Abuse of Chikara (book 1)

by Stanley Cowens

  The man was named Melvin and he lived in the area. He lived in a condominium building and did not really need the money. The punk stayed with some well-off chick who bought him whatever he wanted as long as he put it down in bed. Red said that this white boy was laying the hammer down on an older white chick whose brains he screwed out regularly. The punk had been in prison before, and got a thrill out of doing stuff like this. Melvin had plenty of chances to change his life around, but simply did not wont to. He was a big, burly white trash punk that loved the thug life. He spent hours every day watching movies like Scarface and City of God. Other kids wanted to be the hero when they were kids. He had always dreamed of being a gangster lord even as a child. Of course, these aspirations outstripped his abilities, but he had remained true to the thug life. He also told Psycho that Melvin had a warrant out for his arrest for assault and battery against an elderly woman. He told Psycho that the man would be at a bar at night drinking. The owner of the bar was an unscrupulous man that had previous dealings with Dirty Red. According to Red, he would support any story Psycho wanted as long as he was paid. Not to mention Red had dirt on him that could put him in jail or prison for a long time. Psycho went by the bars location to work out something with the man. The owner had a small convenience store close to the bar. This had been easier than he thought it would be.

  Psycho was at the bar drinking something Red insisted he try. It was a vodka mixed with a little peyote he had brought with him, juice and lemon kool Aid. He ordered one for Dirty Red as well and had it sitting at the stool next to him. Red, of course, declined the drink; but he left it there in case he changed his mind. Red informed him that Melvin had entered the bar and had been there for at least 15 minutes. It was a good-sized bar with a lot of people moving about, making conversation, and trying to get someone to go home with them for the night. He had to admit it was not a bad bar. You had darts, pool tables and various video games. The food here was pretty good as well. They had a small restaurant connected to the bar, which sold Italian beef, burgers, hot dogs and other similar food.

  After knocking back a few drinks, he played Double Dragon. He had loved this game when he was a kid. He had played part two of the arcade version to death. The best one was the Nintendo version of Double Dragon Two. That one had been completely different from the arcade version. It was actually better than part two of the arcade game. Red was in the general area, appearing in different places, looking at different people. Red could tell him most of these people’s life stories. Things no average person would be able to know, unless they had spent a great deal of time with them. Even if you did spend a great deal of time with some people, you might not really know what was going on in their head. What did Bill have a habit of saying “a man has three hearts. His outer heart he shows to the outside world. His middle heart he shows to his family, and his inner heart he keeps to himself.” Red had the ability to get at what was going on in people’s inner hearts.

  Red did not walk so much as he disappeared and reappeared in another area. No matter how loud it got in the bar, he could still hear Red crystal clear. Red told him they should keep coming back to this bar. There were a number of people that would most likely come back here, who needed to be abused and punished like the white trash they are. As per their agreement, the bar owner bartender informed him that he recognized Melvin as someone the police were looking for. Since Psycho was an officer, he asked him to look into it. That was how the story would go anyway. Melvin went into the bathroom to take a leak, and Psycho followed after him a minute later. He checked all the stalls to make sure no one else was inside. Then he locked the bathroom door with the key he received from the owner. Psycho showed Melvin his police identification and then asked for his ID. Of course, Melvin had no intention of surrendering to him and tried to knock him over to get to the door. Psycho braced himself against the force and struck the man with a series of blows to the private area, and neck. Melvin went down without much trouble at all. Melvin was used to bullying people who were weaker than him or having other guys to back him up. Psycho handcuffed the punk’s arms behind his back and cuffed his ankles together. He took a moment to take a long leak that lasted at least four minutes. Red had appeared and was critiquing his performance. They were discussing the best methods of kicking someone’s ass when Melvin started talking bs. “Bitch-ass cop, who are you fucking talking to? Take these cuffs off and I’ll kick your ass. You little skinny pussy, I’d make you my bitch in prison.”

  Psycho kicks Melvin in the face to shut him up and drags him towards the toilet. Psycho was a slim man, but incredibly strong. He regularly bench-pressed up to 350 pounds and the martial arts training did not hurt. He could easily throw people around like ragdolls if he wanted to. He drags Melvin up and dunks his face in to the toilet. His urine was especially yellow as he often drank only a small amount of water each day. He pulled Melvin's head out after a minute. The fool is still cursing and talking about how he is going to fuck him up. He sticks Melvin's head back in the toilet again and repeats the process multiple times. He had to admit that this was kind of fun. He could see why Red had enjoyed it so much when he was alive, and still did even after death. Red was jumping around and cheering like he was watching a sports event and his favorite team just won the championship game.

