Upon his arrival at school after a summer spent in Japan, Robert Goering intently searched the grounds for Sharon Keith. Young people rushed past him, laboriously carrying their textbooks, talking to fellow students whom they knew, and talking ABOUT fellow students whom they DIDN'T know. The bold youth snaked past them, still attempting to locate the girl whom he missed most in the world.
She was nowhere to be found that morning, and Robert didn't see his girlfriend at all until the lunch period of the next day.
After finishing up the English and algebra homework that wasn't due until the following day, the bold youth made his way down to the cafeteria and chatted it up a bit with the alluring Sharon Keith while they ate their lunches in the courtyard. Robert wouldn't deny that the combination of this girl and his hormones almost took his appetite away. While she was near there was a fire flickering at his core that heated his blood. Her creamy skin looked so satiny in the afternoon light and there was what appeared to be a bead of salty moisture above her breasts.
Young Robert was split into two separate beings then. Half of him was sitting on the bench speaking calmly with Sharon ... and another half was daydreaming about cupping her cheeks in his hands, tracing her elegant cheekbones with his thumbs and caressing every inch of her beautiful face with his fingers ....
Somehow he retrained himself, and the two of them were yucking it up like usual when, from within the bushes located directly behind Sharon, the bold youth spotted a kid. A kid with wild, rust-colored hair who appeared to be armed with an aerosol can.
"What is it?" Sharon asked, spinning around to see what the bold youth was staring at.
The exact moment she did this however, the kid, naturally, had already disappeared by ducking back down into the foliage.
"There was a kid spray-painting something on the side of the library. He's hiding in those bushes," Robert said.
Sharon took a bite from her burger, apparently unconcerned,
"It was probably one of those members of the Dragon Wizards ... marking his territory by painting a Nazi swastika or something."
"Why?" the bold youth asked.
She gave her boyfriend an exasperated look,
"Because they're evil, Robert! Things have changed in just the two weeks
you've been away. This gang who call themselves the Dragon Wizards have
basically taken over the school.
Xxxx"They're the ones who started the petition to have every Hispanic student investigated to make certain that they're legal documented citizens. They're also the ones who left the dummy that looked like a black man hanging by the neck in front of the student resource center ... and the ones who spray-painted 'hippie-chink' on Lauren Woo's locker.
Xxxx"They've been performing all of these atrocious acts, and yet no one seems to be putting up much of a fight."
Then she gently elbowed the bold youth in the ribs and smiled,
"That's why I'm glad you're back, Robert ... a brave guy like you can probably talk some sense into the other kids who are too timid to speak up about all this shit that's going on around here."
The eighteen-year-old blushed profusely.
Two days later, on a bright spring day, Robert met with his fellow students in American history. Mr. Jaleel Jones, the teacher, stood in front of the class like Moses waiting to hand down the ten commandments from the mountain top. Next to Robert sat a rigid, blond and blue-eyed young man with a sharp face: this youth was named Eric Troutman. Adjacent Robert was a slight, somewhat whimsical-looking Hispanic student with long arms. This was Juan Navarro.
When everyone was seated and had grown expectantly quiet, Mr. Jones began the lesson. Because it was Black History month, he began by telling the story of James Armistead, a slave during the revolutionary war who was responsible for revealing the fact that Benedict Arnold was a traitor to the nation. This African-American hero's story fascinated many of the students, but drew groans from surreptitiously hostile fellows like Eric Troutman. The class tried it's best to ignore the brazen youth's snide comments concerning Armistead and Black History Month in general. But eventually the blond youth's venomous barbs stunned both class and teacher into silence with their viciousness.
Mr. Jones eventually broke the silence,
"What's the problem you've got with Black history month, Eric? It's only one month ... the SHORTEST month of the year! What do we study the other eight months out of the school year? Caucasian-European history! Are you really so threatened by this one little month ... this BONE that has been thrown to African-Americans in this country?"
Robert listened carefully. The bold youth was aware that, a year earlier, Mr. Jones wouldn't have given a snot like Eric Troutman a second thought. But after the untimely, unsolved murder of his son ... who was suspected to have been slain in a racially motivated incident ... the history teacher had been making little effort to keep comments about things like race and hate to himself. The loss of his wife to cancer may have also been a factor in Mr. Jones' new confrontational attitude.
"You forget, MR. Jones: after African-American history month there's Asian-American history month and Hispanic-American history month ..."
"And that still leaves white-American history dominating six out of the nine school months. Are you saying that this isn't enough ... that white American history is more deserving to be studied and celebrated than those of people of other races?"
There was a rather peculiar silence and then Eric Troutman cleared his throat and calmly said,
"That's exactly what I'm saying."
Mr. Jones shook his head sadly,
"I should have realized long ago where your head was. Before Christmas
vacation, you even took issue with Kwanzaa ... a holiday that has nothing to
do with you. A holiday that no one even asks you to celebrate.
Xxxx"Ha, it seems that the only reason you have a beef with it is because you resent it. When blacks were brought to this country, their culture and language was stripped from them. And any attempt by African Americans to reclaim or even celebrate that lost culture is met with so much resistance and petty hostility by people like you."
"And so it always shall be," said Eric in a level voice, "At least it shall be as long as I, and those who are of the same mind as myself, are around."
Mr. Jones and Eric glared at each other then. And Rob could almost taste the crackling hostility between the teacher and the student. He decided to ease the tension.
He raised his hand,
"Yes, Mr. Goering?"
The teacher smiled, for Robert had already proven himself as being one of the brightest students in his class.
"African-Americans invented things like the elevator, open-heart surgery,(1.footnote) the refrigerator, and most-recently the cellular phone," the bold youth pointed out evenly. "This being the case, why do most of the history books continuously place more emphasis on George Washington Carver and his invention of peanut butter?"
Yes, Robert Goering had taken it upon himself to open another can of worms.
Later that evening, on the opposite end of town ....
The night sky was clear. The air was thick with the aroma of the garbage he was sifting through it in search of recyclable aluminum cans. Almost every night he scoured the neighborhood in search of recyclables. Pasquale Villanueva had a job working as a gardener, but this was hardly enough to keep himself and his son clothed and fed. So after most of the neighborhood had turned in for bed, he crept out and searched every garbage can, every trash bin and every public litter basket for the items that might be refunded for change. It was a smelly, but fairly easy task, the worst part was leaving his son ... weakened by an on-again, off-again heart ailment ... alone at home while he conducted his search.
