Abuse of Chikara (book 1)

by Stanley Cowens

  Laying back in his bed he started to drift off to sleep. He was awakened and told he had a visitor named Lucian to see him. Quinton detested speaking through these phones and being separated by this glass. Lucian looked to be in a good mood and generally happy to see him. He looked like he had won the lottery or something. Lucian sat down in the chair provided for visitors, and started to speak.

  “So Quinton, it seems as if you have gotten yourself into a bit of trouble.” “I’m sure you’ve seen it all over the news, so I won’t bore you with the details Lucian. I don’t mind being here so much, as long as the bastards responsible paid for their crimes.”

  Lucian pauses takes out a white handkerchief and wipes his brow before responding.

  “What if I told you the person responsible got off scot-free.”

  Quinton gave him a piercing stare as the muscles in his jaw tightened. “Don’t joke with me man; this is nothing to play games about.”

  Lucian noticed the change in Quinton’s demeanor and facial expressions. He resumed talking to him in a soothing, reassuring voice. I can show you exactly what happened and why; the only thing I need is permission to enter your mind my friend. Quinton’s expression went from one of anger to amusement.

  “I don’t know if this is some of your religious clap trap, but do whatever you want.”

  Members of The Order had incredible powers, but had restrictions as to when and how they could be used. He could read people minds; but to speak to them telepathically or plant images in others minds, he needed their permission. Quinton began to see images in his mind. These images showed all the wheeling and dealing Bill had a hand in. Everything was laid bare for him. Bill buying off the trial judge, setting The Producer on him, buying off the white shirts under his command. Quinton fell off his chair on to the cold, hard floor from the shock of these powerful images. Mental projections usually had a staggering effect the first time. Sometimes they induced head-aches, vomiting or even unconsciousness Quinton was on the floor being helped up by the jail guards.

  Lucian left as there was really no need to stay. He and Quinton would be speaking again soon. It would take him some time to digest mentally and emotionally. The mental anguish of the situation would push him over the edge. Best of all, he could now communicate with him telepathically. No need to waste time physically coming to this disgusting jail. He detested jails, prisons or any type of forced imprisonment. Better for a man to die in combat or some act of bravery than being caged like an animal. No being, man, animal, or otherwise, could serve its purpose in a cage. His father was locked in a cage for a time until judgment day, and he had hated it. Nothing to do now, but wait a few days. He lays back in his fancy white limousine and turns on the TV. The original Nightmare on Elm Street was on. Wes Craven had done well with the deal they had made years ago to give him incredible writing talent. Too bad he couldn’t convince him to sell his soul, though.

  Sitting at home drinking wine, sitting on his living room floor on his deep red carpet, Bill can’t help but laugh. He knew all he had to do was push the right buttons. There was talk of making him the new superintendent of police. With all the payoffs to the white shirts and rank-and-file, he easily had the backing of the police department. The mayor had wanted to clean up the department after all the scandals. Hence, his golden boy, squeaky clean Quinton. Now there was a lot of talk of picking somebody more homegrown rather than an outsider. Bill had no doubt he would receive the position from the powers that be. Quinton had thought to rein him in, but he had been the one in control all along. The only thing he wished is that he could go to the jail and laugh in the man’s face. He can’t contain himself and rolls around on the floor, laughing maniacally. He almost resembles a dog getting his tummy rubbed, rolling around on the floor. He wondered if Quinton was in jail beating potential boy-friends off his behind. Bill wasn’t one to leave anything to chance, though. In a few years, when things had died down a bit, he would have Quinton taken care of in prison. He had not worked out all the details yet, but there was plenty of time to do so. Bill lays his head back on his soft red carpeting and begins to drift off to sleep.

