Lucian sat at a table in the 24-hour Indian restaurant named Baba's Palace on Chicago and Orleans. He was chatting with Quinton about his ex-wife. If only Quinton knew, what Lucian knew. His ex-wife and daughter now resembled the fajita meat that they dined on. It was interesting knowing what was going on in people’s lives even though they didn’t. He would soon have Quinton right where he wanted him emotionally. Quinton’s cell phone starts to ring with the tune of the Empire Strikes Back. Quinton speaks to someone on the phone and his happy demeanor instantly drops. Quinton jumps out of his chair and runs to his car. He hollers out that he will talk to Lucian later. This is good, Lucian thinks he has gained Quinton’s trust. Lucian pays the bill giving a sizeable tip and leaves in his all-white limo. Finally, he could eat his normal food behind the privacy of tinted windows. He could still digest normal food, but preferred the diet of The Order of course. He slowly opens the door to the small cage in his hand and grabs one of the fat, juicy mice. Squeaking and crying, the plump juicy mouse goes down his throat. He much preferred eating living things over the dead flesh that normal humans ingested. The Order preferred living food such as small animals, vegetables and fruit. They did not care as much for the dead acidic, processed food that was the norm in many human cultures. Quinton could be left to his own devices for now, as he had more pressing business to take care of.
The last few days had been harrowing to say the least. Someone had chopped his ex-wife into pieces and killed his daughter. He grew tired of constant calls from reporters trying to get the scoop. He had actually changed his phone number twice because of it. Sitting inside the funeral home, he greeted relatives and friends alike. The wake had a bigger turnout than he thought it would. Lucian was there and gave a rousing speech about his ex-wife’s and daughter’s virtues. Soon they would be going to the burial, and a chapter of Quinton’s life would be closing. After the burial he decided against any invitations to go hangout. He knew people were just concerned about his well-being, but he just wanted to be alone right now. The funeral is the last time Quinton is seen outside of his house for a good three weeks. The leave of absence had been for a month, but he really didn’t want to go back at all. For the first time in his life, he really just didn’t give a damn. He was tired of having to play the heavy at work all the time. He was sick of fighting crooked cops. He had replaced many of the white shirts, but results had been mixed. It seemed that corrupt elements in the force had already gotten to his new hires. The only thing he cared about now was finding his wife and daughter’s killer and getting some payback. Normally a neat freak, the house was a mess with empty food containers and wrappers all over the place. Somebody came up, ringing his bell, but he really didn’t feel like being bothered right now. Drunk, pissed and worn-out mentally, he steps to the door and tells the delivery man to get the fuck off his property. Quinton sits back down to watch one of his favorite shows, Buck Rodgers, after the idiot leaves.
Dirty Red was on patrol this day, but he was concerned with only one issue. He had to conduct a special job for Bill. With the superintendent crying in his beer, it was time for them to assert themselves around the city. The white shirts Quinton had hired would be no problem. They had quickly come around to Bill’s way of thinking with the right payments. His current job was dealing with Baby Bear. Baby Bear was a massive 6-foot, 11-inch gangster disciple built like a tree. This guy was so arrogant and full of himself. He even had his name Baby Bear written on his shoes. Not some crap written with a marker, but some type of custom job. He’d done 15 years in prison for a variety of crimes. Baby Bear had been a high-level gangster before he went in and was out trying to run shit again. Bill didn’t care who ran things as long as they paid their rent. Baby Bear didn’t want to make his monthly payments.
Red had taken a bit of time figuring out how he wanted to handle this one. Bill didn’t want the Bear killed just yet. He merely wanted a lesson to be taught. Baby Bear might prove useful if he played ball. There had been something called “flash mobs” going on. Groups of teenagers attacking a single person and escaping quickly. These attacks had been going on all over the place, but mostly downtown. Red had many plants that would infiltrate themselves into gangs. He also had certain ones who worked only with teenage gangbangers. They planted a young Hispanic male with a slim build and black hair who was called CC. This was short for credit card. CC had done some time for attacking people at ATMs, stealing their money and credit cards. Red had caught CC in the act of trying to steal some old lady’s money at an ATM. Red had taken him into an abandoned building and beaten the shit out of him. He had given CC a choice to work for him or go to jail. Red had made it clear if CC crossed him he would end up in a body bag.
