Wrath James White

by Skinzz

  "Oh, well. It looks like we're going to have to hurt you then."

  Little Davey snatched the bottle of Wild Turkey from Bo and poured it on the old woman's head. He watched impassively as she cursed and sputtered, drowning in alcohol. Then he threw the bottle out onto the train track. The old woman winced when the glass shattered. Little Davey reached into his pocket for his Zippo lighter then set her hair ablaze. The flame quickly engulfed her face and then her coat. Her screams filled the train station.

  "Oh shit!" Bo yelled.

  "What the fuck, man! What did you do that for?" Skinner whined.

  Little Davey was silent. He stared in amazement as the old woman's face began to melt and her eyeballs sizzled and popped like eggs in a microwave. The war had begun.

  Chapter 3

  The squat house, 3:35 AM

  The wind sounded sad and angry, violent, like a tortured spirit raging against existence. Mack could hear the thunder of drums and the wail of guitars in the wind's howl. He could almost put lyrics to it, something fast, rebellious, defiant like speed metal or hardcore. It was the kind of night where lovers huddled up beneath blankets in front of a roaring fireplace and kids sipped cocoa and fantasized about Christmas. It was the kind of night that chased the homeless into shelters or froze them to the sidewalk. The kind of night that brought all the punks in from South Street to escape the cold.

  Mack sat on the couch with a 40 ounce bottle of Colt .45 on his lap, tracing the twin daggers crossed through his belt buckle with his free hand and daydreaming about Miranda. The last time he'd been to the hospital to see her, he held her hand and wept for twenty minutes. Mack was still crying when he walked out of the hospital. He felt like he should have saved her, like he should have gotten to her sooner. Mack wondered if he spent too much time kicking the shit out of those skinheads, started to like it too much, and forgot about her for just a second, carried away by his lust for violence. Maybe if he threw a few less punches, he would have gotten to her sooner. He replayed it over and over again in his head, editing it down to see where time could've been cut out, where he over-indulged himself in the violence at the expense of Miranda. Mack didn't know what he would do if she didn't get better. He took another long swig from the bottle then put it back in his lap. It was the only bottle of Colt left and he was protecting it. He walked all the way up to South Street to get it. Malt liquor was a rare commodity in this neighborhood.

  The Dead Milkmen sang about their "Bitchin Camaro" as Jason danced around the living room, kicking and stomping in his black Doc Martens, trying to start up a mosh pit right there in the middle of the house. Mack laughed and raised his forty in salute.

  "Slam, baby! Slam!" he yelled.

  "Yeeeaaah!"

  Jason howled and jumped into the air with both feet, coming down with a huge bang that echoed through the empty walls. Jason was more than a best friend to Mack, that crazy white boy was just like family. He was the one who'd gotten Mack into the punk rock scene. Before the two of them became friends, Mack had been lost and alone, pissed off at the world and headed for trouble as sure as if he was a bullet that had been aimed and fired. They ran into each other on South Street the previous summer when Jason was begging for beer money. It was almost midnight and Mack was wandering South Street by himself, trying to pick up girls without much luck, when he heard Jason call to him.

  Mack had seen the kid around school but had never spoken a word to him. They were from different worlds, worlds that seldom crossed. Mack was born in Germantown, G-Town, a black ghetto on the northwest side of town. Jason was from South Philly. He grew up with Italians on one side, the Irish on the other, and Jews in between. It was a working class neighborhood but far from a ghetto. Through four years of high school, they had both assumed that they had nothing in common. This was the first time Jason had ever spoken to him.

  "Hey, Mack! You got a couple bucks, man? We need some beer!"

  Jason was amongst a small group of punks, anarchists, mostly atheists, anti-everything except music, alcohol, sex, and drugs, sitting on the sidewalk outside the drugstore on 5th and South streets. He laughed after he said it, obviously expecting the big black kid to tell him to fuck off. Mack surprised him when he walked over to him and pulled out two hundred dollars.

  "How much you want?"

  "Oh, shit."

