Wrath James White

by Skinzz

  "What night? Friday or Saturday?"

  "This Friday. Tomorrow night."

  "You think those punks will come to Jersey for the show?"

  "For The Circle Jerks? They'll come. They love that band. Plus, they know we'll be there and they think they can kick our asses now."

  "Hey, look at that guy in the Michael Jackson jacket! He looks just like the guy," Bo said, pointing to a guy in black pleather pants, a red pleather jacket with zippers all over it, wearing a white glove and dark sunglasses. His hair was permed so that it was curly and slicked back. He wasn't black. He could have been either Jewish or Italian. Little Davey didn't care. He was in a bad mood and this guy was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  "Faggot!"

  He ran across the street and confronted the guy.

  "Hey Faggot!"

  "I ain't no-"

  He never got a chance to finish the words. Little Davey shoved the Bowie knife into his gut so hard that the tip protruded from his back. He pulled it out and slammed it into his chest. The Michael Jackson wannabe crumpled to the pavement. Davey kicked him in the face, sending a spray of blood and teeth into the street. He kicked him in the temple and the guy began to convulse. Several cars screeched to a halt.

  "Hey! Leave that kid alone!" a fat guy in his thirties shouted, stepping from his Ford Taurus brandishing a steering wheel lock, ironically named "The Club".

  "Fuck you!" Bo yelled back and confronted the guy with nothing but his fists. The guy swung and cracked Bo on the side of the head with The Club. Bo dropped to his knees, shook his head once, then charged, tackling the guy in the middle of the street. While they struggled, Skinner ran over and began stomping the good Samaritan in the face.

  "Let's go before the cops come! Stop fucking around you two!" Little Davey yelled. More cars stopped and people were starting to leave their vehicles, yelling and threatening. Davey pulled Bo off of the motorist and pushed Skinner away.

  "Let's fucking GO!"

  "This son of a bitch hit me! I'll kill him!"

  "Bo! We have to go before the cops get here!"

  Bo looked around at the other motorists who were now closing in on them, shouting and pointing at them. One of them was kneeling down next to the Michael Jackson wannabe that Davey stabbed. Skinner had already started running.

  "Oh, shit. Did you kill that guy?" Bo whispered.

  "Let's just get the fuck out of here," Little Davey said. He started running and Bo quickly followed. A few people in the crowd chased after them. Davey wanted to turn around and use the blade on them. That would teach them. Instead he pumped his fist into the air.

  "WHITE POWEEEEERRRRRR!"

  In his head, the lyrics to an old Unrest song, Homicidal Maniacs, played. He shouted them at the top of his lungs as they cut down an alley onto the next street.

  "Death is born within the sound!

  Now fills the air from town to town!

  The hunger grows more every day!

  THE MANIAC HAS COME TO PLAY!"

  They ran a few more blocks then stopped outside Bo's apartment building.

  "I guess we're crashing with you tonight, Bo. We need to stay off the street."

  "Damn. My girl is going to have a fucking fit."

  "Is she coming over tonight?" Skinner asked.

  "Yeah, I was supposed to take her to dinner. It's some kind of anniversary or some shit. Our first kiss, our first fuck, the first time I finger-banged her, fuck if I know. Who the hell can keep up with this shit?"

  "Is Lisa coming with her?" Skinner asked.

  "I wasn't planning a fucking threesome if that's what you mean."

  "Damn, shame. Lisa has some amazing tits," Little Davey chimed in. "I'd love to fuck her myself."

  "Be careful. Skinner thinks he's in love with her," Bo said as he fished in his pocket for his keys. He opened the door and they all stepped into the small foyer. Moments later three police cars sped past with sirens blaring.

  Skinner blushed then changed the subject, looking back out at the street.

  "That was fucking close! Do you think that faggot is dead?" Skinner asked.

  Davey shrugged.

  "If he ain't dead, he sure as shit ain't happy. That'll teach him to walk around Camden dressed like a fucking queer."

  Bo and Skinner looked at each other. Their faces showed obvious concern with Davey. That was two people Little Davey'd murdered in the last week and they were accomplices in both.