Baby Bear was downtown around Clark and Lake. He had been coming around here often for the last few weeks. It seemed that he was sweet on some white broad working at the Thompson Center. CC and about 15 teenagers would attack Baby Bear. It would seem like another flash mob attack. CC had been instructed to have the punks take money or some other items from Baby Bear. Red didn’t care if Baby Bear killed some of the punks, it’s not like they served a fucking purpose in life anyway. The cops in the area knew to take their sweet time responding to this particular call, and to let the punks get away. If this attack failed to get Baby Bear’s attention, they would move to plan b. CC had these punks under as much control as punks like this could be controlled. It was clear that he had some real leadership abilities. The crowd of punks passed by Baby Bear without any comments or strange looks that would give their intent away. They gave no indication that he even existed. Suddenly, with no warning, they pounced. Baby Bear was a big guy, but even he couldn’t stay upright with 15 guys hanging on him. Once on the ground, he was getting kicked, punched and hit in every part of his body. He tried in vain to reach for his gun, but the gun was taken away from him before he could get a shot off. The beating continued for five minutes and was over as quickly as it started. The thugs escaped in every direction.
This was Red’s cue to step in. Red helps Big Bear up and plays the role of friendly officer. “All right, I have an ambulance on the way, sir. Can you give me a description of any of the attackers?”
Baby Bear stares at him a moment, considering whether to trust him or not. Red can practically see the wheels turning in Bear’s brain.
“I ain’t telling you shit cop! Leave me the fuck alone and eat some fucking donuts.”
Red smiles inwardly. “It would help if you cooperated with me, sir. I am sure you would like to press charges.”
“I ain’t pressing no fucking charges, dude, and I ain’t telling you shit.”
Baby Bear refuses any medical care from the ambulance and even refuses a ride home. Something about not riding in a pig’s car. Baby Bear would hear through the grapevine why this attack had happened. He would pay his rent or the late fees would get worse. He could even end up being evicted as Bill liked to say. Red starts on his paperwork. It was so nice dealing with thugs and gangsters. They often didn’t report crimes against them. Not to mention many of them aren’t credible witnesses because of their criminal past. Hell, he had even had some of his plants shoot some of the punks who were getting out of hand. Usually his guys didn’t get caught, and even when they did they didn’t go to prison. It is a little known fact to the public that many shooters do not get convicted and go free. If you had no witnesses or record, and just circumstantial evidence, you were screwed.
Not to mention that dumbass no snitching rule. How many times had he had some thug shot, and they refused to tell the police who shot them as they died on the street. That stop snitching campaign had become really fucking huge in 2004 after a group of thugs had made a DVD and shirts promoting it. Hell, that shit had caught on and shirts with yellow stop signs saying, “Stop snitching” had become popular in urban communities. You have spinoff shirts saying, “I’ll never tell and keep your mouth shut.” You had dumbasses going to court wearing those shirts and refusing to testify against peop
le who had tried to harm them. All he had to say is the dude or dudes who came up with the concept were fucking brilliant. Those mother-fuckers were heroes to him. You abuse motherfuckers and shame and manipulate their dumbasses into not cooperating with law enforcment.You get the victims to side with the offender who’s harming them. He might have to find the guys responsible for creating that shit, and take then out to lunch or buy their surviving relatives a gift. That shit had made his job considerably easier over the years. He loved the system and how it could be played.