  He had to give Melvin credit, the man was still talking shit after getting his ass kicked and face dunked in urine. He moved Melvin over to the side and sat down on the toilet and took a massive dump. His dumps always smelt horrible. Guess it was the combination of alcohol and drugs he always consumed. Man was this shit foul-smelling. It was his shit and he had to stuff cotton balls up his nose. A little trick he had learned from Dirty Red, who often ate the foulest foods he could think of before engaging in this activity. He picked the punk off the floor and pushed his face toward the toilet. Melvin shakes violently trying to resist what is about to happen. There is not much he can do with his hands and feet cuffed. Psycho dunks his face in the shit and urine. He does this over and over, giving the thug just enough time to get some air. He noticed the profanity laced tirade had stopped. Guess the fool realized he was not dealing with a regular cop. This had been fun; however, he had other things to do so it was time to wrap this up. He had the bar owner come in as he uncuffed Melvin, he drew his gun and shot Melvin repeatedly killing him. He made sure to plant a gun on the man. He would say the impact from being shot caused Melvin to spin around and land face first in the toilet. Melvin had gotten out of the cuffs when he dropped the key accidently. Melvin had pulled out a gun hidden on his person that he had not noticed the first time he frisked him. It would sound a bit sketchy to be honest, but it did not matter. This guy was a career thug with a rap sheet five miles long. There would be no public outcry over his death. No judge would believe this crazy white wannabe thug over a good, honest decorated cop. Eyewitness testimony would match up with everything he said. Melvin had made things even better by starting a little shoving match with some guy before he went into the bathroom. He would have eyewitnesses who would say that they had seen Melvin showing off a small gun similar to what Psycho had planted on him. He would have done this a month ago, but he had been on leave while the shooting of Percy was investigated by the department. There would be reports, of course, and an investigation, this type of thing went on with shootings by police. He had been doing this for a long time and would come out looking like a good cop doing his job. In some sense that is what he really was. It depended on how you looked at it. He had abused this man and treated him like shit literally. The thing is he was scum and deserved to be put out of his misery. No one would miss him assaulting elderly people, robbing people or stealing cars. Good riddance to his ass. Dirty Red was already telling him who their next victims should be, and where and when they could be located. May as well call this in and get started.

  Psycho Boy’s dreams were no more violent than they usually were, but they were some-what different. Usually he would dream about things he did b
ack when he was a child living in Mexico. He often dreamt of the times he set things on fire. It had started out with small fires, burning trash or other nondescript things. It had moved up to small animals and later on to people. When he joined a gang when he was older, it was an outlet for his violent tendencies. The gang allowed him to set fires to the homes of people who were causing them problems and would not cooperate. In many ways, Mexico was one of the happier times in his life. He had people around him with a great deal of money and influence, which saved him from any responsibility for many of his crimes. The gang had bought off many elected officials and many members of law enforcement, even down to the rank-and-file police officers. Add in the fact that his adopted parents were filthy rich and often interceded for him no matter what he did. This put him in a unique situation that few in society would be able to relate to. He could do almost any thing he wanted and did not have to face any real punishment for it at all. Only those who were born with silver spoons in their mouth or some athletes could relate to the freedom this gave him from society’s social controls. Not even they could fully relate, though. These dreams were a bit different . He was dreaming about things that were not memories of his past. Nor were they dreams he had ever had before. He was dreaming about shooting white people in a mall. He was walking around in a mall shooting every white person he came in to contact with. In the dream, he had some type of sniper rifle, maybe a .22 caliber or something more powerful. Inside the mall there was some rap song playing. Some old song with Dr.Dre and Ice Cube singing that he could not remember the name of the song right now. It was the one about O.J. Simpson. Finally it came to him, it was Natural Born Killers. By this time he had shot maybe 12 people. Twelve white people that is. Children, women, men, young or elderly, it did not matter. Only white people were targeted, though.