He was still ensconced in his recyclable hunt when he was unexpectedly backed into an alley by two masked hooligans. One hooligan was tall and slim, the other had the coldest blue eyes imaginable. These were two members of the Dragon Wizards, a group of young people who ... like most cowardly hate groups ... performed the most heinous deeds in the dark and black night. One deed that they had taken a particular liking to was cold-blooded murder. And it was cold-blooded murder that these young men had on their minds when they confronted Pasquale Villanueva while he was making his way back home.
"Yeah, we could just bust a cap in you, shithead," said the tall, masked fiend as he maliciously switched the spiked bat back and forth form his left hand to his right. "But we can enjoy the pleasure of your pain a lot longer by doin' things this way."
Before the gardener could utter a sound, the tall fiend rammed his fist into Pasquale's stomach. Doubled-over and gasping, the gardener struggles to stand upright. A pop under his ear from the blue-eyed hooligan's fist forces him to his knees.
"This is it, DOG," the tall fiend hisses almost seductively, setting his own bat aside and cracking his knuckles for dramatic effect. "You're one less locust illegal feeding on America's crops."
Pasquale Villanueva continued to gasp for air, curling into a fetal position. He couldn't move or speak ... and he could barely breathe. The blue-eyed hooligan stood in front of him still brandishing his spiked baseball bat. He held the tip to Pasquale's nose, giving the gardener a good look at what was soon to be the instrument of his demise.
The spiked bat came down twice on Pasquale's arm, effectively mangling it with a messy compound break. Pain screamed through the man's mind, and yet hardly a sound issued from his mouth, for he was still having difficulty drawing a breath.
The gardener was in a haze of unimaginable pain as the two Dragon Wizards began to methodically strip him naked. Two of the fiends ... like savage wolves bit at the man's nipples ... trying their best to tear the little protuberances right off the screaming man's chest. And through his blaze of pain, all Pasquale could think about was Osvaldo, his son. The son whom he had mistreated so often in the past. The son who was, at that very moment, anxiously awaiting his return.
The blue-eyed Dragon Wizard then retrieved some clothes pins and started attaching them to the now bloody, disfigured nipples on Pasquale's chest. The dying man held his head up to watch, exhaling loudly until, utterly weakened by pain, he dropped his head back to the ground. Meanwhile the tall Dragon Wizard picked up a rawhide whip and began to lash the gardener's muscular legs and inner thighs ... while the injured man tried his best to use his hands to protect his genitals when the whip got too close to them.
Once in a while the blue-eyed Dragon Wizard would roughly grapple the gardener's nuts in his hand and would crush and punch them as hard as he could. Pasquale jerked his head up and shrieked as one of the fiends did this.
Eventually the murderous youth wrapped his fist around the gardener's cock and held it straight out from his body while his tall companion lashed the whip back and forth across the dying youth's stomach. Through it all Pasquale made a lot of noise ... groans, blood-curdling gasps, incomprehensible pleas for mercy. But the youth continued to whip him as if he were deaf to the dying man's agonized cries.
When the gardener's gut was a mass of bloody lacerations, the blue-eyed Dragon Wizard let just the tip of Osvaldo's penis be seen above his hand and jabbed it firmly with the tip of his switchblade. The dying Pasquale's screams doubled in intensity and pitiousness. The murderous youth continued this little tormenting cadence with his victim for a while. Then he stood back and allowed his tall companion ... who had stripped himself completely naked by this time ... to completely take over.
After rolling the gardener over onto his bloody stomach, he took one hand and spread Pasquale' ass cheeks and used his other hand to help guide his shaft inside of him. The gardener's rather virgin asshole was much too tight. As soon as the guard managed to get his cock-head inside of the dying man, he plowed forward ... sending the rest inside as well. Pasquale released a loud scream and grunted as the tall Dragon Wizard savagely grinded his hips. The tall youth thrust in and out of the dying man.
Pasquale moaned loudly and started to involuntarily tighten his muscles on the Dragon Wizard's shaft. The dying man could not help but scream and plead for a quick death. And the murderous youth responded to this by intensifying his thrusts. He drove deep into the gardener as he released his warm cum inside of Pasquale's innards.
After the blue-eyed youth took his turn fucking the gardener, he retrieved his spiked baseball and proceeded to honor Pasquale's request to die.
The bat came down upon the man's knee, breaking it as well. The pain was intense and excruciating, and it wasn't long before the world began to grow dim. Eventually Pasquale lapsed into unconsciousness ... and would remain unconscious, thankfully, while the tall fiend and blue-eyes continued to pulverize him.
The merciless hooligans struck at the gardener's motionless body for the better part of four minutes ... two minute beyond the point where Pasquale actually died.
Osvaldo Villanueva stood at the window for hours that night, looking to see the bulky form of his father traipsing through the dark with his usual garbage bag full of cans. But he never came. An hour later the worried raven-haired youth dressed himself and left the apartment to find him. He was a quarter of a mile from home when he was confronted by three boys who were wearing masks and wielding spiked baseball bats. A trio of Anglo boys who ... unbeknownst to Osvaldo ... were returning from an excursion in which they had murdered the man who had given him life.
They were upon Osvaldo before the raven-haired boy even saw them clearly. They pushed him against the side of a parked U-haul truck, prodding him with the cuspidated tips of their baseball bats. Baseball bats that were stained with what appeared to be blood.
The masked leader had the bluest, meanest eyes the lad had ever gazed into.
"You an illegal?" this leader asked.
"No," Osvaldo replied timorously.
"Come on, Eric," said another one of the boys nervously.
The Latin youth could see the rust colored stain that decorated the clothes of the three youths confronting him. But he never guessed that this was blood as well. His father's blood.
"We've done enough for one night. Why don't you just bop this kid a good fatal one upside the head so we can hurry up and get outta here."
The leader ignored his friend. He grinned and slapped his much smaller, raven-haired victim across the face several times.
"Parasite," he said.
He pushed the point of the bat into Osvaldo's chest,
"I'm gonna pound you into jelly. Okay, you say you're not an illegal ... then who was the first president of the United States?"
"Huh?" Osvaldo was lost.
"Hell, who is the goddamned president NOW??"
Osvaldo hadn't a clue.
