Wrath James White

by Skinzz

  Fuck. This is gonna be fun.

  The last thing Little Davey wanted was to ask his father for anything. He would never admit it to himself, but deep down he hated the man. His father had never fully recovered after his mother left. He drank too much and was violent when he was intoxicated which was more often than not. Davey's only hope was to catch him when he first got home and was still on his first beer.

  Chapter 11

  5:45 pm

  The trio of black teens eyed Skinner murderously as he passed them. He could smell marijuana and alcohol on their breath. He could feel their animosity. It was like passing through a dense cloud of hate. It made his eyes water.

  Skinner kept his head down and looked straight ahead. He wished that he had a cap or a hoodie to hide his bald head. Instead, his pale scalp glowed like a celestial body. The three teenagers were drawn to him like the pull of gravity.

  "Hey, you fuckin' skinhead! You wunna them damn Nazis ain't you?"

  Skinner ducked his head as far down between his shoulders as he could and continued walking. He didn't turn to look at the speaker but sped up his stride. The three teens sped up to match his pace, surrounding him. One of them pushed him hard from behind, nearly sending him sprawling.

  "I'm talkin' to you, white boy! You fuckin' ignorin' me? I heard about you racist skinhead mutherfuckers on TV. Y'all hate niggas, huh? Think you're fuckin' better than us?"

  The short skinny kid who'd pushed him, took out a wad of hundred dollar bills and waved them in Skinner's face. "I could buy and sell your bitch ass, white boy. What the fuck have you got? I could pay a crackhead five dollars to smoke your punk-ass! That's how much you're worth, you fuckin' skinhead mutherfucker!"

  Fuckin', Geraldo Rivera. Ever since that damn show aired, everybody was out to get them.

  He knew he would have to answer them eventually. Either that or catch a beatdown for his silence. Skinner was beginning to tremble. He tried to walk faster but now they were all pushing and shoving him around. He raised his shoulders and ducked lower, expecting a punch any moment.

  He cast a quick glance at the two guys on either side of him and the one behind. There were two small guys, one skinny and one fat, and one huge guy who was even bigger than Bo. He snickered, thinking that he'd run into the black version of their little crew.

  "Fuck are you laughing about, skinhead?"

  Skinner laughed harder. He found his balls finally and turned to give one of those jiggaboos a piece of his mind. He turned his head and found himself staring right down the barrel of a large, black, automatic pistol. Skinner looked around for a way of escape. Seeing none, he turned back to face the little guy with the gun.

  "Fuck you, nigger. White Power!"

  He saw the muzzle flash but never heard the gunshot. Never even felt it.

  Chapter 12

  Amtrak, 6:59 pm

  The train hadn't yet left the station when Mack spotted the five skinheads in the next car walking toward him. They were looking directly at him. One of them smiled, licked his lips, and began nodding his head. Another one pointed in Mack's direction then pounded his fist into the palm of his other hand. They obviously knew who he was and had come looking for him.

  "Shit."

  Mack wasn't completely unarmed. He had the two daggers in his belt buckle but he preferred blunt instruments, something he could use to pummel these fuckers into submission. He had nothing and they were almost there. The door to his car opened and the little gang of skinheads stepped in. There were more than a dozen other people in the car with him, but Mack held no illusions that any of them would rush to his defense. In Philadelphia, people tended to mind their business, which often meant ignoring the plight of the victimized. Mack stood up on his seat. If he was going to be outnumbered, he at least wanted the advantage of higher ground.

  None of the skinheads was larger than six foot or weighed more than a hundred and eighty pounds. That made things slightly better, but not much. At least they weren't all big steroid freaks.

  One of them asked, "Are you Mack?"

  Mack didn't answer. Didn't ask them what they wanted to know for, if they were racist skinheads or SHARP, if they were looking for a fight, revenge, or wanted to congratulate him. He kicked the guy who asked in the jaw with his steel-toed motorcycle boot and smiled at the satisfying sound of teeth cracking and the guy's jaw unhinging. The skinhead crumpled to the floor, spitting teeth, with blood oozing from his mouth.