Quinton had been off work for some time now. Had it been maybe a month or more? He smelled, his beard was long and nappy. His hair always grew fast and it seemed worse lately. He looked like a hobo who had lived on the street for a few years. He had not bothered changing his clothing in the last three weeks. Quinton jumped as his doorbell rang repeatedly. It was that same deliveryman from UPS. He considered cursing him out briefly, but just opened the door. He snatched the package so quickly the delivery man didn’t have time to finish saying have a nice day. He kind of enjoyed slamming the door in the man’s face. He had been doing that a lot lately to family and friends alike. Of course, they were just concerned about him, but that hadn’t stopped him from slamming the door in their faces. Examining the small brown box; there was no return address on it. He quickly tore it open and found a DVD inside. His interest was extremely piqued at this point. Popping the DVD into his DVD player, his mouth fell open wide at what he was seeing. Someone had filmed a video of the murder of his wife and daughter. He knew this was going to be extremely painful, but he could not stop watching. Anger over took his body and he shook uncontrollably. Not only did this DVD show the murder, it even showed where the murderers were located. He could not understand why someone would commit this gruesome murder and basically tell him where they were at.
A white-hot rage overtook him, drowning out all logic in his mind. He grabbed his gun and hopped in his car, driving erratically towards the abandoned candy factory. His mind was focused like a laser on its target. He isn’t even sure what roads he is taking to the candy factory. Everything is a blur in his mind right now. He doesn’t even realize that he is crying and makes no attempt to clean the tears off his face. This anger won’t subside until the guilty party has been brought to justice. He finally pulls up two blocks from the old Brach’s candy factory. He still has enough of his senses to not just rush in. That DVD showed about 15 guys, and he didn’t know how many of them were there now. He had no real idea how he would handle that many guys. He had the firepower, but did not know what type of firepower they had. He would have to catch them off-guard somehow.
A group of Mexicans came out of the factory just then and loaded up into a black van. He counted 10 in all. That would mean that at least five could be inside, plus the ringleader. Being the chief of police, he had access to high-powered assault rifles. He followed them discreetly from a distance to Madison and Kildare. These guys seemed oblivious to his presence. As they were heading back to their van from buying snacks in the convenience store at the gas station, he pulls up. He opens fire with his assault rifle and lights them up before they can even think to react. Quinton sprays the van multiple times before hopping out of his vehicle. He checks the van for survivors. He sees two guys still crawling around like roaches, and finishes them off with no remorse. You didn’t feel sorry for spraying roaches with Raid. He quickly speeds off in his car, heading back towards the factory. He briefly considers ramming through the locked gates, but that would ruin his element of surprise. There could still be five to six guys in there and he wanted to catch them off-guard if possible.
He parks his vehicle two blocks away and studies the factory with his binoculars. He does not see any movement anywhere. Most of the windows to this place were missing, except for the bottom level. No lookout was any place in sight. These guys either didn’t think anyone would notice them or didn’t care. He quickly climbs the chain gate on the west side of the building, and runs up next to the wall. The windows had been painted black, so no one could see inside. That worked in his favor as they could not see outside as well. He takes the glass cutter and cuts a small hole in the glass slowly. He sees five guys stumbling around drunk as hell. Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard after all. Emboldened by his enemies obvious state of uneasiness, he shoots the window up with his assault rifle, kicks in the remaining glass and jumps in. Only two of them are even alert enough to respond to his appearance.
He quickly lights up Chopper and Munchie. Big Hombre and the others get shot while snoring in their sleep, dying a more merciful death than his wife does and child did. Last on his hit list is the ringleader, who is sitting in an old beat up sofa about 15 feet from him. These guys had gone through some effort to bring two sofas, a crock-pot and microwave here. Obviously, they planned to stay here for some time. The DVD had identified who everyone was, so he knew this Mexican was named The Producer. He had seen a few news programs on The Producer, but had never thought to meet him under these circumstances. The Producer made no effort to get away or even rise. He seemed unconcerned that his life was in jeopardy.
