The two brothers felt uneasy during the car ride towards Safe Haven the day after they discovered the cryptic message summoning them to the unfamiliar town.
The suburban municipality resembled something off of television — wide hedges, exotic-looking trees, huge lawns, and large homes set WAY back from the sidewalk and street.
The two assassins wondered how anyone could ever live in such sickening tranquillity. Both were flat-out nauseated by the idyllic scenery once they finally reached the designated home mentioned in the mysterious message.
The largest of the two brothers was called Mayhem. He was a bull-necked, copper-haired man who reminded one vaguely of an ox. He had steel-gray eyes, a protruding jaw and enormous ears,
"Well, we showed up just as the letter requested. But this place looks deserted."
Murder was smaller, but more dangerous-looking than his brother. He was compact, muscular and pale with close-cropped blonde hair and sky-blue eyes,
"I'm going to check in the other room there's gotta be a clue somewhere that'll give us a hint as to why someone lured us here."
"You do that I'll keep searching out here."
After thoroughly scrutinizing the premises, the immense executioner heard his brother yell out,
"Hey, I think I found something."
Before Mayhem could comment, a crash shattered the near-silence. Just as the sound of broken glass faded, a yelp of surprise reverberated from the room that Murder was searching. Mayhem rushed towards it. Once he traversed inside, he found his brother standing in the corner concealed safely behind his shield. In the center of the room, resting on the carpet was a metal ball a grenade of some sort. The window in the room had been smashed and shards of glass littered the room. Obviously the metal ball had been launched into the house from somewhere outside.
Murder glanced at the round banal-looking object that lay near his and Mayhem's feet,
"Hey look, bro a gas grenade."
The immense executioner peered down at the baseball-sized sphere as well,
"That's absurd. They don't make gas grenades so small. This is a frag-shell bomb."
"No ... see the markings on it? This is a gas-grenade, most-likely fired from a PBR Mortar 52mm Jet Shot Mark one."
Mayhem shook his head,
"You need glasses, blondie this looks more like a fragment-bomb fired from an Arwen 37 Antiriot Weapon System."
At that moment, the metal sphere began to hiss quietly. Then somnolent gas began to stream from it in seemingly all directions.
An annoyed Murder turned to face his immense brother, his sky blue eyes were as wide as hubcaps and his face had blanched to an eggshell white,
"Told ya it was a gas-grenade, smart-ass!"
Before Mayhem could answer, the area was overrun by a rolling cloud of gas. His eyes stung and his throat burned quite a bit. He peered through the haze and saw Murder begin to teeter on his feet succumbing to the tranquilizing vapors. Then his brother's knees buckled and he toppled forward. Mayhem himself tried to move away from the grenade, but his legs were made of cement. The room's lights appeared to swirl around like fireflies high on crack as he slid to the floor.
The gas thickened, growing more and more dense. Both of the brothers felt their senses leave them then they knew nothing for some time.
Encompassed by warmth, the blond-haired assassin slept comfortably on a cot in a dimly lit room. When he finally stirred and opened his eyes, he was puzzled. Where was he? How much time had passed since he and Mayhem were knocked out by the gas grenade? His brother was lying on a cot beside him, fully clothed, and his mace was at his side. Apparently their captors were so confident that they didn't care whether or not the two assassins kept their weapons.
Seconds after Mayhem regained consciousness both brothers were ushered out of the dimly-lit room and jostled into a larger one by a rifle-wielding man in a black uniform. Once their eyes adjusted to the brighter lights of this new room, the two brothers tried to take the spectacle they were witnessing in stride.
They saw an army of armed, masked men standing on the brow of a raised platform. These men were known as the Dark Forces, warriors hired by their captor to serve as bodyguards and his own private army. All of them were dressed in black uniforms just like the man who had jounced them into the room at gun-point. Their hands were covered with gloves. Full-faced masks covered their heads. They were each strapped with AK .47s and Uru Mekanika rifles.
As he stared down at the two brothers from where he stood on the elevated platform, Jamaal Jackson, leader of the Dark Forces,
"Sorry about gassing you senseless before bringing you here, but I couldn't take the chance on you figuring out where this little base of operations is located."
Jackson was a tall, brawny, ebony-skinned African-American. The well-defined muscles in his back, shoulders and arms bunched and moved as he helped another one of his enlistee warriors to move a crate full of ammo onto the platform. Once he was finished he turned his attention back towards the brothers,
"Now, I'm going make this short and sweet I want Mayor Hardgraves out of the way. I want him iced. Rubbed out. Snuffed. KILLED. My reasons why don't concern you, but I shall give you the opportunity to name your price for services rendered."
Mayhem glanced at his brother, then looked up at the mysterious man and shrugged,
Later that night Murder turned to his brother and asked,
"Why did we accept his offer so quickly?"
"You can't figure out why?"
Murder shook his head.
Mayhem's grin broadened,
"It's because that Jamaal Jackson guy reminded us of Tyrone. And Tyrone was the one person we could never say 'no' to, remember?"
Murder's sky-blue eyes widened with realization when he thought about Tyrone Washington the black man who had reared him and Mayhem like sons. The man who had trained him and his brother in the fine arts of fighting and killing.
Their adventure with Tyrone began after a curious chain of events, the first of which began when Murder and Mayhem then known as Corey and Jody Spooner were watching a videotape they had found. A video tape that clearly showed their father, whom they thought was still at work, doing things they had never seen him or any other man do before.
On the videotape they saw their father physically and brutally beat a handsome young blond man senseless then proceed to mutilate the unconscious man's body.
They watched as their nude father picked the equally nude young man up under the arms, hoisted him over his shoulder and, after testing the weight, made his way over to an armchair. Once there, he sat down and cradled the limp blond in his arms on his lap. He hugged the unconscious victim gently, and began to nibble and then BITE the blond man's ears!
Between savage growls, he bit and tore at the blond's ears until they bled, and even bit on his victim's neck until he had drawn blood there too. The man's blond head languished on this bleeding neck lolling like the bud of a flower on a broken stem. Though he was still unconscious, he moaned in pain.
Their father's long-nailed hands began to scratch savagely at the victim's chest. Slowly he raked his way down the unconscious man's arms, and then down to his flat stomach. Angry red scratches appeared wherever their father's sharpened nails touched.
Both brothers knew that their father could never tire of mutilating his victim's bloody, scratched limp body. They knew then and there that their widowed father could continue with this sadistic behavior for the duration of the six-hour videotape scratching, cutting and biting his inert captive.
After a while the brothers watched as their father manually spread his victim's legs a little wider on his lap. His hand then scraped harshly across the top of his penis and the unconscious blond actually gasped.
Their father's fingers began to caress and stroke it a little until it began to come to life. Little by little the tool began to expand, being filled with blood and the blond victim's unconscious excitement. With one more stroke, their father smiled to himself.
He shifted the blond youth on his lap, before spreading his legs even wider. He wrapped his hand around the youth's erection, and while ferociously punching and twisting the handsome blond's testicles with my other hand their father began to masturbate him.
Though still out cold, the victim cried in pain. Their father masturbated the young man to a climax. His unconscious victim had bumped and jumped in his arms as his hand sped over his penis. Almost at once, after the blond's orgasm subsided, he began to vomit without awakening.
Then their father moved his hands to victim's testicles, tugging and twisting them mercilessly. He ended the whole brutal experience by taking a screwdriver and plunging it dead-center of his young blond victim's nut-sack!
Both brothers never saw any more of the video because a hideous snarl shattered the quiet atmosphere of the den,
"What the fuck...!?"
Their father, who was home early from work, stepped out of the darkness. SLAP! Before Jody was even able to face him. The air exploded around them. He heard Corey scream as he too was slapped.
"I told you little bastards to NEVER to go into my private things!"
Their father screamed, his eyes full of uncontrollable rage and devoid of all reason or mercy.
Then Jody felt something akin to a sledgehammer slam him in the gut. He and Corey were both punched and flung violently back and both brothers landed with cries of pain as their heads and young bodies struck the floor. As their father beat them in rotation, cries of confusion, pain and terror pierced the night.
As soon as he got the chance, Jody grabbed his brother's wrist and both boys fled the house. Fled on foot down the street and into the dismaying night.
The Johnson family found Jody and Corey lying belly-up and sobbing on their backyard lawn. Both bruised and battered boys had run three blocks from their bloodthirsty father and were trying desperately to catch their breaths when Mrs. Ruth Johnson and her mother-in-law came out the back door. Neither Jody nor Corey saw either of these women until they were standing directly over them.
Though they were hardly more than semi-conscious as they were gently ushered into the house, each boy was introduced in turn to each member of the Johnson clan: there was a handsome boy who was around Jody's age, Hakeem; the apparent head of the household who was tall and resembled a bulkier version of Michael Jordan Amos; his wife, who looked ten years younger than her purported age, Mrs. Ruth Johnson; a muscular young man who looked to be around twenty who went by the name of Marcus.