  The next guy stepped into his place and Mack took a kick at him but missed. The skinhead ducked and then he and his buddies charged. Mack had to squat down to avoid being tackled. He swung a hook at one of his attackers that caught the guy high on the temple which wobbled him but didn't take him off his feet. He launched a straight right at another one that shattered the guy's nose and sent him reeling backwards. Mack took a punch to the side of the head that felt like he'd been hit with a pillow but when he turned to look for his assailant he was struck from the other side with a blow that felt like a baseball bat. Flashbulbs went off in his head. His eyesight blurred and he went down as more punches fell. The back of Mack's head struck the train wall, just below the window and he could feel his head slam against the wall repeatedly as someone punched him.

  Mack could taste his own blood. He knew he was being kicked and punched but could no longer feel the blows. There was a crushing weight on his chest that he recognized as the weight of a body, someone was straddling his chest while they punched him in the face. He was losing consciousness and if that happened, he'd probably never wake up. Mack groped for his belt buckle and slid out the daggers. Without thinking, he slashed and jabbed at the bodies pressed tight against him. Blood began to flow. Shouts and cries of pain echoed in his head, sounding like they were coming from underwater. Mack still couldn't see what was going on. His eyesight hadn't cleared and his vision darkened, blurred, and everything began to spin, which made him want to throw up. He stabbed upward with the knife and felt it sink into something soft then felt a warm rush of blood pour out over his hands. It bled like a mortal wound.

  Abruptly, all the weight was gone.

  Mack sat up and slashed with the daggers, one clutched in each hand.

  "They're gone. You're okay," said a male voice from Mack's left. The voice had a practiced tone of bored indifference. The kind you picked up on the streets, where violence was an everyday occurrence and looking or sounding too interested in someone else's plight could quickly add your name to the victim's pool.

  Mack blinked several times and wiped his eyes with the back of his fists, leaving smears of blood on his forehead and cheeks. His eyesight cleared and he could see the guy with the lackadaisical voice, sitting a few seats behind him. He was a large black man in his mid-thirties with a shaved head and prison tattoos on his neck. His indifference toward violence was likely no mere affectation.

  The skinheads who'd attacked Mack were retreating into the next car, bruised and bleeding, dragging the guy he'd kicked in the face and another guy with a black moustache and a five-o'clock shadow of black hair dusting his shaved scalp. The guy with the moustache was bleeding from the stomach and screaming about not wanting to die while he held his guts in with both hands.

  I need to get the fuck out of here, Mack thought, looking around for an exit. It didn't matter that they'd attacked him. He was black and they were white and he'd been carrying illegal weapons and may have killed one of them. If the cops came, Mack was certain that he would not get the benefit of the doubt. There was also the possibility that the three uninjured skinheads would regroup and attack again. That possibility was slim but it couldn't be ignored. Either way, staying on the train was a dumb idea. Mack looked out the window. It was too dark to tell what station they were near. He could only hope that wherever he got off the train wasn't too far from a bus or a subway or too deep within North Philly. In his neighborhood, everyone knew Mack and nobody tripped on how he dressed. But a tall skinny black guy with short dreadlocks shaved into a Moh
awk, wearing a leather motorcycle jacket, motorcycle boots, big silver hoop earrings, and spiked wristbands would be an irresistible target in the drug-ravaged, war-torn streets of North Philly. It didn't matter that he was black too. He didn't live there and he dressed funny. In North Philly after dark, he would be just as much of an outsider as a white guy in a business suit and just about as safe.

  Fuck it. I ain't got much choice, Mack thought. The train screeched and squealed into the empty station, pausing just long enough for Mack to hop off before rocketing off again. The skinheads glared at Mack through the train window as it pulled out of the station. He knew he would be seeing them again, and next time there would be more of them. Jason was right about that. These guys had come hunting for him. They knew his name and they had come looking for him. Next time, they might even come armed, especially now that they knew he was.