"You're an illegal ... another goddamned undocumented barnacle!" the leader said, tapping the bat harshly against the raven-haired youth's chest.
Osvaldo realized right then and there that he could walk about as a free person only at the leisure of these fanatical Anglo boys ... that he was allowed to live only at the whim of other extremist Anglo boys like them. He became instantly aware that they, in an instant, could take away his freedom or even his life, and that America ... this mostly Anglo-nation ... wouldn't even care.
"Wetback is a good name for you, parasite ... 'cause we're gonna make your back REALLY wet now."
Osvaldo saw one of the other Anglo boys remove what appeared to be a rhino-hide whip from his backpack. The leader of the mob, who was clearly growing hard in his pant, seemed to be deciding on whether to use the whip or the spiked bat.
The terrified raven-haired youth felt a warm trickle of pee slide ignominiously down his leg. It was combination of fright and his heart medication that had caused this humiliating action,
"N-no hurt me ... p-please...!"
But Osvaldo's pleas fell on deaf ears. The leader began to unzip his pants, extracted his hardening penis and began to stroke it.
His cock grew and arched as he did so, causing it to jut upward like a mindless slug. And now the raven-haired Latino youth heard his feet move on the ground as he faced away from him, felt the leader's hand grip his leg and spin him back around to him.
"Nope ... you're gonna watch this, boy!" the leader snarled.
His cock was exposed and throbbing as he raised a spiked baseball bat. The raven-haired youth was slammed to the ground by two of the youths. The first thing he saw when his head cleared was a spiked baseball bat descending towards him. He watched helplessly as the weapon shot down out of the air like a wooden bolt of lightening.
With a meaty thud it smacked into Osvaldo's thigh, stuck to the lad for a moment then slid off leaving several deep, pierce wounds that began to bleed almost immediately. The pain made the raven-haired youth contort first then shriek then arch his back as the leader swung the weapon again.
This time the bat ripped into his stomach and stayed there until he yanked it free with gory tear. As Osvaldo howled and jerked around he felt hot trickles of blood down his chest and gut.
The leader took half a step back and swung harder, a long whistling lateral swing.
The spiked bat smashed into the right side of the raven-haired youth's ribcage, right into the bones which felt as if they had splintered upon impact, ripping a gash in his tan skin as he screeched.
"YEAH!" the Leader cried gleefully, "Scream, boy, scream!"
With all his strength he swung the weapon down across Osvaldo's left ribcage hoping to smash clear through to the boy's lung. The spikes beached in him as he began coughing up blood and gasping as the leader tore the bat back and swung it again right into the soft yielding flesh of his stomach.
"Uugggggggg!" Osvaldo grunted.
His body folded over at the waist, his raven head rising, his face twisted in agony. He rolled over onto his stomach.
The murderous youth spat and swung the bat in a downward swoop into his victim's back as Osvaldo's rolled over and made his chest rise perpendicular to his legs. Then he rolled back over on this stomach.
The raven-haired screamed as the spikes filled his left buttcheek which immediately began to seep blood as the leader tore the bat out of him and swung it again.
The bat then smashed into the side of his leg. Osvaldo felt the power of the blow all the way to his hip as the leader yanked the ball out of his victim.
Then the most unexpected thing occurred. The leader, with his blue eyes slitted and as feral-looking as an animal's, crouched down to Osvaldo and put his mouth to the wound in her leg sucking her blood greedily, sinking his teeth deep into the tender warm inner thigh of his victim.
He growled, driving his mouth against the youth's bleeding leg.
"Yeah ... I always loved Mexican food!" he snorted.
He wiped his bloody mouth following a generous bite. Then he stood up and retrieved his bat. He then stepped back again and swung hard and buried the spiked weapon into his victim's ass cheek again.
As Osvaldo screamed the leader tore into him ... kicking his young victim away with his foot to pry the spikes out of the raven-haired youth's butt-muscles, starting his victim on a pendulum swing as Osvaldo rotated ... bleeding and crying ... his hands reaching out beseechingly, his eyes looking for pity as the leader mercilessly pounded the bat into his rump-flesh yet again ... and into the backs of his thighs, blood flying ...blood running down the youth in rivulets.
Blood even bespattered the leader's legs and stomach. He tall masked fiend whipped the raven-haired victim's back with the whip ... placing deep gouge-cuts on either side of his spine, and several in his shoulder blades. Osvaldo's gasping shrieks melted into choking, coughing gasps as blood drooled down his body in streams.
The leader was smiling now, a broad evil, even-teethed grin as he swung the spiked bat into the back of his victim's knees. And as he did this, his throbbing cock dripped precum.
Each brutal blow he delivered was harder than the one before as he sank the spiked bat into the back of Osvaldo's knees and ass.
The raven-haired youth screamed, his eyes very wide, his body shuddering traumatically then spasming as he lost consciousness, mercifully.
High school history teacher Jaleel Jones ... who would normally have been in bed were it not for the fact that a nightmare concerning the untimely deaths of his wife and son had kept him awake ... found Osvaldo Villanueva an hour later in a trash cylinder outside of his apartment complex. The boy had been folded into a fetal position within the can and was haphazardly buried by garbage.
The teacher would have left him there but noticed ... upon scrutinizing the bloody corpse's nearly lifeless face more carefully ... that the body belonged to a badly-beaten kid, and not some slain vato gang-banger like he had first assumed. He also noticed that badly thrashed Latino boy was not dead, but merely unconscious. The history teacher hauled the boy out of the trash cylinder and carefully slung him over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
I don't believe it. Another one of those illegals has thrown away one of their kids.
He frowned in anger at the type of parents who would toss away one of their kids just because they were suddenly an inconvenience to them. He had heard countless stories of illegal aliens throwing their infant offspring away in the garbage, but never had he heard a tale where a kid nearly into adolescence had been thrown away in a similar manner. What was the world coming to?
While making his way to his apartment, the history teacher suddenly realized that the unconscious boy slung over his shoulder ... who had been covered in garbage and was still bleeding horrendously from several lash marks on his body ... would soil his favorite sweater ... probably to the point where he might never be able to get the blood stains out.
So he took the boy off his shoulder and lay him once again upon the ground. He honestly wanted to get the youth into a warm area and out of the cold night air ... for Jaleel Jones was not cruel enough to let a kid freeze to death ... but he didn't want to have to TOUCH the filthy, bleeding boy. Eventually he found a way to almost accomplish this. He transported the lad to his apartment, holding the unconscious youth by the ankles and dragging him on the ground behind him.