Last, a senior citizen, her hair silver, her brown eyes stern. She was Amos's mother and Hakeem's grandmother, Miss Mattie Johnson. The boys already knew the old woman by reputation. It was rumored that she was a Louisiana voodoo queen well-versed in the dark arts.
The family's collective heart immediately went out to weeping Corey with his bruised little face and split lip, but it was Jody who garnered the most attention. He was lightly tanned, with a button nose and slightly curly copper-colored hair.
He couldn't have been long into his adolescence, but the way he carried himself made him seem older like a grown man even with a face full of terrified tears. Being a black family, the Johnsons could faultlessly spot a person who had seen some harsh times.
The fact that Jody and Corey were white made no difference whatsoever. When the limp and exhausted boys managed to gasp out the story about how their father had beat them, the Johnson's suspicions were confirmed.
The lads didn't get into just WHY Niles Spooner had taken it upon himself to brutalize his sons, but their injuries were enough to convince the Johnson clan that neither boy should return home just yet.
Amos Johnson gave Corey and Jody a good soaking in the tub before his wife tended to their injuries more thoroughly. When the electrician began to wash Corey's feet, the blond boy murmured with pleasure.
The experience reminded him of the sweet days when his father his TRUE father, not the brutal man who had legally adopted him and changed his last name to match his and Jody's. Back in those sweet days, when he was a really little kid, the blond boy's father had bathed him in the tub, taking special care with his tender young feet.
Corey often dreamed that his deceased dad would return from the dead and take him and Jody away to some safe world. He began to dream of such a world as Amos Johnson almost tenderly caressed his soles with the soapy sponge. And when Amos later began to message Jody's soles with the sponge, the tanned boy actually moaned with rapture. Moaned even more ardently than his half-brother had.
With just a little soap and water on them, the poor, bewildered boys couldn't seem to stay awake. After Mattie whom the boy's were somewhat afraid of due to the rumors which surrounded her in the neighborhood patched them up it wasn't long before they perched themselves on the sofa and began falling in and out of sleep.
When they were fully convinced that they were safe that they could let their guards down completely they dropped all the way into dreamland as if someone had conked them unconscious.
Jody and Corey hid with the Johnson family for some time after that. The Johnsons had taken in kids before. Most often they were black or were abandoned waifs from the stock of newly arrived immigrants from somewhere south of the border.
The family had kept many a Inglewood youngster, bringing them in out the cold. The exhausted Spooner brothers were just the latest. Amos and Marcus carried them to Hakeem's bedroom, undressed them, and tucked them into bed.
Later on the boys would have considered staying with the family indefinitely. But not soon after they were taken in, both boys were retrieved by Niles Spooner.
But even time with their abusive father would be short-lived, for someone else would come into the lives of Jody and Corey Spooner. Someone who would personally see to it that neither boy saw their abusive sire ever again.
On the day of their abduction, Jody and Corey's father had been arguing with them as they drove haphazardly down route 77 towards the town of Brookfield. Their father cursed the two youngsters as he drove. Cursed them venomously for a thousand different reasons, none of which made much sense to either boy. He hit the boys too. Had been hitting them liberally since the day he retrieved them from the home of the "nigger family" that had been looking after them.
In fact, he was reaching over to give Jody several slaps across the face when he lost control of the car.
To Corey the back of the car suddenly seemed to slide away from their dad, and the steering wheel was spinning under the man's clutching hands. Instinctively his dad pressed his foot to the break in an attempt to steer into a skid, but there was no response; the car was going faster and faster, sliding sideways across the road, over the bank, into the woods below.
There was the brittle sound of breaking glass as the car came to a stop, upside down under an elm tree. And then there was just a deep, unearthly silence.
Jody managed to crawl from the wreckage and also pull his brother free. Then they without bothering to even check on the condition of their motionless father fled into the woods beyond the embank.
They crossed the woods, avoiding the numerous black communities as well as the white ones, but they would venture near the small hardscrabble farms they passed as they made their journey to nowhere.
The nights they slept out in the woods became easier and easier, and there was plenty of fish to be caught in the river and streams. And after a while the Spooner brothers began to wonder if they would spend the rest of their lives living like a couple of redskins who had somehow been left behind by the rest of their tribe.
One day they were going to make an attempt at stealing a sweet potato pie from the window of a lone farmhouse when they unexpectedly found themselves standing face to face with the farm's owner.
It was a black man. One who looked like no other the Spooner brothers had ever seen before. The man's dark skin and the way he stood and held his pitchfork they were all intriguing to the boys, who had only seen black people in the form of the kindly Johnson family.
This man here looked positively treacherous. How was such a being possible? Unlike many kids their age, the Spooner brothers were not one to turn and run at the first sign of "potential" danger, so when the man asked who they were and where they had come from, Jody told him even stepped forward with a grin on his young face.
It was then that the man unexpectedly lashed out with the wood-only end of his pitchfork and knocked Jody senseless to the ground. For a few seconds the man seemed concerned that he might have killed the boy, but upon crouching down to examine the motionless Jody was satisfied to find that the lad was still breathing.
Corey, thinking that his brother had been killed, suddenly bolted from the scene and started at a run through the trees feet pounding over the wooded area and dodging between trees. The black stranger wasted no time in picking up a baseball-sized rock, took careful aim at the fleeing youngster, and launched a fast-ball.
There could be heard a cry of pain with a sickening thudding sound as the rock connected with the back of the youngster's right knee. Young Corey tumbled to ground, knocking himself cold upon impact.
Then the black stranger quickly folded the unconscious youngsters into fetal positions and jammed their small bodies into a burlap sack, which he hoisted over his shoulder and carried back down the hill where his farm was located.
Since no whites ever ventured into the African-American boondocks in this area, it was pretty doubtful that anyone would come snooping around it in search of a couple of so called "trailer trash" boys who clearly hailed from some other state.
In other words, this enterprising stranger realized that he had been lucky enough to bag himself a couple of untraceable young farmhands for his homestead slaves. And he sorely needed slaves in recent months due to his recently diagnosed debilitating heart condition.
Though he would have preferred to have mature men helping him with the heavy work around his farm, these boys would do in a pinch.
When Jody and Corey finally regained consciousness, it was no surprise that they weren't ready to begin work on the black stranger's farm right away. Their heads throbbed, and their equilibriums were way off, especially Jody's.
Upon realizing that they had been kidnapped, they tried to remain brave only cried sporadically. And after their captor a man named Tyrone Washington whipped them with his belt a few times, the brothers stopped even trying to plead. Instead the boys endured in silence, their blue and gray eyes bright with fear.
Liberally applied beatings gradually persuaded the boys to do whatever Tyrone ordered him to, and within a day or two the Spooner brothers were busy laboring away on their captor's farm.
They quickly learned how to do their chores without complaint. And eventually their captor discovered the boys' inner rage and saw to their "education". Jody and Corey quickly became less slaves and more of apprentices.
Tyrone had been a mercenary in the days before he hid himself away from law-enforcement and the rest of the world within a hardscrabble farm in an obscure town. He found that he and his captives shared certain specific interests — killing and a desire for making money. Often, but not always, the two desires could be combined. So he began teaching the two boys how to do so.
During such times, the Spooner brothers could have easily run away escaped their captor forever. But they didn't want to. Corey and Jody knew that if they left the farm unattended, it would go to hell. And they had put too much of their own sweat and blood into Tyrone's farm to allow that to happen. Still, there was another reason the boys didn't want to leave.
They were growing attached to their captor. And they weren't sure why.
The Spooner brothers' hatred of their father had been so uncomplicated, so natural and easy quite different from the range of emotions they felt towards their black captor. Sometimes Jody and Corey wondered how they could dislike so many things about the man who'd kidnapped them, and yet still love him. And how they could despise Tyrone for having abducted and enslaved him, and yet still find themselves anxious for the ex-mercenary's approval.
And there was no doubt that the man was becoming fond of them as well. When the Spooner brothers both complained of a burning fever and dizziness, Tyrone immediately summoned a "discreet" physician in his community, and when the boys were diagnosed with chicken pox, he personally nursed them through the illness, pacing their sickroom with a parent's worry.
After the boys recovered, Tyrone began to unconsciously keep the youngsters near him more during the day, and gradually the ex-mercenary began to teach them everything he knew of murder and mayhem for profit. And that eventually became Corey and Jody's new names Murder and Mayhem.
Both boys were well into their adolescence when Tyrone had his first heart attack.