  It had been two days since Lucian had come to visit him. The rage inside him still burned white hot. Bill had played him like a musical instrument. This had been a plan all along to attack the only thing he really cared about. Doing so would cause him to lose his cool and take care of things himself. Even if these visions were true, he didn’t understand why Lucian had waited to show them to him now. Not to mention that visions wouldn’t stand up in court anyway. He wasn’t some gang lord who could get people whacked from jail. He thought about a hit man, but where would he get the money? Not to mention a hit man would be too impersonal and distant. Quinton wanted to feel the life drain out of Bill’s body as he killed him. He couldn’t do much in a jail cell, which was soon to be a prison cell. Not being able to sleep well for that last few days made it worse. He kept having a recurring nightmare about going to hell. These dreams were often very vivid with all manner of horrible things going on. What really pissed him off was the dreams of Bill mocking him. He had dreamed that Bill came to his cell often holding the head of his dead wife. Bill would have his hand stuck up her head like a puppet. His wife’s head would act just like a puppet as Bill would do a comedy routine mocking him. He would hear people laughing and clapping at Bill’s jokes. There was nothing he could do, but lay his head back and try to get some sleep.

  Oh, but there is something you can do my friend. Quinton looks around and does not see anyone speaking to him. He closes his eyes and tries to go back to sleep. He hears Lucian’s voice call him again. Damn I must be going crazy already. Not to mention talking to myself. He hears Lucian’s voice again. You are not crazy Quinton. You gave me permission to enter your mind days ago. We can talk now telepathically. Quinton speaks out loud to the invisible voice. “What if someone hears us talking?” Only you can hear me Quinton. People may just assume that you have gone crazy. I, however, doubt you care at this point though. He thought about that for a moment. He really couldn’t say he cared about much of anything at this point. Okay, assuming I am not crazy, what do you want? I want to help you get your revenge on Bill for a price, of course. Sell me your soul and I will give you incredible abilities. The only downside is when you finally die your soul will go straight to hell and suffer incredible torments. Souls, hell, torture were all nonsense to Quinton. He had never believed in any of that crap. You can have my soul and anything else you want as long as I get Bill and anyone else involved. Do not be so quick to make important choices my young friend. You dismiss what you do not understand. Take some time before you make your choice. Quinton waited all of 10 seconds before calling out to Lucian again. All right, give me this fucking power that you keep bullshitting about. He says this angrily with spittle flying out of his mouth. Hell, if he was going crazy, he might as well embrace it he thought.

  He heard a strange sound coming from all around his cell. The sound of goats, people crying in pain, sobbing and inhuman laughter. He stood in his cell for at least five minutes with nothing happening. So he really was going crazy. As he turned to go back to his bed, his knees buckled sending him to the floor of his cell. His veins felt as if molten lava was flowing through them. Quinton struggled to catch his breath as his heart beat rapidly in his chest. Each beat was like someone beating a metal garbage can or a gong. He layed there for minutes trying to catch his breath. Finally, after some time, he felt normal and got to his feet. Good thing he had not been dying in his cell. With all his cries of pain, the guards had not come to check on him once. He had never really thought about the treatment of thugs in jail or prison.

  Funny how he felt different now that he was in a cell himself. He did not understand how repeat offenders could stomach this type of environment. Being locked up in this small cell with somebody else controlling when you eat, sleep or exercise. That wasn’t even considering all the violence and rape that took place in these type of environment
s. Considering he did not have any super abilities, he would experience all the rough stuff personally very soon. Then he heard Lucian’s voice calling his name again. Go ahead and bend the bars and escape my friend. There is no way I can bend these bars Mr. Imaginary friend. Quinton, listen well, my young student. There is a man who says I can’t do this and a man who says I can do this. Both these men are right. What the hell he thought. Maybe if he pulled on the bars and failed this imaginary voice he heard would stop talking to him.