Osvaldo was stretched out upon the floor of Jaleel Jones' apartment ... a place where cool water was placed to his dry lips and the brutal lash and puncture wounds on his body were tended by Jaleel's brother, Rasheed ... a thirty-year-old who had only recently been released from the state penitentiary after serving four years for aggravated assault.
I'm now an orphan, Osvaldo thought upon regaining consciousness, I'm all alone in the world.
At first Osvaldo was somewhat frightened by the two African-American brothers. Once or twice he tried to run away from the unfamiliar home, but he was suffering from a bad cold in addition to the still-healing wounds on his body, and he wasn't able to get very far. He thought of his father ... whom he ascertained was dead ... and wept bitterly.
Rasheed Jones was kind to him and always dealt with him gently even after the escape attempts ... perhaps because he had attempted a couple of daring escapes himself while he was in prison. Jaleel Jones, however, was far less patient. The history teacher seemed intent upon restoring the boy to health so that he could call the Juvenile Authorities and arrange to have the Latino youth sent on his way.
When Jaleel heard that the raven-haired boy refused to take his cough syrup, the angry history teacher took off his belt and held it threateningly ... standing over Osvaldo while the sickly youth swallowed the vile-tasting cough medicine, trembling fearfully and with tears rolling down his tan cheeks.
The history teacher especially wasn't patient during the boy's nightly episodes. These were the trying, arduous times when the lad would awake screaming in the middle of the black and dark night ... screaming about the slow death of his mother ... and the still unsolved murder of his father.
It was only after the boy had felt comfortable enough to talk about life with his father that Jaleel began to soften a bit towards him. It seems that Pasquale Villanueva had a history of abusing Osvaldo ... whacked the boy every night of his young life simply for being alive and a burden to him.
Despite all this, the Latino boy spoke of his father with only love and respect in his voice. He was too young to judge what his father had done to him. Even at his age, all he could do was love the man who had given him life. And, Osvaldo pointed out, his father had been killed ... why and by whom was still a mystery ...while searching for cans to scrape up enough money to ensure that his son would have a hot meal the following morning. A man who would go through such lengths couldn't have been all bad. And he certainly hadn't deserved to die.
Rasheed convinced his brother not to place Osvaldo in the care of any kind of authorities until they were certain that the boy had completely recovered from his ordeal. And during the time that the youth lived with the two brothers, Osvaldo quickly settled into their daily routine. Schooling wasn't a problem because Jaleel was a teacher and could instruct the boy in his lessons at home.
The only thing they really had to worry about was the dirty minds of their neighbors ... neighbors who would begin to question what a Latino teenager was doing residing in the home of two grown single, African-American brothers ... neighbors who couldn't imagine in their wildest dreams that the two brothers were allowing the boy to reside at their apartment out of pure kindness. The fact that Osvaldo looked much younger than his actual age was a major factor in their neighbors' tongue-wagging.
One morning Osvaldo awoke to an apartment alive with the sound of frying food and thick with the most horrendous odor. So, after rubbing the sleep from his eyes and stretching, the Latino lad padded into the kitchen. Jaleel and his older brother, Rasheed, were briskly frying what appeared to be slivers of meat in a pan.
"About time you woke up, mijo." Rasheed said upon noticing the Latino lad.
The twelve-year-old nodded, hoping that he wouldn't pass out ... the aroma of whatever was frying in the pan smelled THAT bad.
"You ready for breakfast?" inquired Jaleel, "We thought we'd feed you before we start making phone calls to locate someone who'll be able to take you in."
"Yeah, I'm really hungry!" replied Osvaldo.
He truly was famished,
"What're we having?"
Jaleel pointed to the pan with the unusual looking meat sizzling contentedly in a pool of popping vegetable oil.
Osvaldo's jaw dropped and his swarthy skin blanched noticeably. He didn't know much about down-home southern cuisine, but he did know that 'chitilins' was just a fancy word for hog intestines,
"Well, I'm not really HUNGRY, mind you ... ."
The history teacher hadn't noticed a thing and continued to add more chitilins to the frying pan.
Osvaldo left the busy brothers in order to return to the living room to figure out how he was going to avoid eating the meal that was being so diligently prepared. And as he planned out his next course of action, the Latino lad fervently searched the candy dishes in hopes of finding some other kind of sustenance for himself ... he was still very hungry and, even though he knew that his stomach would not be able to hold down a single fried "chitilin", he was aware that he would have to fill his growling young belly with SOMETHING.
In the end it was perceptive Rasheed who took pity on the youth and convinced his brother that cheese omelets would be a more appropriate breakfast to feed a growing boy. Chitilins, after all, were an acquired taste.
So, while Rasheed was busy cracking eggs, Jaleel took a huge knife and began dicing the vegetables. Soon Osvaldo was right beside him like an apprentice, peeling and cutting tomato slices. They worked good together, getting the vegetables diced and placed in huge bowls in record time.
But despite the fact that the three of them got along like a well-oiled machine, Jaleel felt that his home wasn't the proper place for Osvaldo ... and that he and his brother were not the proper guardians to raise a youth from an obscure village in some adumbrate Latin American country.
Still, Rasheed talked him out of handing the boy over to the Juvenile Authorities. He was sure that the organization would deport the youth back across the border once they discovered that he was an undocumented citizen. And wasn't Osvaldo eighteen? Did the law even requite that he have adult guardians? He wasn't sure about the answer to either question.
Actually the ex-con didn't have to work too hard to convince his brother not to report Osvaldo to the Juvenile Authorities. After all, Jaleel was somewhat disgusted by an organization that paid people to take care of young people on the edge. And he was far more disgusted by parents who only thought about the money they were being paid when deciding whether or not to take a kid into their home.
It was for this reason that he asked Jeff and Bunny Goering to look after the boy. Jeff and Bunny were the parents of Robert Goering, one of his brightest students. They were a responsible couple who would look after Osvaldo far better than any parents whom the lad might be placed with through some non-discerning government agency.
And eventually the day came when the Goerings, along with their son Robert, arrived to pick-up Osvaldo. While the Latino lad got aquatinted with his new surrogate mom and dad, Robert traversed to another room in the history teacher's home ... a room where he kept hearing an unusual humming noise.