It wasn't a serious one, but he was forced to slow down. This man who had been so godlike before suddenly revealed some fragility, and Murder and Mayhem realized that they cared deeply for him. Tyrone had taken them from being desperate backwoods scavengers and made them into reasonably happy human beings; he had educated them, he'd seen to it that the boys became cultured and knowledgeable and "skilled". Both boys feared that their mentor would die.
But Tyrone wasn't about to give up the ghost. He began to regain his strength daily. And the brothers' former captor had almost completely recovered the day he met Imani Woods.
Imani had the sort of exotic ethnic beauty that commanded both awe and respect. Her raven-black hair, coffee colored skin, and tall, blade-thin body turned the heads of every man in four counties.
She was the daughter of a black undertaker in Windham, located a couple of towns away. She and Tyrone had met at an old fashioned "jump-the-broom" wedding the groom was a friend of Tyrone's, and the bride was Imani's sister. They reached for the same chitterling on a platter and within a few minutes found themselves outside on the porch of the house, talking. By the time the moon was in clear view Tyrone had invited her to the home he now shared with the two young brothers.
From the start Imani had not liked the two brothers. She was possessive and she had no intention of sharing Tyrone with the children who had, in effect, become her new boyfriend's surrogate sons. During breakfast on her first day sleeping over at the homestead, Imani threw down the gauntlet, ordering the brothers when Tyrone wasn't within earshot of course to stay out of her way.
After breakfast, Murder and Mayhem tried to help her with the housework, but were met with stubborn refusal. Imani was not going to have some white boychildren invading HER new personal space within HER man's home. It was against nature. So Murder and Mayhem left the house to complete their daily chores in the stables.
Their friction with Imani grew every day. It reached the point where Murder and Mayhem decided to take a small vacation away from Tyrone's homestead to stay with the Johnson family in Inglewood.
Tyrone truly loved Murder and Mayhem, everyone knew that. But when he heard the news that the boys were going to be going away for a few days and consequently leaving him alone with Imani a visible burden seemed to slide off his shoulders. The brothers' former captor suddenly had a jaunty bounce to his step.
And Imani was unabashedly glad to see the boys leave.
She was so eager to get Murder and Mayhem away from the homestead and away from Tyrone that for a week before their scheduled departure the boys had to keep asking her for clothes each morning because she had already packed everything.
"We don't need all these clothes," Mayhem told her. "Murder and I are only going be gone for a week,"
Imani only shrugged with a clear glint of disappointment in her eyes.
It was then that Murder and Mayhem decided that their temporary vacation away from the homestead would be a permanent one. They still remained the closest of friends with Tyrone Washington, but they never again shared a home with him and his jealous lover.
As his mind drifted back to the present, Mayhem asked his brother,
"You think ole Tyrone still lives on that farm?"
Murder shook his head,
"Last I heard he and Imani bought a house in Ladera Heights where they own a soul food restaurant."
The muscular gray-eyed youth was taken aback,
"He's still with Imani? Man even though he knows a thousand different ways to assassinate someone, I didn't think he'd survive living with that bitch."
Late the next evening, after most of his political staffers had gone home for the day, Murder and Mayhem stormed the heavily guarded office of Mayor Samuel Hardgraves. And in a matter of seconds the two brothers found themselves surrounded by the politician's sizable security force.
"We don't keep any valuables here," said Harlan Rogers, the Mayor's chief aide.
He stared quizzically at the two brothers,
"What do you hope to steal? The chocolate cake that the fellas bought me to celebrate my birthday?"
"No way! In the first place, Mayhem and I are ASSASINS, not thieves. And in the second place, I'm allergic to chocolate."
Mayhem lifted his mace. Then he gazed at the security guards surrounding him and Murder squarely in the eyes,
"You fellas really should surrender my brother and I are old soldiers."
"Oh, then I suppose you fought in 'Nam, huh?" said one guard, rushing towards Mayhem with his pistol drawn.
Mayhem stepped forward, inside his opponent's reach, and hammered him with a mace-strike that snapped the guard's neck,
"I'm not THAT old, you arrogant little prick!"
In the meantime Murder was taking out the short, chiseled man who seemed to be the leader of the group.
After delivering a lightening-quick upper-cut, the blond assassin boldly stripped his dazed adversary naked and had him lying on his back with his legs spread. Never was there a more inviting target.
Murder raised his left leg high in the air, swung it over the security leader's body and drove his knee into the chiseled man's unsuspecting and exposed balls. The leader shrieked in agony as the shocking pain in his balls traveled from his nervous system to his brain.
His legs clamped tightly against Murder's knee, but the blond assassin didn't withdraw it. Instead he raised himself up with his arms and increased the tension on the leader's balls grinding and gouging his knee viciously into his adversary's nut-sack and cock.
Murder, upon realizing that his enemy was becoming inexplicably aroused, grabbed both of the chiseled man's wrists and snaked his knees between his adversary's legs spreading them wide apart. Then he raised his hips up and slammed them down against the leader's groin, driving his still hard pile-driving cock directly into his balls.
Murder used his enemy's own stiff dick as if it were a battering ram and continued to pound it into the security leader's balls. The chiseled man twisted and turned as Murder continuously attacked his manhood with his knee, driving the stiff cock backwards into his adversary's balls while he did pushups over his prostrate body.
Just as Murder drove his knee into the chiseled man's balls for the twentieth time, his adversary broke free from his grasp. The chiseled man's hands then shot for his balls in an attempt to protect them from the blond assassin's attack, but it was no use. Murder simply drove his knee into the chiseled man's hands and crushed his balls even harder.
Then the security leader grabbed for Murder's balls, desperately hoping that a counterassault would work in his favor. But just as his hands reached the blond assassin's nut-sack, Murder hammered his spiked boots into his balls, a solid upper cut right between the security leader's family jewels.
Again the chiseled man dropped his hands to cover his groin and cup his now bloodied balls. Murder quickly rolled him over and after freeing his own throbbing cock reached around his waist, grasping and groping until he found his adversaries bloodied, sticky nut-sack and snared them with his ball-claw hands.
Now the chiseled man was helpless to protect himself while Murder brutally kneaded his balls and prepared to ram his stiff cock up his ass and violate his hole.
The blond assassin sledge hammered his cock into the chiseled man's anus without the benefit of any lubrication.
His enemy's ass was tight, but Murder brutally forced his cock into his taut hole. Murder ground the head of his cock against his adversary's sphincter muscle until it finally surrendered and allowed the blond assassin's ample cock entrance. Murder pumped his cock in and out of the chiseled man's hole, plunging it in deeper with each thrust until the sticky pre-cum-coated hair of his bush was pressed tightly against his ass cheeks.
Murder continued to ream his enemy's asshole with his dick then mangled his balls with both of his spike-gloved hands. The blond assassin pounded the head of his cock against the security leader's prostrate until he unloaded with a flood of cum a flood that saturated the interior of the chiseled man's innards.
While murder had his fun with the security leader, Mayhem systematically took out the other members of the security force.
Murder's cock was still steel-hard when he pulled it out of his enemy's hole. He let go of the chiseled man's balls and stood up between his legs. He followed this up by savagely driving his spiked boots directly into the leader's battered testicles. The blond assassin then punted the chiseled man's head with his boot spikes until his enemy was unconscious or dead Murder didn't care which.
Half of Hardgraves's security force was now dead or dying, and the rest were beginning to realize that something had gone terribly wrong.
Mayhem smiled at them,
"Hey, don't worry fellas I kill pretty quick. Chances are it'll only hurt a second before you're dead."
And a few moments later it was all over.
The bloody scene the brothers had left at the door of the mayor's office was pretty bad. A half-dozen corpses, including Harlan Rogers, were strewn grotesquely around the entrance area. The bodies had been either lacerated beyond all recognition by Murder's spikes, or they had been pounded to jelly by Mayhem's mace.
Because blood was still pouring from the fresh wounds of their victim's carcasses, the smell of copper hung heavily in the air. Harlan Rogers had been bludgeoned so badly that the side of his head was smashed in like a crushed melon.
The man who called himself "Foreshadow" had shoved both the desk and the chair against the door to the mayor's office while a panicked Samuel Hardgraves ventured into the adjacent bathroom to take a leak.
The mysterious being known as Foreshadow had been having a confidential meeting with the mayor at the time of Murder and Mayhem's arrival. And while the two psychotic brothers mutilated the mayor's private security forces, Foreshadow himself barricaded the door of the main office and loaded his own pistol. He and Hardgraves were safe from the two assassins for the moment, but how long could this last?
After a while Foreshadow noticed that Hardgraves seemed to be staying in his office bathroom a long time, and he thought that the mayor might have fainted from sheer terror in there. But when the mysterious man went in, he saw that Hardgraves hadn't passed out but rather the incumbent mayor was making a valiant attempt to eat his gun. His forefinger stroked slowly at the trigger.
"What the hell are you doing?" Foreshadow asked.