  That night, Mack spent his entire paycheck on beer and the anemic-looking teenager in leather and spikes showed him all kinds of interesting ways to vent his frustration at the world. The best of which, was beating up skinheads. Now, the two were inseparable.

  Jason was the exact opposite of Mack who looked like he belonged on a basketball court instead of amongst a group of punk rockers. Jason was short, skinny, and pale, with long limp black hair that hung down into his face and a mouthful of metal braces. He had wounded puppydog eyes that made women want to nurture and protect him and made men uncomfortable. There were storms in his eyes as Breezy often said. Mack would never admit it, but those sad eyes were the entire reason they were friends. Every time Mack looked at Jason he wanted to hug him, which he hoped didn't make him gay. He and Jason joked that if they ever became gay they would fuck each other first. It hadn't happened yet. The closest they'd ever come to anything gay was fucking the same girl, but they hadn't even touched. They had stared into each other's eyes, smiling nervously as they used the girl like a pair of Chinese finger cuffs.

  Two guys that Mack didn't know were dancing around with Jason, friends of his from South Street. One of them had a shaved head and wore a bomber jacket and black Doc Martens. His name was Billy and he said he wasn't a racist skinhead even though he looked like one. He was a SHARP (Skinheads Against Racial Prejudice) skin. Mack didn't trust him though.

  Why dress like α piece of shit if you weren't α piece of shit?

  The other guy had bright green hair that stood up in huge spikes. He spoke with a British accent that Mack suspected was fake but the girls fell for it. They were swooning over him most of the night and listening to his stories about "The real punk scene" in London.

  "My mates in South London had a band that once opened for The Sex Pistols. I used to see Johnny Rotten at parties all the time. He and I have the same birthday, ya know? January thirty-first."

  "Will you shut the fuck up? Don't you get tired of hearing yourself talk? Damn," Chris yelled.

  "I like hearing him talk. I love his accent," said a girl they'd picked up on South Street. Mack had seen her at a few shows but didn't know her name. She was dressed in a plaid miniskirt with white leggings and a white turtleneck sweater. She looked like she'd been standing in the middle of a GAP when it exploded. In contrast, her jet black hair had streaks of purple and pink in it and she had about a dozen earrings in each ear and big silver rings on each finger, including a ring with an eyeball in it that reminded Mack of something from the Tolkien Trilogy.

  "Then fuck him or something. Maybe that will keep his ass quiet," Mack said.

  "Okay!" she replied, grinning. She took the British guy's hand and led him upstairs.

  "Damn. Why don't I have it like that?"

  "Because all the bitches are scared that your dick is as big as your biceps," Jason said, laughing.

  "It's bigger than yours, Demon."

  Demon was Mack's nickname for Jason. Ever since he'd started calling him that the name had stuck and now everyone called him Demon.

  "How do you know? You peekin' in my drawals when I'm asleep?"

  "I already told you. If I ever turn gay, I ain't gonna ask. I'm just gonna take. And your sweet white ass is first." Jason bent over.

  "Come and get it."

  Without budging from the couch, Mack stretched out his leg and kicked Jason in the ass.

  "Begone, Demon!"

  "Damn, homes! Why you gotta do me like that? You know you want this."

  Mack laughed harder. He always thought it was funny when Jason tried to talk like he was black. It got on his nerves sometimes, especially when he start
ed quoting Public Enemy lyrics. But that was just how Jason was. Mack knew the kid idolized him. As soon as they became friends Jason had immersed himself in all things African American, including hip-hop and malt liquor. He even smoked Kools. Mack had reciprocated somewhat by embracing the punk rock scene. He'd become a fan of Black Flag, Skinny Puppy, The Dead Kennedys, The Sex Pistols, Ministry and Philadelphia's own Dead Milkmen. Now, he seldom listened to hip-hop unless Jason was playing it.

  The music changed from The Dead Milkmen to a group called The Screaming Trees. Jason and the skinhead were now the only ones dancing. Mack kept a close eye on the guy. There was something about him besides his shaved head that bothered Mack. He'd seen the guy snorting PCP earlier. That shit made people crazy.