The lighting was feeble in this room, obscuring a small corner where Jaleel's brother Rasheed sat at a sewing table running off what appeared to be a colorful uniform. His booted foot danced on the pedal: danced in the same spot continuously. It was the annoying hum of the sewing machine that the bold youth had been hearing.
"You really know how to work that thing," Robert said to the ex-con as he timidly ventured further into the room. "What is it that you're making?"
"Hell," Exclaimed Rasheed, when he finally finished sewing what appeared to be a uniform top. "Learned how to sew like a pro while I was in the joint. Right now I'm making Osvaldo a super-hero costume to wear to the huge masquerade block party being thrown on Hewlett Avenue. It's the least I can do to cheer the kid up now that he's ... gettin' sent away."
Robert scrutinized the costume,
"Which super-hero's outfit is this supposed to belong to?"
"No hero anyone knows," Rasheed replied with an almost sheepish grin. "Osvaldo asked me to make him a costume that would look different from how everyone else's might look at the party ... so I just made up a costume design and sewed it together. I suppose the kid will decide what to call himself once he tries it on and sees how he looks in it."
Rob examined the costume more carefully,
"If I were a hero with a costume like this, I'd call myself something ominous ... like the Blood Avenger or something."
"Well try it on for size, Robert," said Rasheed. "It's made of a polyester spandex blend, so one size fits all so to speak."
"What were you sent up for, Rasheed?" Robert asked as he tried on the costume.
The bold youth had always wanted to ask, but never felt comfortable about doing so, not even now, but he just had.
"I beat a young person over the head with a can of spray-paint," the ex-con said dryly, as he admired his work.
He truly was a great seamster.
"I was gonna be convicted for attempted murder, but the jury took into consideration the fact that the kid had been spray-painted 'nigger' on my car, and was also spitting all kinds of epithets at me."
Robert found it hard to contain his anger,
"So that kid deserved to be killed by you? I can't believe a jury let you
off with only aggravated assault. I mean, I've heard stories about how some
minorities are acquitted of crimes because their cases were charged with
accusations of racism. So attorneys an' judges decide that, rather than put a
match to a fuse that might burn down the city, the accused minority suspects
are inevitably set free.
Xxxx"From what see, no one is willing to draw a line in the sand. An intractable hard-line that says; this is absolutely wrong ... no matter what color you are ... and you will pay the penalty if this line is crossed!."
Instead of becoming angry, like Robert assumed that he would, Rasheed Jones laughed,
"It's funny; people only preach about drawing this 'hard-line' when the crimes involve minority youth. Where was the hard-line when blacks were the victims of all manner of unspeakable infractions? Hell, the 'line in the sand' that we have now frequently vanishes even today if a crime involving a minority seeking justice for an offense committed against him or her by some hateful white person. So people complaining about minority acquittals can stalwartly kiss my black ass. I mean these same people never seem to utter a peep when it's THEIR people constantly eluding justice after committing crimes against minorities."
"But crimes against minorities happened a long time ago Rasheed! All of that is in the past so minorities should just GET OVER IT!"
The ex-con laughed again,
"Crimes against minorities happened a long time ago? You mean the daily racially motivated acts of vandalism, slander and MURDER are all just a dream, eh?"
"Aw, you know what I mean...."
"No, Maybe these crimes are a dream to some people. I mean, crimes
committed against minorities are barely mentioned unless the whole damn
community puts up a stink about it. While crimes against whites are blasted on
every news segment over and over and over and over again. Don't you see?
Xxxx"That's another form of racism that breeds more injustice, Robert. America has got to come to grips with that. There has to be justice for ALL. If not, there will be justice for NONE."
Before Rob could respond to this, his father announced that it was time for them to depart. It was a sad moment when Osvaldo hugged Jaleel and Rasheed, for ... even though the boy was aware that the Goerings were good people who would never hurt him ... he had grown used to the history teacher and the ex-con. He stared at Jaleel for a long time ... almost as if he were silently begging the history teacher not to send him away.
But Jaleel Jones remained silent. Silent, cold and steadfast in his decision. So eventually the boy turned and walked towards the Goering's waiting car where the couple was waiting with Robert.
Jaleel remained motionless in the doorway beside his brother and watched the Latino lad leave. Just as he was about to step into the back seat of the Goering's Ford Taurus he paused, turned and waved.
"Goodbye, Mr. J ... Rasheed." he called back before climbing into the car.
Mr. Jaleel Jones said nothing as he watched the car drive away. He knew he had made the right decision. A single man was too irresponsible to properly look after a kid. Especially a youth on the cusp of full manhood. Plus, it just wasn't right for an African-American to take a kid of another race into his home when there are so many black children in need of stable environments. He had made the right decision by sending Osvaldo to stay with a couple more experienced in child-rearing ... hadn't he?
You're a bastard! this thought jolted Jaleel Jones from a light doze one evening. That kid is probably miserable!
Jaleel sat up in bed, his muscles tense. He climbed off the bed and ambled over to the window in the living room. It was a dangerous city out there, but he was comforted by the thought that the boy called Osvaldo Villanueva was safe in a stable home with a good family. The history teacher made his way back to his bed and stretched out upon it again.
As he lay there, he began to think back over the time Osvaldo had spent with him and his brother. In spite of himself he was able to recall several bad times. He remembered when Osvaldo had actually threatened him with physical violence after he forbade the boy from making attempts at leaving his home before his wounds were healed.
Jaleel had to laugh. Osvaldo's threat was so astounding! The youth was twelve years old and smart enough to know what would happen if he attempted to take on a thirty-something teacher who was six-foot-four and outweighed him by more than a hundred and fifty pounds. In retrospect Jaleel realized that the threat had been Osvaldo's way of showing that he was brave ... for the boy had learned early on how much the history teacher admired courage in others.
But, at the time, Jaleel had not seen it that way. No, the history teacher had only seen Osvaldo's act as being obstinate. And he had viewed the boy as an ungrateful guttersnipe who was half-witted enough to threaten an older and larger man within his own home ... the same man who had rescued him! Now, however, the history teacher was viewing things differently. Until this very moment Jaleel hadn't realized that Osvaldo had secretly wanted his respect that day ... and had attempted to use a bootless threat as an awkward means of attaining it.