"Do you know who's out there? That's murder and Mayhem! If they get a hold of me I'll be tortured and then chopped into tiny bits. If I blow my own head off atleast I will have robbed them of the chance to break all of my fingers one by one and bust my kneecaps first!"
Foreshadow got the revolver away from Hardgraves and began slapping his face to bring him to his senses. The mayor fought the mysterious man as best he could,
"Give me back that gun! What do you care if I splatter my brains all over the place?"
"I need you Hardgraves! It'll take your influence as a public official to keep the cops away from my camp! Plus, from what I hear going on outside, you're going to need a new security squad. I happen to have a small battalion that would be a fitting replacement."
Hardgraves was incredulous,
"So the only reason you're trying to save me is because you need a favor?"
"You got it," Foreshadow replied.
The mysterious man was dressed completely in black. His hands were covered with gloves. A full-faced mask covered his entire head. Not an inch of skin was visible. He carried an intricately carved wooden cane,
"I need you alive solely to protect my business interests,"
"Well tough shit!" Hardgraves shouted.
He grabbed his gun back from Foreshadow,
"I'm going to blow my head off now so you and those two psychotic brothers out there are out of luck today!"
Feeling that he had no choice, Foreshadow lashed out with his wooden cane and knocked Hardgraves senseless to the ground,
"Sorry about this, Mr. Mayor, but I've come too far to have all of my plans ruined now."
The mysterious man then retrieved a coil of nylon rope from within the folds of his uniform and trussed the unconscious Hardgraves as he lay on his stomach. His feet were drawn up behind him, bound and secured to another piece of rope that similarly raised his arms. Foreshadow checked the knots and drew them tight.
Then Foreshadow bent down from the waist and pulled Hardgraves forward over his shoulder ropes and all. He straightened up easily, holding the mayor with one arm, and carried him out of a secret exit-way in the office. Once outside of the office, Foreshadow carried his burden to a waiting van. The mysterious man then unceremoniously dumped the mayor inside the Dodge Caravan and vroomed off towards parts unknown.
The two brothers watched as the man at the wheel of the van removed his mask and drove the vehicle away. They knew that there wasn't a chance in hell that they would be able to catch it, or even place a tracer device on it. The mysterious stranger along with mayor Hardgraves had gotten away.
Mayhem watched the van until it had faded completely out of sight,
"Do you know who that was? The guy driving the van?"
Murder, still frustrated over their failure, ran his hand through his blonde hair,
Mayhem looked back at his brother with thinly veiled consternation,
"That was Jamaal Jackson!"
Murder jerked in sheer astonishment at the name. He couldn't believe that the man who had rescued Samuel Hardgraves was the same man who had hired him and his brother to ASSASINATE the mayor in the first place! It just didn't make sense.
Once Samuel Hardgraves regained consciousness and had calmed down enough to be released from his bonds, Jamaal Jackson also known as Foreshadow gave him a tour around the secret complex he called The Facility — a place where Jamaal and the other members of the Dark Forces had imprisoned a camp full of young illegal alien males.
"Why are all these young men here?" the mayor asked, staring across at a fenced-in courtyard.
Within the courtyard there were a horde of youths. A few dozen of them. Some looked sort-of Asian, some looked sort-of Spanish but all were from Mexico. Their numbers surged about within the enclosure as if the detainment area was a playground.
"I make a tidy profit sneaking in aliens from across the border." Jamaal explained with a satisfied smirk. "Once these undocumented families arrive, I keep their strongest, most productive male members but allow the others to go on their way."
Hardgraves was confused,
"What do you keep the strongest males for?"
"Ransom," the mysterious man replied simply. "I hold the most productive members of the families hostage until the other family members can come up with the money to pay me for having brought them across the border. It's really a good deal."
Noticing all of the young captives were shoeless, Hardgraves asked,
"And why are they barefoot?"
"Just another incentive to keep them from
trying to escape or from killing themselves," said Jackson.
xxxx"A few months back, a boneheaded boy missed his family so much that he actually used his shoestrings to hang himself from a ceiling pipe in the lavatory.
xxxx"His folks, of course, refused to pay the ransom after that. Though I did force them to pay me a quarter of the price so that I would turn over the kid's body to them for burial."
"Why do they all seem to have hard-ons?"
"We feed them endorphinagra a chemical that suppresses their appetite, but makes them all rather horny. Every few hours we have to hose off a few boys to keep them from fucking each other to death."
"So what do you need me for?"
"My secret headquarters here is becoming less and less of a secret. You're the mayor of Safe Haven. I need you to make certain that the authorities stay off-limits of this place."
"Why would I do that?"
Jackson made a face,
"Because I saved your miserable life, you clueless fuck! If it weren't for me, tomorrow all of the flags in town would be flying at half-mast just for your sorry ass! "
Samuel Hardgraves nodded resignedly. It was indeed the truth.
"Yep. If it weren't for me you would have been skewered by those two homicidal rejects from a Marilyn Manson video."
The mayor was surprised,
"You know about Marilyn Manson?"
"Why sure!" replied Jackson. "You don't think I listen to all types of music just cause I'm...."
"A nigger," Hardgraves said slowly.
Jamaal Jackson had to use all of the self-control he could muster in order to keep himself from killing the mayor.
Completely oblivious to the fact that his life had come very close to reaching an abrupt conclusion, Samuel Hardgraves glanced around at the area surrounding him and Jackson. The Facility wasn't really a detainment camp at all.
Rather it was a filthy corral; a place to keep illegal young men locked up and reasonably healthy until their family came up with the money to pay for their children's release. Even though the place was filled with kids, it's main emphasis seemed to be on maintaining animals.
A Latino boy who spoke remarkably good English shouted at one of the Dark Forces enlistees,
"You can't keep us here!"
He tried kicking the armed man, but because he was barefooted this eighteen-year-old only succeeding in hurting himself more than the enlistee,
"You have no right!"
"Quiet down, Miguel," the armed masked soldier replied contemptuously.
"I won't quiet down, you gun-toting pero!" the boy shouted.
He was apparently oblivious to the raging erection in his own pants,
"I'm gonna get out of this place somehow. And when I do, I'm going to make you all pay for what you've done to me and every other boy here!"
"Sergeant King," Jackson said.
He turned to one high-ranking Dark Force enlistee,
"Have a couple of your men show this boy how we deal with those who spout threats and vow vengeance against us."
Soon Mayor Hardgraves found himself bearing witness as eighteen-year-old Miguel was confronted by two savage enlistee members of the Dark Forces Battalion.
One of these enlistees stepped between his legs, reached down and grabbed the cuffs of the youth's trousers and proceeded to pull them off stripping Miguel stark-ass naked. After a few liberal blows to the head to make the young immigrant more "cooperative", the armed man dropped between the youth's legs and spread them apart with his knees, exposing the eighteen-year-old's manhood to his wanton desires.
The enlistee's initial assault was a hard right bare knuckled fist directly between Miguel's nuts. He twisted and dug his knuckles into the youth's balls once his punch connected. Then he grabbed the youth's drug-hardened cock with one hand to keep it out of the way while he repeatedly pounded his fist into Miguel's defenseless nut-sack.
After ten or twenty solid dead center groin punches, the enlistee grabbed the youth's balls and began twisting and yanking them. Now the young immigrant was feeling real pain as the enlistee contorted his body in an attempt to escape his vicious grip. When Miguel brought his head up he could clearly see the outline of the enlistee's massive balls and now hardening cock in his jockstrap.
"Think about the future, boy," Jackson bellowed, as his enlistee doubled the force of his attack on Miguel's cock.
Without delay he released his twin holds and slammed his knee into the young immigrant's crotch. Then he raised his leg up and brought his knee crashing down and ground his balls into the crotch.
He continued to grind and pulverize Miguel's balls with repeated knee drops causing the youth's legs to flail wildly. He slipped his right arm under the youth's left leg and lifted it up over his shoulder exposing the young immigrant's crotch even more before he slammed his open hand into Miguel's balls and again locked them in a nut cruncher, his thumb cleaving his sac while his fingers clamped tightly around his balls. He kept his hand locked around Miguel's nut-sack while he flipped the lad over onto his stomach, twisting and wrenching the balls as he did so.
Suddenly Miguel felt the second enlistee's hand rubbing his ass, then the crack that separates his butt-cheeks. The Dark Forces soldier was poking and prodding the youth's hole with his hand while he continued to massage his balls. This enlistee let go of the youth's balls and spread Miguel's legs with his knees.
The young immigrant felt the tip of The Dark Force's member's cock as the second enlistee prepared to penetrate his hole. Carefully he lined up his horse cock with the young Latino's tight hole, the large head pressing tightly against it. Then with one mighty charge he buried his un-lubed cock halfway into the youth's tight ass.