“I guess you must be Nick, the Producer.”
“You would be right, my friend.”
“I am not your damn friend,” Quinton growled. “I’m the one who’s going to end your sick existence.”
Nick again seemed unconcerned with his impending doom and yawns. The Producer leaned back into his chair even more and started to talk again. “You could kill me and very likely will. You won’t kill me until I tell you why first. I killed your family for my art. I am a great master who needs realism in my films, and I choose you and your family to help me create that art.”
Quinton knew this man was sick before they had even met. It was hard to imagine this level of non-concern over killing humans. The veins on his neck and forehead throbbed. He forced himself to ask the question that had been burning in his mind since watching the DVD.
“Why me and my family?”
Nick stared at the ceiling for what seemed like an eternity before answering. “Because you fit the role of the hero. You’re the stereotypical hero that Hollywood loves. You’re in great shape, handsome, never takes bribes or commits immoral actions. The only thing you could do to improve is being white. That’s okay, we need somebody to replace Denzel anyway. Hell, I bet you never did any wild stuff as a teenager like smoking weed or staying out late.”
Quinton considered the Producer’s comments for a moment. True, he was a basketball star in school, didn’t do any drugs and had no run-ins with the law or his parents. His shoulders dropped at the revelation that this had partially happened because he was a good man. The Producer continued to speak in a condescending manner.
“There are other reasons why I did what I did. The main reason is simply because I could. This world is made up of sheep, like you, who go around following rules and regulations. Then you have people, like me, who bend the system to achieve their goals. Men like Hitler, Stalin, Idi Amin, George Bush and me. They are strong men, and people gravitate towards them because of this. This is why people follow me. You can pull that trigger, but you’ll never have power over me. In the days to come, you will dream of me and remember this day for the rest of your life. I have no fear of you because you are just one of the sheep. I’ve taken away everything away in your life that mattered, and killing me won’t bring any of it back.”
Quinton could not stand anymore of this pompous jackass. Some part of his brain had expected to see this man beg for his life. He started to shake with rage and began shooting Nick relentlessly. When he was out of ammo, he reloaded his gun and shot up the dead until they looked like Swiss cheese. Finally, he stopped shooting the dead bodies and broke down emotionally. The pain of his family’s death and murdering 16 people finally hit him. He lay there on the cold, hard floor waiting to be arrested and jailed like a common criminal.
Months later Lucian sat back in his nice limo, drinking fine wine and eating grapes. So it s
eemed Quinton had finally snapped and killed The Producer. It was a bit of a shame as he had always enjoyed the Producer’s films. Hell, he would easily welcome someone like him. Perhaps he would even be given the chance to join The Order and help procure souls for the master? A very high honor was given to a small number of people who were going to hell. In any case, this was a good thing for him. Quinton would be in the right frame of mind to accept his special help now. Lucian thought about going to the jail Quinton was being kept at. Fernando instantly obeyed his request without a word being spoken. Familiars rarely spoke and did not question their masters. They were children acquired at birth and trained to be subservient to the needs of The Order. Familiars were completely attuned to their masters. Lucian could see, hear or even feel what his familiar felt, and give him mental commands. These mental links were completely controlled by the members of The Order; the familiar served of course and could be shut down and activated again any time by Lucian. Soon Quinton, soon, we will make a proper denizen of hell out of you.
Sitting in his cell thinking about his actions, Quinton did not regret them at all. He wasn’t happy about going to jail or the way his trial had gone. It almost seemed as if judge wang had it out for him or something Almost all of his attorney’s objections had been over ruled. Evidence had been allowed in without his attorney having proper time to study it. He hated taking things personally, but maybe the judge was trying to make an example out of him. Maybe the power of the city government wanted to make an example out of him. Most likely the judge had pressure on him to show no one was above the law. As long as the person responsible for his family’s death had met justice, he could endure prison.
Abuse of Chikara (book 1) Page 10