  He let people of different races run away from him without firing a shot. There were people screaming and crying at different pitches and noise variables. He stopped a moment to take in their anguished wails. He moved from shop to shop, shooting random white people. Stopping to look in a mirror in one of the shops selling female underwear, he looks at himself. Instead of his face and body he sees Dirty Red in the mirror. He moves his arms and head, but the image in the mirror matches his movements exactly. He had been having many dreams lately about Dirty Red and killing white people. Personally, he did not have any particular hate against any one race. And he would kill people of any race equally. Soon the police arrived and he begins shooting at them and kills quite a few. The sniper’s rifle that he uses penetrates their squad cars and other vehicles. He grabbed a tall, stout white woman as a shield and exited the mall. Of course, some sniper would find an angle to shoot him at some point; but it did not matter. Fools run thinking they can hide inside stores, behind park benches or behind other obstacles. Unfortunately this .50 caliber rifle of his can pierce stone and many objects. He continues walking down the street, capping another dozen victims. Those hiding places do them no good and the bullets pierce brick, stone, walls and vehicles alike. Eventually some sniper hits him and he is shot down like a dog by the police.

  Finally, he wakes up and goes into his bathroom to freshen up a bit. As he looks into the mirror the image of Dirty Red appears. Red did this often throughout the day. Sometimes he would appear in full form, standing beside him, or sometimes in a mirror or any reflective surface. It seems Red was telling him about a rape that would be taking place soon in a park in the area. Some cracker would be the one committing the crime. He did not mind Red’s intrusions into his personal life, especially considering the information he provided. Psycho boy had received many decorations and kudos the last few months. Knowing about crimes before they happened was not something to be sneezed at. He assured Dirty Red that he would get dressed and take care of this bit of business soon. He took a short tour of his little three floor house. It was so much better having your own place than renting. He was able to decorate his place anyway that he wanted without fear of anyone complaining.

  He did not have to explain his large collection of swords and knives around the house. Large swords adorned the walls in most rooms. In his bedroom, he had an assortment of knives hanging from the walls all pointing down, even over his bed. If one slipped from its harness, considering the height of his ceiling in the bedroom, it could kill him. He did not think that would happen, though, and even if it did, so what? He believed in fate and did not worry about the consequences of his actions. After being involved in shootouts as a young boy in a Mexican gang, he had never been severely injured. In the Army, he had never received a major injury despite seeing combat. His time as a Chicago police officer had been no different despite plenty of conflicts. When it was his time to die, it would happen no matter what so there was no point in worrying about it.

  He sat down to eat his breakfast of eggs, sausage, pancakes and grits. The same breakfast he ate every morning since he was back home from the Army. Soon he would go to kill Dirty Red 's rapist and continue being the hero cop. Maybe he would even get Bill’s job as superintendent at some point. It did not seem like Bill would be doing it for much longer. If he did not go to prison, his reputation would still be messed up. After finishing his breakfast, he went downstairs into his large basement to work out. He spent hours doing different exercises on different equipment, and taking breaks to watch different TV programs. He loved violence, watching cop dramas and detective shows. If he ever left the police force, being a private detective is something he could see himself doing. With the money he could make with Dirty Red’s help, he could afford to do any job he wanted and not worry about the money aspect of it. He could set up his own private investigation service, and only take the real tough cases. Dirty Red had claimed that he would give him the winning lottery numbers as long as he killed white people; so a change in profession was a distinct possibility. Hell, he still had connections in Mexico with the Mexican gang he worked for, and could go work for them. Maybe he would become a hit man or something. He worked out for hours until late in the afternoon before taking a shower and going to bed. He would be working the late shift tonight, and would head to this park Red was talking about later.

  He finally woke up, hopped into his car and headed towards Garfield Park. This is where the rapist would be, he would attack this chick in the park late at night. Why some dumb broad would be jogging this late at night by herself is beyond him. A number of white people had moved into the area, and they did not seem to understand that this was not a nice, friendly place, full of people who wanted to be friends. Not that Psycho had any stereotypes about African Americans, but this was a low-income area, and people in these areas did not act like people in higher-income areas. You simply had a higher percentage of thugs and negative people in lower-income communities, be they black, white or other. Bet this dumb bitch had housewarming parties when moving into a new area, and could not figure out why all her shit was missing the next day. He had seen it happen with people who had parties. Hell, he knew first-hand as he had ripped off a number of things from dumb members of his race during parties. Usually when there were mixed parties, they immediately suspected the Blacks or Hispanics of the theft. Sometimes the fools thought he had done it and asked him about the missing items, as if he really was going to admit that shit. Of course, he had stolen their crap; but they must have been dumb as hell if they thought he was going to tell the truth. This guy was so much into what he was doing that he did not see Psycho Boy creep upon him from behind. Dirty Red had informed him that the man was carrying a hand gun. He could have shot the man from a distance and been justified, considering that he was a known felon and was assaulting this lady. He would not even have to plant a gun on him. He proceeded to do this up-close and personal. If destiny meant for him to die by this man’s hands then that is what would happen no matter what.