Miguel nearly passed-out from the sudden penetration of his asshole. The second enlistee ground his cock deep into his entrails, ramming it in deeper with each thrust. His cock got even harder as he augmented the rhythm of his pumping cock until he was going wild with a ferocious animal lust.
Miguel's own cock was swelling and begging for relief and his balls, although well man-handled, were churning with the expected orgasm. The enlistee reached around his chest and grabbed both of his firm pecs with his expert fingers and began to manipulate them until the youth's nipples were as rock hard as both of their penises.
The second enlistee clamped his nipples between his strong fingers and bit down on Miguel's neck with his teeth as his body began to spasm, signaling that he was about to ejaculate.
And ejaculate he did. It seemed like the enlistee would come very close to pulverizing the youth's innards with his flood of sperm. As he unloaded his load into Miguel, the young immigrant unloaded his own on the ground. The second enlistee kept his penis buried deep in Miguel until he was certain that he had totally shot his wad, then as his cock began to soften he withdrew.
Miguel eventually managed to stagger to his feet.
But just as he did so, the first enlistees immediately clubbed the youth back to the ground, spit on him and then proceeded to kick and punch the helpless young immigrant until he was unconscious.
Then the battalion's sergeant hauled Miguel Garcia away, clutching the broken, bloodied Latino boy by the ankles and dragging his senseless body along the ground in front of the fenced pen where the majority of the captive young immigrants were kept. After seeing this, the more spirited illegal youths would think twice about mouthing off at the Dark Forces again.
'Ah, Jackson does know how to maintain
order,' Hardgraves thought with grudging admiration. 'He had to
make an example out of that Miguel kid. He had to let all the other illegal
youngsters see a little kid being dragged about, unconscious, and roughed-up.
xxxxNow maybe they'll be too scared to challenge the authority of the Dark Forces or make an attempt at escaping. They'll think that the Dark Forces are men who wouldn't show any mercy to troublemakers'.
But if Jackson thought that making an example out of Miguel was going to quell any and all thoughts of insurrection, he was mistaken.
Another boy who went by the name Damaso shouted and cursed at the Dark Forces with a rage that was even greater than that of the boy called Miguel. He spat at the armed enlistees. Then he swore at them in Spanish because of what they'd done to his friend. Finally, he ran up to Jamaal Jackson himself and boldly spat at the mysterious man's feet.
Jackson ignored the boy and turned to Hardgraves,
"If you don't agree to keep the police off my back, I'll have to shut this place down."
Hardgraves shrugged expansively,
"So? What do I care?"
"Well," the mysterious man replied evenly, "If this place shuts down, I will have to get rid of the uh, inventory."
A deep laugh suffused the mayor,
"You mean the imprisoned young men here, right? You're telling me that you'll 'get rid of' all these boys if the police try to shut you down? I don't buy it."
Very calmly Jackson seized Damaso the youth who had spat at him. He grabbed the nineteen year-old's arm, and came up behind him. Without a trace of emotion he began twisting Damaso's arm and wrenching his thumb. As he did this, he glanced at Samuel Hardgraves,
"How much pain do I have to cause this boy before you believe that I will indeed carry out my threat?"
Damaso cried painfully as his thumb was vermiculated by Jackson,
"Ow ow ow ow!"
He went down on his knees.
Hardgraves merely gave another uncaring shrug as he watched the boy scream. Struggling against Jamaal's grip was clearly causing the youth a lot of agony, but the fact that Damaso was nothing but some son of an illegal fence-jumper prevented the mayor from being moved by pity.
"Still unconvinced?" Jackson asked, releasing the youth for a moment.
"You had that boy called Miguel beaten senseless and dragged across this courtyard I was aware right then and there that you were capable of hurting your young prisoners," the mayor explained, "But you wouldn't go to the extreme of slaughtering them mercilessly."
"Oh, I wouldn't, eh? Well, watch this."
The youth called Damaso attempted to flee, when Jackson's powerful hand reached out and slammed into the lad's groin. The strong fingers dug into the youth's trouser-clad thigh and clamped shut tightly around his nuts.
Damaso yelled with terror as the mysterious man pulled him by his balls pulled him near the holding pens so that this execution could be witnessed by as many prisoners as possible. He continued to squeeze Damaso's nuts with his powerful grip, kneading and crushing them between his powerful fingers.
Jackson thought that the youth would submit to his nut cracking grip and plead for mercy, but this lad is apparently tougher than most of the young immigrant prisoners he has encountered. Even with his strong forearm muscles bulging and straining Jackson is aware that Damaso was not giving into him, nor was he begging to be released from his fearsome grasp.
The mysterious man pulled the youth further towards the pens until they are in the clear view of all the prisoners. Jackson yanked down on Damaso's nuts viciously, and ordered the youth to kneel before him. He was still holding the youth by his balls while he stepped behind him. Then he ordered Damaso to place his hands behind his back where he handcuffed them together.
Only then did Jackson release his grip on the Latino youth's nuts, and even then only momentarily, before he reached around the young Latino's kneeling body and drove both of his hands into the crotch of Damaso's trousers until he found his basket.
Jackson locked one of Damaso's balls in each of his hands and began to wrench, squeeze and crush them mercilessly again. The pain doubled in intensity in his crotch, but it was not yet overwhelming.
Jackson released his hold and slipped his right hand into the waist band of the youth's trousers. Finding the bottom of Damaso's well worn T-shirt, he seized the fabric and with one violent motion ripped it up over his washboard stomach, broad hairless chest and shoulders before he renting it to shreds. With the Latino youth's muscular upper body fully exposed he had trouble containing his desire to work Damaso over and use his body for whatever as he wanted.
Again he reached around the youth's waist, but instead of attacking his balls, the mysterious man undid Damaso's belt and pulled it from around his waist before using it to bind his arms. Then he grabbed the front of the youth's trousers with both hands, yanked them apart and exposed his jockstrap clad privates.
Again he drove his hands deep into Damaso's crotch but this time his hands had no trouble reaching the young immigrant's nuts, and he dug his fingers into his manhood. He worked his fingers deeper and deeper into his ball-sack.
As the mysterious man tried to scramble his balls, Damaso's endorphinegra-stimulated cock sprang to attention and Jackson took great delight in its length and girth. The young Latino's hard-on distracted him, and he slipped one of his hands around its shaft.
The mysterious man then unexpectedly drove his knee solidly right into Damaso's bulging basket. Jackson ground his steel-like kneecap into the young Latino's cajones attempting to pulverize them into pulp.
He was surprised that after four solid knee lifts directly into his exposed and defenseless balls, the youth still hadn't lost his erection or collapsed into a whimpering heap at his feet. So Jackson rammed his knee into Damaso's nuts for a fifth time, and spun the youth around so that he was positioned behind the lad.
The mysterious man clasped his hands together and slammed them down on the back of Damaso's neck driving him to the floor. Damaso landed on his face and knees. Jackson's fist shot between his legs, his hard knuckles connected with the young Latino's low hanging balls causing them to swing wildly between his legs.
His upper cut caught Damaso by surprise, but then Jackson withdrew his clenched fist and slapped the youth's balls with his open hand. Again the young Latino felt the power of the mysterious man's grip as his fingers clamped shut, trapping his balls. Jackson squeezed, stretched and twisted Damaso's balls, mauling them until the youth was forced flat on his stomach.
He released the lad from his nut cracking grip, but as he stood up he forced his foot between Damaso's legs and pinned his balls to the floor with his spike-soled boots, the Latino lad's nuts oozing blood and precum.
Jackson kept his spiked boots pressing deeply into Damaso's privates then gradually placed most of his weight on the youth's balls. He reached down and turned Damaso over, his black body towered over him.
Again the Latino youth felt the mysterious man's weight as he stomped his spike-boot-clad foot into his nuts. When the lad still refused to scream or plead for mercy, Jackson eventually decided to kill the young Latino and be done with it.
After hauling the groaning, bleeding boy to his feet, the mysterious man twisted himself behind Damaso's back again. This time he crossed both arms around the boy's neck and, apparently using his full strength, he began to pull choking the life out of the Latino youth.
Damaso turned blue and struggled desperately for breath for a few moments, then he quit kicking and went limp. Jamaal Jackson dropped the boy's motionless body. Damaso wasn't breathing and his face was now a deathly shade of gray.
The other young immigrants, who were watching the entire horrific scene from the confinement pens, screamed. Miguel, who had recovered from his earlier injuries by this time, ran over to where the body of Damaso Torres lay.
"Get back to the holding pen, Miguel" Sergeant Malik King, a high-ranking Dark Force enlistee ordered.
"Damaso is from my home town in Ocampo," Miguel explained lamely, motioning towards the supine, inert body of his friend. "Shouldn't you be performing CPR on him or something?"
