to figure out the best way to get them to people and to make sure the original fell into the hands of someone who would use it against Bill. Quinton said his good-byes to everyone and takes his leave of them. He wanted to get home and rest for tomorrow. There was still the matter of getting all the money he needed. He would need to keep these three people very happy until their business was concluded. Walking home in the snow, he contemplates how he can get a large sum of money at one time. Robbing the Street Captains and random thugs was fun, but did not always payoff in large funds. He would need to talk to the Carpenter, m
aybe he had some information about large drug shipments or money he could rip of from the punks. Finally, he makes it home and relaxes on his makeshift mattress, and watches TV before drifting off to sleep.

  Psycho had been cruising around downtown looking for thugs, especially white thugs, to punish. He finished off a cold one while he listened to Dirty Red. Red had told him a lot of interesting things about the spirit world. Seems everyone had a spirit no matter who they were. Any deceased person became a spirit. Money, race, sex and status in the previous life did not matter. When you died your spirit left the body. God did exist and so did Satan, and human angel half-breeds who wanted to ultimately replace humans as the dominant race on this planet. Red told him there was one god no matter what religion you followed.

  Red told him that he was a hostile spirit trapped between life and the afterlife. Red told him that he would help him with his knowledge and insight that came with being dead. Normally he would only be able to inhabit dead flesh or a corpse. However, since Psycho was pretty much lacking emotion, caring or basic concern for others, he was soulless. With only a small spark of life, he could cohabitate his body and communicate with him. The only thing he asked is that Psycho commit hostile acts against people, especially against white people whenever possible. Red called himself something named a vetala. Psycho did not really care what he called himself or if he was an evil spirit. If he wanted to come along for the ride as he fucked shit up, then he was more than welcome to. Red directed him to the Clark and Lake Train station. Seems some white punks was going around stealing elderly men’s wallets. Red told him the guys had a habit of cutting people’s pants pockets with a razor blade. The guys would run before the police could get to the scene. One of them would show up today and try to rip off a short Asian woman. Percy was Melvin’s best friend and often went around playing the white thug game with him. Percy was another thug loser with a warrant for his arrest. You would think that people like this would lay low, but apparently, common sense was not so common. It was around 11:30 PM and few people were in the area at this time. It was the perfect time to commit a crime with very little chance of being seen. This tall skinny white punk had drawn a gun on the short Asian woman who was giving him her purse under threat of violence. It seemed the woman was going to slow as Percy moved toward her and struck her with his right fist knocking her out. Psycho boy quickly comes behind Percy and hits him in the back of the head with a black jack causing him to drop the gun and fall to the ground. Psycho boy picks the small Asian woman up and puts her in the back seat of his car parked on the corner. Psycho then picks the man up and takes him into an alley at the end of the street. There is a factory close to the train station and one of the entrances is in the alley. Dirty Red has instructed him to take Percy there. Red concentrates and causes the factory door to unlock and open. The inside of the factory is dark and Psycho Boy does not know where the light is located. Dirty Red causes the light to come on. Psycho Boy notices that Red seems to be somewhat fatigued now. Psycho Boy unzips his pants and sends a steady stream of urine flowing down on Percy’s face. Those two-liter sodas were really getting to him. After a few minutes, Percy came to his senses and stood up. Psycho Boy put down the Black jack and went heads up against Percy. Percy received a steady stream of jabs, uppercuts and body blows and an assortment of kicks. Psycho Boy picked Percy off the floor and threw him against every surface he could find in the factory until Percy was bloody all over his body. Dirty red was laughing his head off dancing like a lunatic doing an assortment of dances. Dirty Red had informed him that Percy had a rap sheet of crimes and no one would miss his punk ass. Dirty Red wanted him to kill this punk and in fact, he was in agreement that this punk should die. The fact that Percy was white would mean there would be no marching and little media scrutiny over a white man being shot. Dirty Red had informed Psycho Boy that Percy was hated by even his immediate family members. The gun he took off Percy fell to the ground. Percy picks it up and fires. Percy is shocked when his hand jerks to the right causing him to miss badly. Psycho Boy fires putting multiple shots into Percy killing the punk. His story would be that Percy had run into the factory, during his attempt to arrest him Percy got hurt fighting and was shot because he pulled a weapon. Psycho Boy could get used to having an evil spirit that could throw off peoples aim with a weapon. He had removed all of the bullets except one per Dirty red’s instructions. He was not worried about any camera or cell phone video contradicting his story. All evidence supported his story now. Dirty Red had disrupted any electronic devices in the general area for the duration of the incident. Dirty red was no longer visible to him, guess he had worn himself out. All he heard was good job white boy and he was alone. He called the incident in waited for the ambulance and other personnel to arrive.