  The living room was packed with people. Most of them were friends of Jason's but many were new faces they'd picked up throughout the night. There were three girls from Cherry Hill sitting on the floor, tripping on acid, who had been there for a couple days. Jason was high too. He'd had a couple tabs of LSD earlier in the evening. Acid was Jason's favorite high. He only dropped acid when Mack was around though. He knew Mack would protect him if he had a bad trip.

  Mack was the only one in the party who wasn't trippin' on something. Alcohol was the only thing he would touch and he was even starting to wonder if he drank too much. His biggest fear was losing control. Winding up some drunken homeless derelict had always been the thing that scared him the most. He took another swig from the bottle of Colt .45 then screwed the cap back on it and hugged it to his chest.

  They had been squatting in the old house for two weeks. It had been snowing off and on the entire time so Jason and Mack had spent most of the last two weeks indoors except for the occasional appearance on South Street. They were starting to go stir crazy. Mack had an outlet because he could still go home whenever he wanted to. He hadn't run away from home or been kicked out like most of the other kids. They had no home to go to. This house was their only home.

  At any given moment there were upwards of a dozen people squatting in the house with them. All punk kids from the scene. Some of them were suburban kids from the main line. Some of them were kids who'd come over the bridge from New Jersey and stayed. The only thing any of them had in common was a love for hardcore music and a hatred for authority. But that was enough.

  The house belonged to a friend named Rachael. Or it had. Her name was still on the lease but she hadn't been there in weeks and nobody had paid the rent. She had thrown a party a few weeks ago and they'd all come, partied like rockstars, and never left. None of them had seen Rachael or any of her roommates since. As odd as it seemed, they had all moved in and the people who actually rented the house had moved out. Now it was their house until someone told them different.

  They were all part of a dying breed of punk rockers. The 1980s were coming to a close and punk rock was dying a slow death. Heavy Metal and Hip-hop had taken over as the new sound of youthful rebellion. Jason, Mack and the rest of their friends were doing their best to keep the scene alive. They were all getting older though. South Street was slowly becoming one long strip-mall. Skinheads, guidos, thugs, and suburbanites were taking over the place. But Jason and Mack weren't giving it up without a fight. In Philly, South Street and punk rock were nearly synonymous and they were convinced that one could not survive without the other.

  A friend of theirs named Chris, who was the only Puerto Rican punk rocker Mack had ever heard of, stood with two other girls from the scene, huddled in a corner, whispering. All three of them had Mohawks. Breezy, a 16-year-old runaway who worked at a burger joint on South Street, had a huge platinum Mohawk. Alexis, a chubby girl with huge tits who hung out with them on the weekends then went back to her exclusive private school in Chestnut Hill during the week, had her hair up in a wicked-looking jet black Mohawk with bleached blond tips. Chris had a Mohawk consisting of five huge blond spikes that he styled with crazy glue and "Dippity-Do". Mack took another swig of Colt .45 then leered at Alexis's tits.

  "Damn, girl. Your tits are fuckin' crazy! I'd suck the skin off those motherfuckers!" Mack joked.

  Chris looked like he swallowed his own tongue.

  "Man, why are you so nasty?"

  "Why are you such a pussy?"

  "You need to show women more respect."

  "No, I need to show them this!"

  Mack leaned back on the couch, unzipped his pants and pulled his cock out. He stroked it a little and waggled it at the girls.

  "Ewwww!" the girls sang in chorus.

  Mack laughed.

  "Cut that shit out, man. You're fucking sick!" Chris yelled.

  "Oh, shit! You're crazy, dude!" Jason laughed, pointing at Mack's limp dick lolling from his open fly. The Jersey girls who were sitting on the floor just stared at him. One of them leaned over and rubbed the head of his cock until it stiffened.

  "Your dick is beautiful." She sighed. Her eyes were glossy and there was a far away expression in them.

  Mack laughed again.

  "Thanks. Your mouth is beautiful. Maybe we should introduce them to each other?"

  She giggled.

  "You're too funny."

  "Yeah, I'm funny. But I really would like a blowjob." She giggled again and wagged a finger at him. Everyone laughed, except Chris who shook his head in disgust.