"He doesn't need it, Miguel." said Jackson, apparently appalled by the fact that Hardgraves still seemed unimpressed by everything he had shown him thus far. "Go on back to the holding pens, boy."
Miguel remained right where he was.
A crowd of the other youths had left the open pens by this time over two dozen young men were staring down at the still, prone body of Damaso Torres. The Dark Forces enlistees drew their billy clubs just in case the lot of them were preparing to cause trouble.
"Look, boys," Jamaal Jackson said evenly. "I don't want to have to order the Dark Forces to use their batons to force you back over to the pens so why don't you guys just cooperate and clear away from this area?"
Samuel Hardgraves himself knelt before Damaso's body. He placed his ear to the boy's chest, then felt for a pulse. After a while he stood up, vigorously wiping his hands clean on his trousers as if touching the illegal boy had somehow contaminated him.
"He is from my home town," Miguel explained to the mayor again. "His name is Damaso he's my friend."
"Well, you had better start looking for a new friend, kid," Samuel Hardgraves said with a sigh. "Because Damaso here has had it."
Miguel Garcia gasped sharply and fainted.
Without blinking, Hardgraves turned to Jackson,
"Well, you still haven't convinced me to hire your Dark Forces to be my new protection squad "
"But you WILL … and you'll keep law-enforcement off my property here," the mysterious man declared confidently.
"Now what gives you that idea?" asked the mayor, folding his arms.
"Two words," said Jackson with a mirthless smile. "Murder and Mayhem,"
Samuel Hardgraves's visibly shook at the mere mention of the names.
"So it's pretty simple, Mr. Mayor. We either deal or you die," Jamaal Jackson's smile turned into a full grin.
Then the grin became a chuckle. Eventually, with his black muscled body shaking merrily, the mysterious man threw his head back and howled with laughter.
The laughing stopped when word reached the mysterious man that Murder and Mayhem were advancing towards The Facility.
Murder and Mayhem arrived at Jamaal Jackson's "secret" complex at 11:30pm. The Facility was apparently deserted. Murder, still searching for clues as to the mayor's whereabouts, opened one of the fenced animal pens and then stepped inside. There, lying very cold and still, lay the incredibly toned body of nineteen-year-old Damaso Torres. The youth's face looked ashen and he appeared so lifeless that even Murder could not stifle a cry of pity.
Mayhem took a deep breath. The immense executioner then knelt beside the still young man, checking the still form for a sign of life.
"He's dead, huh?" asked Murder, running his hands nervously through his blond hair. "Looks as if someone beat and throttled him."
After a few moments of examining the youngster, Mayhem replied,
"He's not dead. Someone strangled him into unconsciousness with a particular kind of choke hold that shuts off BLOOD to the brain, but not oxygen. He came damn close to buying the farm though!"
Eventually the youth groaned and stirred feebly. Slowly his dark eyes opened; he winced, turned his ashen face to the two brothers, and studied them for a time. Then his lips moved. He managed to gasp out all that he knew of Jamaal Jackson and mayor Samuel Hardgraves before he passed out again. It was just a stroke of luck that Mayhem understood the youth's disconcerted Spanish.
So now Murder and Mayhem understood why Jackson had hired them to kill Hardgraves, then proceeded to rescue the very man whom he had paid them to murder. It was all a rouse. Jackson wanted Hardgraves to believe his life was in danger so that he could convince the mayor to hire his Dark Forces as a new protection battalion.
And once the Dark Forces were in good with Hardgraves, Jackson figured he would have a foothold into Safe Haven politics figured he could use his new influence with the mayor to keep the authorities away from The Facility and his illegal alien ransom operations.
"If that's the case, then this place hasn't been deserted long." Murder reasoned.
His brother nodded,
"I figure Jackson and Hardgraves caught wind of us coming and fled to parts unknown with all of the prisoners."
He motioned with his eyes towards the unconscious Damaso,
"Except for this fellow here whom they left for dead."
"So what'll we do now?" asked Murder.
Mayhem breathed a heavy sigh,
"What do you think? We get this kid to a hospital then we go after Hardgraves and Jackson."
Murder grinned and let out a convincingly evil war whoop as he dashed back towards the area where he and his brother had parked their motorcycles. Mayhem, with Damaso slung over his shoulder, followed at a slower pace.
Before they left, the two brothers scouted The Facility from top to bottom while on their cycles. One empty hangar in particular became a point of interest. Their sight adjusted to the dimmer interior of the thought to be empty structure, and the gasps of horror caught in their throats.
Bodies lay strewn about the hangar like discarded sacks, torn, broken and lifeless. Miguel Garcia every young illegal immigrant prisoner, ripped apart as if by maddened animals.
I could see young Miguel Garcia who's body was less shredded than the others was lying with his dark eyes open in death, an unbelievable amount of blood pooled around his head. Despair filled the two assassins.
Though sickened by any sort of carnage that they themselves hadn't caused, Murder and Mayhem nevertheless couldn't bring themselves to move. They, along with Damaso, stood there horror and revulsion sweeping through them.
The two assassins knew that they would encounter Jamaal Jackson again. And when they did the body count was certain to be much higher.
Despite the brave front he tried to put on it, Damaso Torres did not face new things easily. He never had. His family deciding to illegally immigrate from Mexico to the United States had been catastrophic for him, and he had reacted even worse to being imprisoned by Jamaal Jackson's Dark Forces.
The way he and his family had been treated in America had turned his family off of settling permanently in the States Damaso had been relieved. Was that selfish of him?
Now the Latino youth was facing a new situation. Life as a gardener.
Murder and Mayhem, his saviors, had gotten him employment with Tyrone Washington the man who had reared and trained the two brothers the man who had taught them how to kill. But after a week of being part of the ex-mercenary's yard crew, the Latino youth found himself becoming more fascinated by Tyrone's gay lover Zulu Spears.
Damaso also took an interest in Tyrone's nine-year-old nephew Tariq. Not in a sexual way, but in a fraternal way. The boy was very likable. And both the Latino youth and the black youngster had something in common. They were both fascinated by Tyrone's male lover, Zulu.
The very first time that nine-year-old Tariq Washington saw Zulu Spears, the stud was simultaneously fooling around with his father's brother and eating a pastry in his aunt and uncle's kitchen.
Zulu was saying something to his uncle probably protesting Tyrone Washington's actions because he'd thrown himself upon him while the stud was in the middle of consuming a jelly doughnut. Tariq didn't think his Uncle Tyrone could hear Zulu because, at the time, he was moving his lips against the outermost part of his male lover's ear while the stud was speaking.
"What about your wife?"
Zulu's voice quivered ever so slightly as he mouthed these words. He even tried to downplay their significance by kittenishly wiping a bit of powdered sugar from the corner of the ex-mercenary's mouth and put it to his generous lips,
"I really don't think it was a good idea for me to have come here, Tyrone."
Without answering, Tariq's bald uncle bent his head to kiss the strawberry jelly away from Zulu's own mouth. The boy observed as his uncle's tongue greedily sampled the apparently complimentary combination of Zulu and the jelly. Tariq supposed it made sense that the stud would taste good. After all, his nickname on the street was "Chocolate Chaos".
"Ohhhh, Shit … shit … !"
The responsive stud was now moving his lips against the ex-mercenary's as he blissfully sighed the word over and over again. Tariq figured his uncle must have tasted atleast as good as Zulu himself did.
The boy leaned his preadolescent self against the doorjamb and watched this erotic freak show with puerile fascination.
He watched as his uncle traced a streak of perspiration from Zulu's dark brown cheek to the stud's expertly sculpted eyebrow, detouring along the way to lick more strawberry jelly from the baby-fine hair that decorated the sides of his face like sideburns. The boy took note that, for an extremely dark man, his uncle had the brightest, pinkest tongue he'd ever seen.
And he must have been good at using that tongue because, when he knelt down in front of Zulu and pulled down his pants and undershorts, the stud got an intense, ecstatic look in his dark eyes. Zulu leaned back against the kitchen counter, gazing beneath half-opened eyelids at the black, gleaming bald head that was now apparently doing one heck of a job on his extensive dick and gargantuan balls.
"I'm floating," Tariq heard Zulu mumble to his uncle. "When you dance your tongue around my balls, shockwave sensations race through me like hot rum and cool cherry ice cream."
The stud was making Tariq rather hungry, so assuming that his presence would not be detected at such an intense moment the toffee-eyed boy crept over to the counter and reached into the pink cardboard box for one of the dozen assorted his Uncle Tyrone had bought.
Whipping around to catch his nephew with his hand in the box of goodies, Tyrone Washington cried,
The bald man's mouth was glazed and sort of glittered in the early morning sunlight. Tariq guessed that his uncle was so surprised because he'd been caught with his tongue on some goodies, in a manner of speaking,
"Get the hell out of here! Go outside and play or something!"