  Mack looked around the graffiti-covered station. He had no idea where he was. The sign had been torn down and the streets looked unfamiliar. There was a bus stop nearby and Mack turned his collar up against the wind and walked toward it. If he knew what bus stop he was at it would go a long way to telling him where he was. He was halfway across the street when he heard several voices call out from the direction he'd just come from.

  "Where the fuck you from? You tryin'a look like Rick James or somebody? You supposed to be the king of punk funk or some shit?"

  At first, Mack thought that it was the skinheads, coming to try their luck again, but the inflections, the tone, the slang, was all wrong. Those were North Philly accents. Black urban accents.

  Fuck.

  If there was anything Mack hated about this city it was the omnipresent threat of violence. Only in Philly could you be fighting skinheads one minute and niggas the next. Mack laughed at the irony. He felt like he was in that old 70s movie The Warriors. Any minute now he expected to hear a shaky high-pitched voice calling, "Waaaaarrioooors, come out and plaaaaayyyy!"

  "Fuck you laughin' at, Rick James?" This voice was deeper, huskier than the first and was followed by the unmistakable click and ching of an automatic pistol being cocked and a round chambered. Shit had just gotten serious. Mack looked in back of him, in the direction of the sound and saw several large anthropoid shapes headed toward him. Mack was smart enough, this time, not to try to be a hero. He took off running at a full sprint. He heard a gunshot but didn't feel anything strike him. There was loud laughter behind him.

  "You'd better run, you little bitch!"

  He kept running.

  Chapter 13

  Davey's house, 7:36 pm

  An old BMX bike sat rusting on the lawn. Davey remembered how hard he had to work to get that bike. His father made him mow the lawn and rake the leaves every Saturday for a month. He had to wash the dishes every night, do the laundry, and clean the garage. That weekend he had to paint the house alone. He had never painted anything before and Big Dave yelled and cursed at him the entire time. Little Davey cried several times and received a slap for it more than once, but finally, he got the job done. Then his father had gotten drunk and fell asleep and little Davey had to beg him for the money he was owed. His dad finally snapped out of his drunken stupor long enough to slap Little Davey upside the head for waking him up, but Davey was persistent. Finally, his father relented and gave him the money but he was too drunk to drive. Little Davey rode a bus to Toys r' Us and picked out his bike. It took him two hours to ride his new bike all the way home. He was exhausted when he finally staggered into the house, but he couldn't remember ever being so happy. He was eleven years old then and, until his son was born, he'd never been that happy again.

  The house was still painted pale blue with white trim, the same color Davey had painted it nine years ago. The paint on the wood siding had begun to flake and chip. Davey hadn't asked his father for anything since the day he'd bought him the bike so he hadn't been forced to paint the house since. That was likely to change if he walked in and asked him for money to buy his kid diapers. Little Davey took a deep breath and walked up the stairs, already pissed off, imagining his father's condescending reply.

  The house smelled of dirty laundry, stale beer, rotting fast food, urine, and more beer. The TV was on, creating a strobelight effect in the dark room as it flickered with the image of Peggy Bundy berating her wisecracking husband. The place looked like a frathouse. A pile of empty pizza boxes sat on the coffee table, nearly three feet high. Beside it sat several cardboard buckets filled with chicken bones. The floor was littered with empty beer cans and liquor bottles. Little Davey shook his head in disgust. He'd stopped cleaning out of protest, hoping that his dad would get up off his drunken lazy ass and start throwing away his own garbage and washing his own dishes, but apparently the old man was content to live in filth.

  Davey's dad sat in his lounge chair with a bottle of MD 20/20 on his lap. He was in his pajamas, the same ones he'd been wearing all week. He was awake...barely. He stared at the screen for a long moment as if he was confused by what he was seeing. Then his eyes began to close and his head dropped forward. Little Davey had to resist the urge to punch the man right in the mouth.

  What a fucking waste. Davey wondered, not for the first time, if they really were any better than niggers, spics, and jews.

  "Dad. Wake up. This place looks like shit! How the fuck can you live like this?"