Almost immediately the history teacher began to feel the icy indifference he'd built up over the weeks began to thaw. He missed the boy.
Still, he's better off with the Goerings. Lord knows that the neighbors are still wagging their tongues over the fact that the kid was living here ... bet they're all certain that the kid was getting buggered nightly.
Jaleel rolled over onto his stomach. He was trying hard not think about the youth, but it was no use. He imagined that the Goerings may have gotten fed up with the boy waking up in the middle of the night, screaming because of nightmares created by his mother's death to tuberculosis and his father's abrupt disappearance and subsequent murder. The history teacher went as far as to imagine that the family grew so fed up with Osvaldo's "problems" that they actually cast the kid out into the streets. His mind even conjured the image of a homeless Osvaldo being attacked again by some migrant-hating neo-Nazi group. He imagined a bloody-nosed youth wandering the streets ... abandoned by everyone.
You sent that boy away because you were afraid of what your black neighbors would think about you all but adopting some Latin youth. And you were afraid of what your white AND black neighbors would think about you having a kid in your home period! Jaleel thought to himself. You stopped doing right by a kid because you were afraid that your suspicious neighbors had it in their perverted heads that you were either selling out your race o ... or that you were engaged in acts of perversion. Well, now that you've sent Osvaldo away, your pride and pro-black image is safe and secure now. But what was the cost of this? A kid who was truly fond of you is out there trying to make himself at home with strangers.
Then, as if even nature itself wanted to play a role in making the history teacher feel worse, it began to rain outside.
Fully alert now, Jaleel leaped from the sofa and quickly threw on his robe. He immediately got on the phone and called the home of Jeffery Goering. He told the radio technician that, perhaps, he had been a bit hasty in handing Osvaldo over to him.
"I figured as much, Jaleel," said Jeff Goering, his smile almost evident through the phone. "That's why no one bothered to fully unpack Osvaldo's suitcase. I'll send Robert back over there with your son ASAP."
And once young Robert "Rob" Goering arrived with Osvaldo in tow, the history teacher sat the Latin lad down and spoke to him quietly and intently.
"Look, I'm a grouchy neurotic guy who lives with his ex-con brother. I raised my son for six years before he was ... b-before he died. After he was gone I dreamed that my wife and I might have another son. A son that would have grown up to be a lot like you ... intelligent, decent and not willing to let hardships keep him down and out. But that was before the doctors told my wife that she wouldn't live long enough to have any more kids, and so I never did have another son and ... well, that's all I'm going to say about that."
"My Papi is ... dead. And I'd be honored to be your son, Mr. Jones."
And that was it.
They were a strangely mismatched pair. Osvaldo was a slight young man with raven black stringy hair. Mr. Jaleel Jones towered over him like a giant tree looming over a little sprouting bush. You would never see a duo that looked more contrasted. Still, fate had decided that these two should be together.
Realizing that the bold youth would have to walk the four blocks back to his house all by himself, the history teacher said,
"Wait Robert, I'll drive you home."
Robert brushed the offer aside. He was carrying a case full of Osvaldo's belongings ... including the intricately designed costume that Rasheed had sewn for the raven-haired youth.
"It's okay, Mr. Jones. I'm not afraid to walk back alone. Bedsides, I know how much trouble you've been having with your car lately."
Jaleel tried to convince the boy to let him drive him home, but Robert almost considered the offer a personal affront to his bravery,
"Well, you may as well take your Dad's fishing reel that I borrowed," the history teacher said.
He handed Rob a Carter Caufield Champion fishing reel. He realized that the young person was in his rebellion stage ... and unwilling to listen to the good advice of any adult ... so he allowed Robert to go on his way alone. Still, he ordered his ex-con brother to follow behind the boy at a distance.
Jaleel wanted Rasheed to watch over Robert during his walk home. He wanted his brother to make sure the bold youth made it to his house safely. Told him not to follow too close behind. Just enough to make sure some crack-addicted thug wouldn't ambush the young person and snuff out his young life the way that some mysterious hate-minded adult had choked the life out of his son almost a year earlier.
Robert was about a block away from Jaleel Jones' home when he realized that he was still carrying the super-hero costume Rasheed had made for Osvaldo. And he was just about to turn and head back for the apartment complex when he suddenly heard a female scream. He dashed down a side street and watched as a middle-aged woman was being forced against a wall by what appeared to be an adult Hispanic man and a preadolescent African-American boy.
Figures, Rob thought to himself, knowing that many adult criminals use youths as lookouts and, eventually, as accomplices who are basically untouchable by the law.
The woman was kicking and twisting, trying to get away from her assailants,
"Leave me alone!"
One kick was right on target. The smaller black boy howled in pain and grabbed his nuts. And while this kicked boy ran like a scared dog, the adult Hispanic man grabbed at the woman's purse. He then took off running in the opposite direction that his smaller accomplice had.
Later Rob would have a hard time putting his finger on what inspired him to duck into another alleyway and put on the costume he was carrying. A desire to be like one of the caped heroes whose adventures he'd read of in comics in his childhood? An urgent need to restore justice to the filth-infested streets of his city? Plain insanity? Rob didn't have a clue. But whatever the reason, Robert Goering dashed into a darkened alleyway as a fairly normal teenage boy ... but emerged as the costumed Blood Avenger!
And he selflessly chased after the purse-snatching thug.
The heroic youth knew that the hooligan would attempt to escape down Vogel Avenue ... and that meant he could be headed off on Ellis Street. So Robert, who was far more familiar with the streets than any of the newly arrived immigrants, dashed towards Ellis. And once he arrived at the end of the street, he wasted no time in setting up various traps to catch the thug who would eventually be heading that way. He made the traps using only items that he happened to be carrying with him, a suit case, fishing wire, a fishing rod.
Eventually the purse-snatcher could be heard traversing up the street.
The bold youth's heart pounded as the thug, who hadn't spotted him yet, began to creep further towards the alleyway. He could only pray that the haphazardly-constructed traps he had set up were effective enough to stop this ruffian.
It turned out that at least one was.
A loop of tightly-strung fishing wire caught the purse-snatcher around the ankle and brought him down heavily. The man cried out and cursed incomprehensibly ... practically shouting the neighborhood down. The Blood Avenger immediately rushed into the passageway. Though half-afraid, he was fit to kill ... for Jamaal had warned him about the predators, thugs and haters who roamed the night streets.