So, grabbing a bear-claw, Tariq exited the kitchen and made his way out of doors.
He was traversing across the street, towards his Grandfather's workshop, when old Miss Busey yelled out for him to watch out for oncoming cars. Scared the heck out of him. Having your every move monitored by at least a dozen adults was the price one paid for temporarily residing in a neighborhood like his.
It was a great place to live, but most of the "African-Americans" residing there adhered to old school values. Tariq would have personally preferred to deal with the hazards of the inner city he had come from.
Almost every adult within a four block radius could order around any kid in this new town he was vacationing in. One could be having a perfectly innocent fist-fight with one's best friend or even one's own brother, and some nosy grown person would shout,
"You fools better stop that!" from a window or doorway.
And if the offending kids didn't obey, this same nosy adult would phone their parents, or … if the spirit moved them — would take a belt or switch to the young malefactors themselves. Modern child psychology was just so much bullshit to them.
As Tariq walked the concourse of the quiet neighborhood he did manage to spot two shirtless boys who were scuffling beyond the view of the watchful eyes of the adults. These two boys were Freddie Hamilton and Rasheed Ellington. The young duo had apparently been playing basketball when an alleged foul shot had brought them to blows.
But the fighting and the argument stopped dead when Freddie grabbed Rasheed from behind and placed his fingers on the smaller boy's ribs threatening to tickle him senseless unless he admitted that he'd fouled him.
Rasheed twitched when he felt his friend's fingertips lightly rest themselves on his ribcage on either side. The youngster opened his eyes wide, and (with slight turn of his head) was able to catch Freddie's sadistic smile … as well as the leering look in his older friend's dark young eyes.
"You gonna admit that you fouled me, homey?"
Rasheed shook his head adamantly.
The torture began with Freddie going to work on the smaller boy's ribs with both hands. His tactics were absolutely sadistic as he attacked Rasheed with mercilessly insistent fingers. He poked, prodded, grabbed, squeezed! Jolts of electricity seemed to course through the smaller boy's torso causing him to literally vibrate!
The youngster screamed and wanted so badly to flee or at least use his arms to protect his ribcage, but he couldn't! His situation was clearly torturous and it was clear that Rasher's body ached from being held in such a rigid grip. To make matters worse, his shirtless form offered every inch of his upper body's skin to Freebie's sadistic whims.
After several minutes of this ticklish tribulation, the smaller boy simply couldn't take it anymore and he broke completely crumpling to the black-topped street in a helpless frantic fit of all-consuming laughter.
But Freddie still refused to release the smaller by or halt with his tickling.
He used both hands unrelentingly. Rasherd's laughter and pleading went on non-stop then. Sweat now ran freely down his suffering, shuddering torso. His efforts to take only shallow breaths were futile, so he gulped air whenever possible. Tariq was amazed to see that tears were rolling down Rasher's cheeks tears of frustration, torment, and horrible unwitting laughter.
Eventually Tariq turned away from the two boys and towards portly Miss Busey who was hanging up her clothes on a line in her backyard. The toffee-eyed youngster was irked by this. You see, this woman's son was one of the hottest producer's in R&B music, but she hangs her clothes out like she's still one of the "po" folk. Tariq glared at her, contemplating the idea of giving her the finger.
He supposed Miss Busey read his mind, because she glared right back at him, her mouth full of clothespins. Eventually she stopped hanging pair after pair of unmentionables and said,
"Boy, I'll slap them eyes right out yo' head."
"No you won't." Tariq said without much conviction.
She put her hands on her hips,
"You gon' be the no-eyed, blindest brother in Ladera Heights if you don't get rid of that attitude."
Well, to make a long story short, Tariq wound up helping the old woman hang her laundry.
That's how adults in his aunt and uncle's neighborhood operated. If they saw a young person wandering around aimlessly, they enlisted their aid in some sort of task. They didn't want their aimlessness to degenerate into mischief, you see.
Mischief might turn into violence, and it wouldn't do to have the "young people of color" in Ladera Heights behaving like those inner-city niggers. Tariq did learn something interesting as he suspended the clothing, however. Miss Busey didn't hang out her clothing because her rich-ass son was too cheap to buy her a dryer — she just preferred to have her clothes smell spring-time fresh naturally.
Anyway, Tariq made his way over to his Grandfather's place once he was done. Tariq supposed his Grandpa was taking a leak at the time he entered, because the tiled workshop the place where Old Leon Washington was most-likely to be found at all hours of the day was empty. Well, almost empty. You, see the old man had left his work lying around unattended. This wouldn't have been so unnerving if it weren't for the fact that his Grandpa was a mortician.
And Leon Washington wasn't just any old mortician. He employed his amazing narcotizing skills for the wealthy. The VERY wealthy. In fact, most of the well-off brothers and sisters in Ladera Heights couldn't even afford his services.
As Tariq ventured further into the room, he could see that, sprawled atop the porcelain table, was another well-fed looking white-guy. This poor fella appeared to be in his mid-thirties younger than his Grandpa's usual subject matter. He glanced at the tag wired to his big left toe, but the name written there was illegible to the nine-year-old. Still, an idea dawned on him.
He folded the guy's hands behind his head and crossed his feet at the ankles. Manipulating the somewhat stiff limbs wasn't difficult at all thanks to the gunk the old man had pumped into the body in order to stave off rigor mortis.
Now Tariq had the corpse looking like some pale nudist sunning himself on an exclusive beach. The toffee-eyed boy then retrieved one of his Grandpa's cigars (which the old man kept in a drawer right next to glass containers filled with the arterial and cavity fluid!) and wedged it between the guy's teeth.
Tariq even considered the idea of lighting the stogie, but came to the wise conclusion that this would be pushing it. He did, however, decorate the corpse a bit with a sun visor and shades from his Grandpa's closet.
The old man arrived, dressed in his disposable apron and latex gloves, after a few minutes. Upon noticing the condition of the corpse, his eyes grew wide and he clutched at his chest just like Redd Foxx used to on that old television show. Then he saw Tariq standing off to the side and all but rolling on the floor with laughter. After a moment he composed himself, glanced disdainfully towards the laid-back carcass, then focused his onyx-like eyes on his youngest grandson.
Tariq could tell that his Grandfather wanted to be stern, but when the old man finally got around to saying something, he was laughing,
"Boy, you need Jesus!"
Tariq just beamed at him. He loved his Grandfather. The old man was his best friend.
"I think I'm going to fire them," declared Imani Washington upon entering the den.
Tariq's aunt's voice was like that of foghorn. She stood over the boy's uncle, who was seated in his armchair (with the newspaper upside down, no less!) and trying his best to look innocent,
"You know we can't do that. Alberto's crew has been taking care of our place since before Tariq was born. They've got a kind of groove thing happening here."
His wife's eyes blazed as she glared down at him. She'd had this argument with Tariq's Uncle Tyrone before.
"Go out there and look at my new garden, Tyrone," she said. "What the hell is going to become of it with those incompetent fools on the job?"
"Just give them time to get the feel."
"I don't want them using MY garden to gain practical experience!" she snapped.
"They've handled gardens before, Imani just not herbal ones." said her husband.
Imani paused for a moment to massage her throbbing temples,
"Your problem," she said, rather calmly now, "Is that you get too comfortable with people. You don't want to fire the yard boys because you've become friends with them … you'd feel guilty about getting rid of them. Well, that isn't a very good way to handle business, Tyrone. The yard boys."
Tyrone leaped to his feet, dropping the newspaper,
"Will you stop calling them that?" he almost yelled. "Their names are Alberto, Javier and Damaso."
"I don't give a good damn if their names are Bill, Hillary and Chelsea! Those half-ass-no-English-speaking illegals are incompetent!"
Anyway, while Tariq's aunt was in the house complaining, something truly awful was happening outside. You see, the gardeners had these rather antiquated power mowers which had a tendency to propel stones in all directions and snag on certain types of stubborn weeds.
Well, Javier Servantes had reached into the grass-filled bag to see just what type of weed was causing his mower to stall continuously. But the poor guy forgot — as so many people have throughout the decades since it's invention — that it was best to SHUT OFF the mower before placing one's hands anywhere near it's mechanical innards.
In other words, Javier lost a good portion of his hand in the Washington's backyard.
Tyrone, Imani and young Tariq heard him curse in Spanish, then a lot of horrified exclamations also in Spanish by Alberto and the new gardner Damaso. The three of them ran to the family's back door.
Tariq grabbed a dishrag from off the counter because that's what his uncle had done for him when the boy cut his hand screwing around with the bald man's razor when he was five and wrapped it around what was left of Javier's hand after Alberto, Damaso and Uncle Tyrone half-carried him into the kitchen. Tariq didn't get a good look at the wound but, as he was wrapping the gardener's injured hand, blood shot out and squirted him right in the face. Ugh!