  Big Dave lifted his head, opened his eyes, and immediately took a deep swig of MD before turning to look at his son.

  "If you'd clean this shithole like you're supposed to, it wouldn't look this way."

  Davey bristled.

  "I'm not your fuckin' maid!"

  Big Dave took another swig of MD then turned back to the TV. Christina Applegate was prancing across the screen in tight pink stretch pants and a white halter top that made her tits look exceptionally perky. You could almost see the outline of her nipples through the fabric.

  "Well, what fuckin' good are you then?"

  Again, Little Davey had to resist the urge to hit the old man.

  "I need money. Mickey needs diapers."

  Big Dave shrugged.

  "How the fuck is that my problem?"

  "He's your grandson!"

  Big Dave took another swig, emptying the bottle of Mad Dog. He turned and looked longingly toward the kitchen. Little Davey smiled.

  "You want me to get you a beer, old man?"

  Big Dave frowned and tried to stand up, almost pitching himself out of the recliner onto his face. He leaned over and steadied himself with one hand on the coffee table, knocking over an ashtray that was overloaded with ashes and cigarette butts.

  "I'll get it myself."

  "Or die trying," Little Davey added.

  Big Dave gave him the finger in lieu of a verbal response.

  "Look, this place is a fucking mess. You give me thirty dollars and I'll clean it up for you and go shopping for you so you have some food in that refrigerator. I'll even buy you more beer."

  Big Dave was still bent over, wobbling, trying to keep from falling on his ass. He crawled back into the recliner.

  "Why don't you start by getting me another fucking beer. My wallet's on the dresser. I just cashed my check yesterday. Don't take none of it. I'll give you what I want to give you. Just bring it to me."

  Just cashed your welfare check, you mean, Little Davey thought, sneering as if he'd just tasted something particularly foul. He knew that his dad hadn't gotten much work lately and had secretly snuck off to the welfare office to apply for assistance. It was against everything Little Davey had been taught to believe, everything his dad had taught him to believe, and it sickened him.

  "Oh, and I need to borrow your gun too."

  Big Dave raised an eyebrow.

  "Should I ask?"

  "No."

  Chapter 14

  Jason's house, 7:55 pm

  Jason sat in his bedroom, listening to a local hardcore band called The Meat Sword and trying his best not to hear his parents argue about him.


  "Why'd you say he could stay here tonight? Just when we were starting to put our life back together. He doesn't care about us! He doesn't care about anyone! All he does is destroy things and now he's destroying us! Again!"

  "Shhhh. He'll hear you."

  "Of course he will. That little sneak is always listening!"

  Jason turned up the volume and sang at the top of his lungs.

  "...I'm a monster

  A stone cold killer

  I'm a monster

  A stone cold killer

  You should watch yourself

  You might get hurt

  Like you hurt me

  You might get hurt

  Like you hurt me..."

  Jason fingered a buck knife he'd stolen from a record store on Market Street. The blade wasn't very sharp, but he was confident that it would do the job if he ever needed it to. He wished that Mack wasn't such a mamma's boy. Jason knew that he could never kill anyone himself, but with Mack around, he felt fucking invincible. If he thought for a second that he could talk Mack into killing his parents with him, he'd have made those fuckers suffer. A tear ran down his cheek as Jason stabbed his mattress with the knife.

  Why don't they love me? Why do they always want to get rid of me?

  But Jason already knew the answer to that. He hated to be told what to do, especially by men and his step-dad least of all. That had created immediate friction between them. His stepfather had tried to solve the issue with frequent beatings, thinking that it would whip Jason in line but it had made him even more rebellious. He felt like the man had taken his mother away from him and she had been perfectly complicit in the whole thing. She always took his side on everything. She didn't notice how Jason's grades had begun to slip immediately after she married that asshole. She didn't notice how Jason had begun to drink and smoke and listen to hardcore music. She didn't notice how he'd begun dying his hair black and wearing black eyeliner and leather jackets and spikes. She didn't notice anything that Jason did. He doubted she'd even noticed when he'd stopped coming home.