The heroic youth leaped upon the intruder and did everything in his young power to keep the stranger still; using his father's fishing rod to grab the larger man in a choke-hold. Size was the intruder's advantage ... particularly his stout width. Rasheed, who was observing the struggle from a distance, noticed for the first time that the intruder was a rather stout man in his late twenties. And he was intoxicated ... stinking loudly of cheap pulque tequila and something else. He tripped and stumbled on one of the many loose bricks littering the ground around them.
"Rasheed, I can't hold him!" Robert cried out.
It was so dark that only the young person's brightly colored costume was visible in the darkness. Feeling that things could get out of hand, the ex-con offered,
"Well, clock him over the head with one of those bricks near your feet!"
Robert's normally amiable eyes filled with horror, for he knew that doing such would probably kill the ruffian,
"I can't do that!"
"Then just threaten to do it. Osvaldo's been teaching you a little Spanish ain't he? Just use some of what you learned to tell this mutha-fucka that he'd better chill or else!"
The Blood Avenger seemed to sense that, eventually, the thug would gain the upper hand. So he decided to take the ex-con's advice. The only problem was that he didn't know nearly enough Spanish to form a sentence relevant to their current situation ... and he wasn't even sure if the ruffian didn't understand English or not.
"Uh, what should I threaten to do to him, Rasheed?"
"Shit, I don't know. . . leave it up to the bastard's imagination!"
This was apparently an excellent idea to Robert, who really would not have enjoyed hurting anyone. Still, the heroic youth lacked the imagination to come up with a threat that would be horrifying enough to scare the struggling, intoxicated mugger into submission.
"Uh, you just better calm down, mister!" Robert yelled at the ruffian.
Rasheed rolled his eyes hopelessly and, with arms outstretched, appealed to the heavens,
"Lord, Lord, Lord!"
Robert went on, baring his teeth at the stranger he was tussling with,
"You j-just calm down, or ... or ... I'll do something you aren't going to like at all!"
The thug stared at his young assailant, clearly wondering if this costumed, beardless youth would actually do more than shout threats at him. After a few moments he seemed to come to the conclusion that he would. So, with almost casual ease, the stocky Latino tossed Robert aside and made a mad dash for the street.
But because it was very dark and he's too panicked to see where he's going, the thug smacks his head against the malfunctioning lamppost on the corner of the alleyway entrance. Upon impact the stocky ruffian's bottom half seems to leave the top, and his entire body flips harshly to the ground. In a mere second the thug is flat on his back and out cold.
"Well, he's gonna be in dreamland for a while." Rasheed said, examining the thug. "See that? I knew I wouldn't have to step into help you ... you handled things all by yourself."
"It was blind luck that he hit that pole," Robert said after returning the stolen purse to the frightened woman.
She promptly ran off, as if the devil were chasing her. Rasheed shrugged,
"Nobody has to know that. Why I bet that lady goes off and tells everyone that you single-handedly...."
Suddenly the African-American youth who had been kicked in the nuts returned, perhaps seeking to rendezvous with his older compatriot. The boy's eyes, like giant black marbles, swept from the Blood Avenger then to Rasheed, then to his unconscious accomplice sprawled upon the ground, and then back again to the costumed Blood Avenger.
"Your pal is down for the count, son," Rasheed said.
Then he pointed towards Robert,
"And this here is the guy who put him there. Do you know who he is?"
The boy, apparently frozen in place by terror, shook his head. The ex-con continued,
"This is the Blood Avenger, the baddest mutha-fucka to wear a cape! He's got more balls than the Spalding factory! He's so strong he can piss a river that would make the Mississippi look like a little creek! He's so powerful every girl he sleeps with ends up pregnant with triplets!"
"Uh, you're laying it on a bit thick, aintcha?" Robert whispered, elbowing Rasheed in the ribs.
"Yeah, but that's my intention," the ex-con whispered back.
He then took hold of the frightened boy and held him tight,
"Now you're going to stand here watch what happen next ... then you're gonna go and tell all your felonious friends that there's a new law enforcer in town ... the Blood Avenger!"
Robert looked at Rasheed with a perplexed expression,
"What IS going to happen next, Rash?"
The ex-con rolled his eyes,
"Just go over to that punk and do what comes naturally."
So Robert did. And for a full minute he circled the thug ... who was just regaining consciousness ... wondering what to do. Then, deciding to just give in to his baser instincts, he kicked the thug in the ribs. Then he kicked him again ... and again and again and again. He kicked the purse-snatcher until several of the man's rib's were broken. The Blood Avenger ended his brutality by stomping both of the purse-snatcher's kneecaps until they shattered.
While he was being brutalized the thug screamed and screamed ... and Robert discovered that his penis simultaneously became harder and harder,
"Yeeeeeessssss ...." Robert moaned.
He was smiling, stroking himself, letting the sensation of having such power over another individual consume him ... fill him completely. He walked closer to the purse-snatcher and began pressing the sole of his boot down into his throat, watching the thug choke and wince. Then, after removing the man's clothing, he knelt between his legs.
"Yeah, I'm gonna extend TRUE justice to you, scum," he said simply.
He slid his hands under the thug's thighs to open and raise them. As he did, the broken bones in the purse-snatchers knees unknitted even further and the thug howled and screamed.
The Blood Avenger's cock grew even more rigid as the purse-snatcher's ass-hole lay before him, tight and virginal between his bloody thighs. Pushing his legs back and causing the thug unimaginable pain he positioned his shaft right at the orifice and pushed slowly into the gasping screaming man as he knelt on the cold moonlit concrete ... thighs apart ... his balls hanging heavily. He penetrated the purse-snatcher brutally, grinning sadistically at the thug's agonized face.
The thug looked back at him, weeping and too weak to defend himself. Robert put his weight into the purse-snatcher now and harshly forced his way in deeper ... to hilt.
As The Blood Avenger fucked his enemy, he sank his teeth hard into the purse-snatcher's hairy calves ... biting hard ... clamping down until blood filled his mouth. He tore off chunks of the thug's thigh meat while he fucked him. Rob bit, chewed and spat the bloody remains away in a cruel rhythmic pattern.