His aunt led the gardener over to a chair at the breakfast nook. Although her face remained stern, she held Javier rather tenderly in order to calm the injured man down.
Tariq reeled, feeling the oppressive heat from outside, inhaling the coppery smell of so much blood, having that blood drip warm and wetly down his face all of this occurred within a few seconds so powerful that he got sick and dizzy.
And Tariq wasn't the only one. To the left of him, the new young gardener Damaso who HAD gotten a good look at his fellow crewman's injury passed out cold. For a moment everyone just stared down at him even bleeding, injured Javier. The nineteen-year-old gardener had gone down like a bag of rocks, so limp he couldn't have broken any bones upon impact.
Turning back to Javier, Tariq saw that blood was really beginning to seep through the rag his hand was wrapped in.
"We'd better get him to a hospital," Aunt Harriet said.
She calmly steped over the prone form of Damaso. She took the injured, barrel-chested gardener by the arm and gently pulled him to his feet. Javier, looking pale and confused, offered no resistance as she led him from the kitchen. Tariq wondered if the gardener's bewilderment was from a loss of blood, or because he'd never seen Harriet Washington behave kindly to anyone before.
Tariq was aware that his aunt's abrupt change of attitude stemmed from guilt. If she hadn't rattled the gardeners so much with her angry belligerence, the accident might not have occurred.
His Uncle Tyrone was behind the wheel of the Lexus, while his aunt and Alberto got Javier stretched out in the back seat. The injured gardener groaned. With his ingrained machismo, strength is defined only in the physical sense to someone like Javier Servantes.
And, as his life's blood continued to flow out of him, the gardener was losing his strength fast. The muscular, barrel-chested man really looked pitiful in his helplessness.
Aunt Harriet, surprising everyone present once again, rested Javier's head on her lap and stroked his sweaty hair. Tariq's aunt, contrary to what most of the pretentious people of color in Ladera Heights will tell you, did indeed have a heart.
"Lord, I didn't mean for that to happen." Tariq heard her later tell his Uncle Tyrone in reference to the incident with Javier. "I'd let my lawns, my flower beds and my garden all go to seed if I thought they'd have to look nice at the cost of some boy's hand."
Tariq believed her. There was no doubt in his young but perceptive mind that she meant every word. He wasn't sure if his uncle shared his opinion though.
Anyway, Alberto jumped into the passenger seat up front while Tyrone started the Lexus' engine, then all four of them vroomed off towards the nearest emergency ward. Watching them fade off into the distance, Tariq who was quite astute in spite of his childish antics couldn't help but to wonder: why does blood always have to be shed before people begin to treat each other decently?
So, with someone else's blood coating his face and dripping from his hands, the toffee-eyed boy headed back into the house. It had been his intention to go straight to the bathroom in order to clean himself up, but upon entering into the kitchen he ran into the Zulu the stud. He had forgotten all about him and apparently so had his Uncle Tyrone!
The responsive stud was in the kitchen, standing over Damaso who was still laid out cold on the tiled floor. Tariq had forgotten about him as well.
He watched Zulu with interest. He had a kind of intent expression on his face as his dark eyes strayed over the unconscious youth at his feet. Tariq thought that he even saw the stud lick his lips. And Zulu didn't even notice the boy watching him just kept his attention focused on Damaso. Tariq's jaw dropped as Zulu began unbuttoning the prostrate young gardener's clothing, layer by layer, fold by fold, until he found sweaty bare skin to probe with his fingers and taste with his tongue.
And Zulu was still licking and probing when a confused Damaso opened his eyes and started to sit up,
"Wha . . . ?"
Zulu immediately gave him a quick, sharp clip on the jaw.
Damaso's head reeled loosely on his neck. His head fell back to the floor, eyes rolling up to the whites. Zulu pulled the youth's eyelids up, made certain both pupils were the same size, checked the lad's pulse and breathing. Thankfully he hadn't killed him. He hit the youth in the face again to make sure he wouldn't be awakening any time soon.
Having witnessed this brutality, Tariq gasped loudly and involuntarily.
Zulu whipped his head around to stare at the boy. Tariq's heart began to beat rapidly, but his feet were firmly rooted to the floor.
"Where's he cut?" Zulu asked him, motioning down towards Damaso.
"Huh?" was Tariq's response.
"While I was in the closet, I heard all this talk about blood and cuts and everything," the stud said calmly, "But I don't see one drop of blood on this kid."
"He's not the one who was bleeding," Tariq explained, his mouth dry,. "Uncle Tyrone an' Aunt Imani took him to the hospital. Damaso here just fainted,"
And Tariq could hardly believe what happened next. For a good three minutes she circled the unconscious Latino youth like a buzzard waiting for death to the fully enshroud a carcass. Then she knelt at his feet pulled off Damaso's sneakers and socks.
Tariq watched the stud's methodical work in stunned fascination.
Zulu crossed the unconscious youth's now bare feet on top of each other. The stud then took his belt off and wrapped it around the boy's ankles, buckling them together. He then used TARIQ'S belt to bind the unconscious youth's hands. Soon Damaso's entire body had been completely secured.
The nineteen year old began to regain consciousness just as Zulu began to pull up his shirt and expose the youth's chest and stomach.
With a feathery touch Zulu began tickling all around the edges of his navel, and Damaso went crazy arching his back and twisting from side to side in a desperate attempt to escape the stud's relentlessly tickling finger. And as he did this he uttered these deep hearty gales of laughter that seemed to be erupting up from the very bottom of his stomach.
Finally Zulu's index finger went right down into his navel, scraping and poking this seemed to push the teenager over the edge already! His laughter went two pitches higher, and he started to beg in Spanish.
Tariq joined in, using his fingernails to assault the tender flesh on the soles of Damaso's bare feet. The toffee-eyed boy began to scrape his fingers lazily across the Latino youth's soles but there was nothing listless about Damaso's reaction.
Damaso raises his head and watches himself be tortured completely unable to look away. He pleads, searching for the right English words that will make Tariq and Zulu stop. But there were no words that could have stopped either the stud or the boy at that moment.
Tariq's fingers continued to travel. Between Damaso's frantically wriggling toes, over his arches, around his heels. The toffee-eyed boy was taking his time to reach the center of the sole of the foot.
That spot where according to his Grandfather was a very ticklish spot on many people. That is where the boy's fingers were going. This was where he would launch his most vicious assault on the Latino youth's feet.
Finally the tickling "fun" was over and after Tariq was unceremoniously pushed aside the castration game went into progress. Zulu brought a switchblade into play and immediately began making liberal cuts in Damaso's nut-sack and cock. Once the blood began to flow and when Damaso began to scream, the stud's excitement seemed to triple.
He pulled hard on the head of Damaso's bloody penis and had placed this switchblade about an inch from the base of the tool. He agilely drew the blade over the Latino youth's penis and soon more thin trickling lines of blood appeared. Bound Damaso writhed and bucked in agony and abject terror.
Zulu savagely pressed even harder and drew the blade once again over the youth's shaft. Young Tariq grew dizzy when he saw the skin separating and the meat under it becoming more and more laid open.
The stud looked into the Latino youth's immeasurably horrified dark eyes and laughed emotionlessly. Then he began to saw through Damaso's cock.
The Latino youth could feel the razor severing his dick and could no longer feel the stud clutching the head of his cock.
Damaso was still pleading when Zulu held the severed penis up for young Tariq to see.
Zulu, clearly bored now, sucked his teeth and stood up. Then he scrutinized Tariq more closely,
"Is that the other guy's blood all over you?"
The boy nodded, staring down at his wet, red hands.
The responsive stud turned away from the profusely bleeding, unconscious Damaso and sauntered up to the youngster slowly,
"Let's see what we can do about cleaning YOU up."
Kneeling down in front of Tariq, he took hold of the young hands and brought them to his lips. Zulu rubbed the boy's blood-stained fingers all over her own face, smearing his skin with the red wetness.
And then then Zulu's nimble tongue licked Tariq's hands clean. He also bathed the youngster's face. With the methodical thoroughness of a lioness cleansing one of her cubs, the responsive stud used his warm tongue to wash away every trace of the young Latino gardener's blood from the boy's forehead, eyelids, nose and chin.
When at last Zulu had ceased to lick his face and fingers, Tariq slowly backed away from her with more than a nine-year-old's fear of the unknown. No, this was a new kind of terror, made all the more horrifying because he'd also "stiffened in his pants" during the course of her tongue reconditioning.
He stood in the kitchen for two minutes, while all the erotic whims he would satisfy in the future swirled in his brain like a precognitive vision. Zulu's tongue had baptized him now. At nine years of age, Tariq Washington had been reborn.
The castrated Damaso eventually regained consciousness and was last seen heading for the Mexican border.