  The elevator doors opened and the three boys stepped inside. More police cars raced through the neighborhood. Soon they would be coming for them.

  Let them come, Davey thought. He fingered the hilt of the bowie knife in his inner pocket. Blood had seeped through the lining of his bomber jacket and saturated his long-sleeved thermal shirt. The elevator doors closed and Davey closed his eyes, reliving the moment when he'd plunged the knife into that faggot. It had been an incredible rush. He'd felt unstoppable, the same way he felt in a mosh pit when Uncivil Disobedience or Skrewdriver was onstage, like he couldn't be hurt, couldn't be moved, couldn't be resisted!

  Let them come.

  Chapter 7

  Market Street, 1:57 pm

  The Jersey girls were in the backseat as Jason drove their Suzuki Samurai to the Gallery.

  "I don't know about this. My mom will kill me if something happens to this jeep."

  "Don't worry about it. We'll bring it right back. We just need to run a quick errand. We'll drop you off at the mall and then pick you up in an hour. That'll give you time to shop."

  The skinny girl who stroked Mack's cock when she was trippin', raised her hands, palms up and shrugged.

  "We spent all of our money." She wore crystals around her neck and a tie-dyed t-shirt underneath a brown, leather bomber jacket. She looked more like a confused hippy than a punk.

  "Well, you can window shop. Pick out all the things you're gonna buy when you come back down this weekend."

  "Okay, but just an hour, right?"

  Jason smiled as he watched the three girls step out of the jeep. Mack knew that smile. It was an expression of pure mischief but in this case, the mischief had already been done.

  "Yeah, right. One hour, max."

  The hippie-punk leaned back into the Suzuki and whispered into Mack's ear.

  "I would have sucked your dick if my friends weren't here. I think you're fucking hot. Maybe next time." She shrugged, kissed Mack on the cheek, and smiled then rushed to catch up with her friends.

  "See, they're not all afraid of the soul pole."

  Mack smiled then remembered what they were about to do and the smile fell hard from his face, shattering into a dozen lines of worry. Jason popped a cassette tape into the tape deck and turned up the volume. Public Enemy's "Fight The Power" blared from the speakers. Mack smirked, watching the waifish punk with the vampire-white skin and the haunted eyes rap at the top of his lungs. He looked out the window at the shoppers and commuters rushing to and fro as they passed Chestnut Street, wishing he was amongst them instead of on his way to hide a body. His mood grew increasingly solemn until the song switched to Super Lover Cee and Casanova Rud's latest hit titled "Girl's Act Stupidaly."

  "Seriously, man? I'm black and I don't even like that shit."

  "Super Lover Cee? He's dope!"

  "He's fuckin' dumb. Girls act stupidally? That's whack. Put some Ministry on."

  "Yeah, dude. Stigmata!"

  Jason popped one cassette out of the deck and deftly slammed in another. The two cruised the remaining blocks singing about how the look in your eyes was like a car crash or a knife.

  "Stigmata!"

  Mack pounded the dashboard with his fists and stomped the floorboards as they sang. He loved this song. It was like rocket fuel to him. It made his blood surge with adrenaline. They pulled up in front of the house just as the song ended. Mack stepped out of the Suzuki feeling like a new man.

  "Okay, let's do this shit."

  He pulled out his keys and unlocked the f
ront door. The air inside felt stale, dry, lifeless. The house was empty for once. The silence was appropriately funereal. Mack and Jason stepped over the blankets, clothes, and fast food wrappers and empty beer bottles and cans as they crept through the house. They didn't speak and they tried hard not to make a sound, tip-toeing like they were afraid to wake the dead. The basement door was still closed.

  Mack reached out for the door. His hand trembled with a superstitious dread. He almost expected the door to yank open from the inside and Billy to be standing there with his bleeding head lolling to one side, his neck broken and twisted, but the doorway was dark and empty. He reached inside, still expecting to feel a cold clammy hand clamp over his as he groped for the light switch. He'd seen far too many horror movies. That was practically all he watched.

  And the only books he read were either by Stephen King, Clive Barker, or Skipp and Spector.

  Found it.

  He flicked on the light and there was Billy, still lying in the same position he'd been in last night. He was definitely dead.