  "Man, put that shit away!"

  "I'm just fuckin' around. Stop actin' like a little bitch. The girls don't mind. Do you?"

  Breezy and Alexis shook their heads and laughed. The three girls on the floor had already gone back to watching the trails their fingers left in the air.

  "That's just how Mack is. He's crazy as fuck, but that's why we love him. He didn't mean anything by it. Besides, everybody knows he's in love with Miranda," Breezy said.

  "Is that why, Alexis won't fuck me?" Mack said, looking directly at Alexis who was staring at Chris, clearly enamored with the handsome Puerto Rican. She heard her name and finally turned her head.

  "What?"

  "Nothing."

  "He said he wants to fuck you." Breezy said.

  "It's true. I do."

  "You're sick," Chris said, still scowling.

  "Everybody just chill. Everything's cool."

  "Yeah, Chris. Stop trippin'. I kind of like you. I'd hate to have to kick your ass," Mack said, laughing.

  "Who's Miranda?" one of the Jersey girls asked.

  "None of your fuckin' business," Mack replied.

  From the other side of the room there was a loud banging noise. It sounded like a body had fallen.

  "What the fuck is wrong with you! "Jason yelled.

  Mack jumped up from the couch, tucking his penis back into his jeans. He pushed Chris and Alexis aside so he could see what Jason was yelling about. The skinhead was going berserk, banging his head against the walls and smearing them with blood.

  "What the fuck is wrong with this idiot?" Jason asked.

  "He was snortin' dust earlier. He's wacked out."

  "Help me get him outside, Mack."

  "It's like two degrees out there."

  "I don't give a fuck. He's about to fuck up the whole crib!"

  "Shit. I don't give a fuck either. You want him out. He's out."

  Mack walked over to the skinhead, grabbed him by the back of his pants and the back of his shirt and lifted him off the ground.

  "Demon! Open the front door!"

  Jason hurried to the door and opened it. It was snowing outside and there were already two or three inches on the ground.

  "You can't throw him out there! He'll freeze to death!" Alexis shouted.

  Mack ignored her and tossed the skinhead out the door and onto the sidewalk. Billy landed on a pile of trash, knocking it over and spilling it into the street. Mack shut the door.

  "That stupid-ass mutherfucker."

  He and Jason bumped fists and laughed.

  "Fuck 'im. I hope he does freeze."

  Mack resumed his position on the couch. The Colt .45 was half gon
e.

  "Did one of you mutherfuckers drink my forty?"

  "You drank it, fool!" Chris answered.

  Something hit the front door and shattered. Everyone jumped.

  "Shit! What was that?"

  Jason ran to the door and looked out the window.

  "That's fucking Billy. His ass is going crazy out there, throwing bottles and shit. Somebody's gonna call the cops. I've got warrants. We gotta let him back in."

  "Shit! I'm sick of this fool!"

  Mack and Jason got up and opened the door.

  "Get your stupid ass in here!" Jason shouted.

  "No! I know you don't want me around. Nobody wants me around!"

  He picked up another bottle and threw it at the house.

  "Then go the fuck home!"

  "I don't have a fucking home!"

  "Look," Mack interrupted, "either get your ass inside or move along. You can't be out here making all this noise and shit. And if you throw one more fucking bottle I'm gonna knock your dumb ass out and leave you in the snow to die. You hear me? Think I'm playin'!"

  "Fuck you, Mack! You can't do nothin' to me. I ain't scared of you."

  The skinhead began shadow boxing in the snow then slipped and fell down onto his ass. He laid back in the snow and closed his eyes.

  Mack stormed off the porch and grabbed Billy by the throat, jerking him up off the ground.

  "Get your ass inside. Now!"

  He dragged Billy into the house and shut the door.

  "I don't want him in here fucking up shit," Jason said.

  "Then what do you want to do with him?"

  "Throw him in the basement."

  Mack dragged Billy over to the basement door. Billy tried to dig his heels in and hold onto the walls but Mack was too strong and muscled him out of the room and to the top of the basement stairs. Billy went limp, making Mack carry his dead weight.