  He walks to the front of his cell and grabs two of the bars directly in front of him. Strangely, the bars offered no resistance at all. He tore off a foot-long piece of the bars easily. Shocked, he stands there staring at the metal bar in his right hand. He squeezes gently and the bar crumbles like stale crackers. He walks forward toward his cell door and the bars give way like wet tissue paper. Of course, even the guard on duty had to notice someone walking out of his cell through metal bars. The guard a tall, burly white male, orders Quinton to get back in his cell. When Quinton does not respond, he moves to pull his gun. Quinton is on him before he can get a shot off. Despite being rather bulky, Quinton handles him like a newborn baby. He grabs the guard under both armpits, and holds him in the air with his feet dangling. He throws the guard into the other two guards, who have come to assist him. He really does not want to hurt these guys as they have nothing to do with Bill or his cronies. He walks up to the guards as they are getting to their feet and strikes them gently in their heads, knocking them out. He does not even use his entire right fist, just his index finger to put these guys to bed for a while.

  By this time alarms are going off. There is, of course, a locked gate that crumbles as he walks through it. Here comes more prison guards, about eight of them. They do not bother talking and open fire immediately. Quinton cries out as he pleads with them to hold their fire and attempts to shield his vital organs. He need not have bothered as he barely even feels the impact of the bullets. It feels as if someone is splashing him with warm water. He starts laughing uncontrollably. Not some light-hearted snickering, but loud, maniacal laughter like some horror villain. Catching himself, he decides that he needs to get out of here as soon as possible. Who knows how many of these guys might show up? He hadn’t had a chance to really test his new abilities, and did not want to take his chances playing around. He rushes the guards and makes short work of them in seconds. He hardly uses any of his strength on these guys, knocking them out with one finger to their head or chest areas.

  He considers alternate ways of getting out of this jail facility. Smashing through the walls would draw too much attention. He couldn’t just waltz out the front door, either. As far as he knew Lucian had not given him the power of invisibility so that left just one route. Time to see if these new abilities included high jumping as well. He squats, tenses his legs and jumps as high as possible. He soars into the air and his head hits the ceiling; he goes so high he doesn’t know how high this ceiling is, but he knows this isn’t normal for anyone who isn’t in a comic book or movie. He hovers in the air for a second before gravity takes over and he plummets. Strangely, at that moment, he remembers one of his teachers telling him that science couldn’t prove gravity existed. He wondered what those scientists or his teacher would say about him now. He crashes through multiple levels of floors before finding himself in the sewer. Good thing those other floors slowed his momentum a good deal. As it was, there were huge cracks in the concrete, spiraling out like a spider web, where he had impacted. He did wonder what was underneath the sewer and how deep it went. He got up and started running forward with no idea where he was running to, and he did not care. Anyplace far from this jail was good enough. He had to get away from here before he was forced to harm more people who had nothing to do with what was going on. He was shocked at his running speed. No way to know for sure, but he had to be going at least 50 miles an hour. Cheetahs could run up to 6o miles through their natural gifts from Mother Nature. Who knows what an unnatural being like him could do? He runs for what seems like an eternity. Finally, he came to what looks like a manhole cover. He climbs up and pushes the cover off. Unfortunately, in his haste to get out of the hole, he doesn’t pay attention to his surroundings. A large car crashes into him and sends him flying across the street through a large black gate. Lying on his back, he looks up at the sky and sees stars in the night. He used to enjoy sitting around with his mother looking at the stars in the sky. Looking around, he recognized the area. He’s on North Avenue lying in the parking lot for Food for Less and some other stores. Shopping carts are scattered all over the place from his impact. It is night, so not too many people are around the area of Cicero and North avenues. He hears the vehicle’s driver running towards him. A white older male, maybe early 50s, late 40s, short and pudgy looking. You could see the worry on his face. Quinton glares over at the vehicle. It had a large dent in the front about three feet deep. He was driving an older model Impala. Real steel, and not that plastic crap most cars these days were made of. “Oh my god, are you all right young man! Just lie down and I will call an ambulance.”

  “Thanks, but I really need to be on my way.”

  “Mister, you just got hit by a car. Please let a doctor look over you.”

  “Sure thing, as soon as I get a chance.”