  "Fuck."

  He and Jason walked down the stairs. A rat scurried away from the body as they neared the bottom.

  "Aw shit. I think that rat was eating on him."

  Jason swallowed hard.

  "Did it eat his face? Can you see?" He sounded almost excited.

  Mack leaned over the corpse to get a better look at his face.

  "Naw. He looks fine. Grab an arm."

  Mack reached down and grabbed one of Billy's cold dead arms and Jason knelt down and grabbed the other. Rigor mortis had already come and gone and now Billy's body was cold and limp.

  "Ewww, man. He feels nasty."

  Mack sighed heavily.

  "He's dead. How do you expect him to feel?"

  "You mad at me, Mack?"

  "Naw. We cool. I just want this shit over with."

  Jason nodded then looked Mack in the eyes.

  "Seriously, dude. I know this shit was my fault. If we get caught, I'll tell them I did it. I'm not gonna let you go down for this. You've got college and shit to worry about."

  Mack nodded solemnly.

  "Let's just not get caught. Okay?"

  "Okay, dude."

  The skinhead's corpse was awkward and heavy. Carrying him up the stairs was like carrying a one hundred and sixty pound sack of laundry. Mack lost his balance several times as they dragged Billy up to the living room. He was afraid that all three of them would slip and tumble down the stairs and there would be three bodies for someone to dispose of.

  Finally, they made it to the top of the stairs. They were both out of breath.

  "Fuck! This sonuvabitch was heavy and he stinks like shit."

  "Corpses void their bowels when they die."

  "How do you know that?" Jason asked.

  Mack shrugged.

  "I read a lot."

  "Dude, you read some scary shit."

  "Yeah, I like horror. It's the only thing that keeps me interested."

  "Who? Like Stephen King?"

  "Stephen King, Clive Barker, Robert R. McCammon, Skipp and Spector. They're fucking awesome, man. I love their shit."

  "I bet you'd dig reading Baudelaire or Comte De Lautremonte."

  "Who are they?"

  "Poets, dude. Lautremonte wrote this twisted book about satanism and shit called Les Chants de Maldoror. The guys from Skinny Puppy said it influenced their music."

  "That's cool. I ain't into Satanism. I think it's a bunch of bullshit, but I like Skinny Puppy. I'll have to check it out."

  "You'd dig it. Seriously."

  "Hopefully I won't be reading the shit from prison. Let's get this motherfucker out of here."

  "How we gonna get Billy outside to the car without anybody seeing us? Maybe we should have waited until tonight," Jason asked.

  "There's too many people hanging around here at night and we won't have a car. Let's just carry him out. Check to make sure there's nobody on the street and just carry him right out the front door. Anyone looking out the window will just think he's drunk."

  "We should take off his jacket and put a hat on him or something. We can put his jacket back on when we dump him. It would just be kind of suspicious if the cops report a bald guy in a leather jacket found dead in the projects and some neighbor saw us carrying a bald guy in a leather jacket out of our house."

  Mack nodded.

  "True. Good idea. There's a beanie over there by the fireplace, on the mantel. Grab one of Rachel's sweatshirts too. We can take it off of him and put the jacket back on 'im when we get to the projects."

  They laid Billy down in the living room and stripped off his jacket, slid on a Temple University sweatshirt and a knit cap to cover his bald bloodied head, then picked him up again. Mack carried him under the arms and Jason held his legs.

  "Wait. We can't carry him outside like this. It looks like we're carrying a body. We're going to have to get on either side of him."

  Jason ran around to the side and threw one of the deadman's arms over his shoulder and wrapped his arm around Billy's back, holding him up by the arm pit. He grabbed Billy's belt with his other hand, Mack readjusted his grip to a similar hold and they dragged him out the front door. The front steps were slippery and Jason stumbled almost immediately but somehow managed to hold onto Billy.

  "Don't drop him. Then he'll really look dead."

  Jason shrugged.

  "I'm sure the neighbors'll just think he's drunk like everybody else they see coming in and out of here."

  The street was empty. Mack kept a close eye on the windows to see if anyone was peeking out and spying on them but he didn't notice anything. Everything looked quiet.

  "Here. You drive," Jason said, handing Mack the keys.

  "I can't drive."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I can't drive. I never learned."

  "Seriously?"

  "Cars are just a waste of money and natural resources. I can get home on the subway, the trolley, the bus, the L train, or the train. Fuck do I need a car for? To drive it to the train station?"

  "Okay, just open the door and hand me the keys back. I can't open the door and hold him up too."

  Mack opened the back door and they slid Billy in. He handed the keys back to Jason and walked around to the passenger side.

  "I wish this thing had tinted windows."

  "Maybe we should close his eyelids," Jason said.

  Mack looked back at Billy's face, seeing it for the first time. His eyes were wide open and his eyeballs looked wrinkly and deflated. One of them was missing. There was just a huge ragged orifice where it had been.

  "That fucking rat ate his damn eyeball!"

  He reached back and closed Billy's eyelids.

  "This is about the craziest fucking thing I've ever done. I'm getting seriously fucked up when this is over."

  "Me too," Jason said.

  They drove toward Eleventh Street, toward Creative and Performing Arts High School, where they'd both gone. CAPA was right next to the Martin Luther King Housing Projects. There was an empty lot beside the projects filled with trash, old furniture, rusted out cars, and illegally dumped building materials. They were sure they could dump the body there easily without being seen. It was Thursday, so the usual gaggle of unwashed ashy-kneed kids who played in the lot would still be in school. As long as there weren't any homeless people there picking through the garbage they would be fine.

  Minutes after leaving the house, they drove past their old school. Mack looked up at the five story building and a feeling of sadness descended on him as he remembered all the high hopes he'd had for himself when he was first accepted into CAPA. He thought he'd be the next Stephen King. He expected to write his first horror novel before his senior year and become one of the world's youngest best-selling authors. He'd started a novel but never came close to finishing it and now, he was a murderer.

  "I'm going home for a bit after this, Demon. I just need a few hours to myself, to lay low and get m
y head straight. I still want to go to that concert Friday night at City Gardens if you can get us a ride. The Circle Jerks are playing. I just need to workout, say hi to my mom, get something to eat, and get some rest. It's been a crazy ass day. We'll hook up tomorrow night though."

  Jason was silent. Mack knew his friend hated it when he left, but Mack still had a home. He didn't hate his parents like the rest of them. He loved his mom. He just loved the streets too. He loved the scene.

  "I'll be back tomorrow night, Demon. I promise."

  "Yeah, okay. It's cool, dude. Hey, but would you mind coming to my house with me? They might let me in if you're with me. My parents hate starting shit when company is around."

  Mack nodded.

  "Of course, man. No problem. I got your back."

  The Martin Luther King Housing Project's three twelve story tenement buildings towered above them as they pulled into the adjacent lot. They were quiet as projects go. At this hour of the day, there was very little activity. Somehow, in broad daylight, it didn't seem quite so dangerous. It just seemed sad.

  The residents who had jobs were still at work, many on their second or third job in the last twenty four hours. Those who were unemployed were still out looking for work, hustling up money for food or bills or drug money, or still asleep. Old ladies scurried about, shopping or doing laundry. Young mothers pushed strollers or carried infants on their hips, gossiping amongst themselves and yelling threats at their young children. Soon the older kids would be getting out of school or coming back from wherever they'd gone instead of school. That's when it was best not to be there if you didn't belong. In the projects, anyone over the age of eight was likely to be armed and dangerous.

  There was a police substation directly across the street which kept the usual violence contained if not at all minimized. Mack and Jason eyed it warily as they drove around to the far end of the vacant lot where one of the tenement buildings would block their view of the substation and likewise block the substation's view of them. There was a large pile of cinderblocks and broken furniture in the farthest corner by a chainlink fence.

  "Let's dump him over there."

  Jason pulled the Suzuki alongside the piles of trash and debris so that the vehicle would partially shield them from anyone who happened to be on the street. They lifted a torn, rodent infested, plaid couch and scooted aside an old piss-stained mattress and a few cinder blocks to make a hole in the pile of trash big enough for a body.