  Rising, Quinton gives himself a quick inspection for damage. He has no idea about any internal damage, though. He would have to have somebody give him a good check up at some point. He heads off walking past the Wal-Mart toward North Avenue. Two blocks down he sees a Bank of America on the left. On the other side of the street, some guys in a white van are loading up sacks of money. Strange that no alarm is going off. A heavyset African American lady is standing behind the van doors as they load up. He recognized her as a high-level bank manager from banking here himself. He did not recognize the faces of any of the thugs. He did, however, recognize their gang colors. These guys wore any combination of black and white. Usually the men wore black pants or shorts with white shirts and ball caps. Female gang members wore white on the bottom and black on top. They were a fairly new gang to be honest. Like all the rest, they sold drugs, robbed people and were involved in prostitution and other crimes. This gang had been created by a young African American man in his mid-20s, after coming back from a tour in Iraq. He had a deep-seated hatred of Caucasians. His hatred of whites was a founding principal of the gang. Many members had done some time for race crimes against whites. One of the requirements to join the gang was to commit some act of violence or vandalism against any Caucasian. The gang actively recruited members of any minority, except whites, of course. The racial mix was much greater than most similar-sized or larger gangs in Chicago. He remembered they called themselves Street Captians.

  They were so engrossed in stealing; they did not even notice him hiding behind a light blue Stanza. He noticed a slim, older Hispanic male five foot, ten inches tall, maybe in his late 40s. He recognized this man from his time as police superintendent. Garcia does not seem to be trying to stop the thugs, rather he was helping them. Ducking into the alley he observes them more intently. He notices a female bank manager with them. So that was how they had gotten around the alarms and camera systems. With the money loaded up they started to go their separate ways. No doubt they would split the loot at a later date. He wondered how many times similar bank robberies and been performed this way. He briefly considered going after the gangbangers first, but decides to save them for last. Garcia was the main goal right now. Garcia was not as violent or corrupt as Bill’s inner circle. He took some money here and there, and only delivered a beat down once in a blue moon. He was still part of the corruption in the police department, and Quinton would solve this particular part of the problem right now.

  He runs after Garcia’s blue Stanza easily. Garcia had to be doing about 40 miles an hour. He was quickly overtaking him and would be on him in seconds. Garcia does not notice his presence until he leaps and lands on top of his hood. He is startled as he h
ears a loud thump on his hood. The sound of his car roof being torn open almost makes him veer off the road. Regaining control of the vehicle, he looks up in astonishment. The person destroying his hood was the former superintendent. Garcia pulls out his 38 and begins to fire; his gunfire proves to be no more effective than the prison guards. Quinton laughs at Garcia’s futile efforts. Garcia speeds up to his top speed and stops abruptly sending Quinton flying off into the street. As Quinton is getting to his feet, Garcia speeds up and rams him. He gets rammed in his midsection. Due to his abnormal strength, he is able to put his fist through the hood of the car and hold on. He’s fairly certain he could have survived getting run over by the vehicle, but did not want to risk losing Garcia. Garcia isn’t about to give up now. He turns his vehicle left on Lake and Cicero, sending the car smashing into a liquor store next to the train station. Garcia puts Quinton through the security gate of the store, and smashing into the glass sets of the alarm. This is not what Quinton had in mind. The alarm would no doubt alert the police. Perhaps it was time to try another tactic. Garcia did not know how this loco motherfucker got out of jail, but he would make sure he never had to worry about going back again. His bullets had not done much damage from what he could tell. Maybe this fool was wearing a bullet-resistant vest or was hyped up on something. He steps out of the car sending bits of glass flying in his wake. His car was halfway into the liquor store. How would he explain this to his insurance or his immediate superior on the force? Wait a minute he tells himself, maybe this could actually work to his advantage. The former superintendent had obviously escaped from jail. Shit, the jackass still had his prison uniform on. He could say Quinton robbed the bank, helped steal the money and tried to escape. When he tried to apprehend him, he grabbed his gun and he had no choice but to shoot him. He would, of course, have to work out some details, but it might work.