The thug trembled violently and screamed and moaned with each downward thrust of the Blood Avenger's hips. Placing his hands on the purse-snatcher's thighs just above the broken knees he pushed the legs down slowly, opening the thug wider. The Blood Avenger thrust and thrust until he decided to lean forward and place his hands on the purse-snatcher's broken rib cage ... pushing down on him while continuing to furiously fuck him.
The thug groaned, coughed and sputtered. Blood jetted from his throat and into his battered face. When this happened, Rasheed finally released the purse-snatcher's young, VERY terrified accomplice.
The youngster didn't even glance at his bloodied and brutally fucked compatriot before taking off down the street at a dead run.
There were rumors floating around town. It was written on the front of a newspaper, and the headline seemed to scream at the reader:
"Woman claims costumed 'super-hero' rescued her from five or six fiendish muggers and/or rapists," said Jaleel as he crumpled up the paper and tossed it into the nearest wastebasket.
Unlike his brother Rasheed, the history teacher had no idea who the 'Blood Avenger' was or where he'd come from. In Jaleel Jones' mind, all of this news about teenaged super-heroes was just so much sleazy tabloid hype. He was more concerned with the rumors floating around the neighborhood about OTHER costumed figures in town. Costumed figures who were alleged to be planning an assault upon the entire minority community within the area.
And, immediately upon catching wind of these rumors, he could do nothing to prevent his instincts from shifting into high gear. The manly instincts that induced his desire to safeguard his home.
Jaleel had the means to safeguard his home, but at first he didn't want to confide these means to young Robert when the youth dropped by to return some more things of Osvaldo's back to the apartment. Though Robert was intelligent and a straight-arrow, the history teacher wasn't completely comfortable discussing such matters with one so young.
Eventually, however, the heroic youth ... seeming to sense something ... prodded the information out of Jaleel. And it wasn't long before the history teacher was showing the youth his arsenal. It was a secret store room with automatic weapons on shelves, maps rolled and propped against walls; there was even a command center with radio and television monitors in the corner.
"I'm ready to take on an army," the history teacher declared proudly.
Then, with a thoughtful expression, he said,
"You know, parents work hard to move out of gangland slums and ghettos, but
when they arrive in the suburbs they are confronted by new gangs. Gangs of
kids who spray-paint Nazi swastikas on their homes, burn down their places of
business and harass their children on their way to school.
Xxxx"Surprisingly, it's only in recent years that some minority parents have come to realize that they sometimes have to be just as ready to protect themselves and kill in the suburbs as they were in the inner city."
"You have the equipment," Robert said.
He stared at the history teacher's arsenal with wide eyes,
"What do you plan to do with it?"
"I don't know. All I know is that I'm going to have to put a hurting on those Dragon Wizard boys. Something that will show them ... and every other lunatic in this town ... that even though I'm all for peace, they shouldn't expect us minorities to act like sitting ducks and wait to be slaughtered!"
As he helped the history teacher to place his deadly-looking El Grand Cazador knives into sheaths attached to the room's left wall, young Rob Goering said,
"So you're saying that you're so much better than all the non-minorities in town...."
"No ... I don't know all the non-minorities in town. Hell, I'm even aware that even other minorities might wish to do me harm. But I know the mind-set of the Dragon-Wizards pretty well," said Jaleel. "And because I'm cognizant of their mindset, it would be pretty stupid for me to sit around and do nothing while they're planning to murder me."
"Oh, they aren't planning to murder you. The Dragon Wizards aren't inhuman beasts," said Robert. "They're just young vandals ... the products of reinforced hate and ignorance and fear. They don't really deserve to be killed or anything like that!"
"Maybe not, bud," Jaleel said evenly. "That's why someone is going to have to teach them a better way to live ... to show them that being the so called 'Sons of Israel' doesn't mean that you have to go around vandalizing and terrorizing people who are different from you. But in the meantime, I'm still going to have to prepare myself the worst."
As he methodically positioned several CEP-90 Military Combat Packs into a cabinet where no less than four Mosod four-way gun holsters were suspended, Robert said sullenly,
"And I'm gonna be caught in the middle."
"No you won't," Jaleel replied with conviction. "When the Dragon Wizards discover that you're here with me now ... that you've actually eaten in my home ...they're going to classify you as an enemy minority. Thus you'll have no choice but to side with us. Oh, you could probably get back into their good graces if you did something vile like betray me. But I know you, Robert Goering. You've got too much integrity to ever betray a friend."
The bold youth's eyes began to glisten with frustration,
"You're right ... I'd never betray you. But I wish all of this fighting wouldn't have to happen."
"Hey, it just might NOT happen, Robert. There doesn't have to be an all-out confrontation between me and the Dragon Wizards. If I have my way, there won't be. There's an old quote that says 'there is no such thing as an inevitable war. if war comes it shall result from a failure in human wisdom'."
"But the Dragon Wizards can be good guys too," Robert said earnestly. "I remember when they were friends of mine in middle school. They're capable of being kind, and thoughtful an...."
The history teacher nodded as he tentatively touched the handles of a series of 1911A1 Colt pistols in their opened nylon cases,
"I know. They're just like many gang-banging bone-heads out in the streets. They're hormone-ridden youths who are going through a confusing period in their lives right now. And I'm also aware that, when the confusion and growing pains have passed, they may just prove themselves to be fine, upstanding men."
"But until that happens, you're going to plan out strategies to kill them." said Robert sarcastically.
Now checking the condition of his Pro Shooter's mats and his Kalashnikov Bayonets, Jaleel said,
"Only strategies to help me and my family to protect ourselves. Only time will tell if causing the Dragon Wizards physical harm will be necessary to accomplish this."
Once again appraising the arsenal in the room, Robert said,
"You look as if you're ready to form your own mini-militia. I'm concerned about groups like the Resistance Clan and the Dragon Wizards too...."
"You'd better concerned ... haven't you read the Dragon Wizard's and the
Aryan Resistance Clan's agendas? What they and other groups like them plan to
do after they take over the country? They plan to do a background check on
every citizen to make sure that all the whites who are allowed to live are
Xxxx"They're going to check the history on every family tree, and if a white person is found to have an 'impurity', meaning the blood of any race other than white flowing through their veins, that person is to be publicly executed as an impure 'mongrel'. Hell, they find that a mixed-blood white person to be more of an offense to God than any pure-blooded minority!"
Robert sat in a chair heavily, his forearms on his knees, his narrow shoulders hunched beside his ears, his head bowed,
"I'm aware of that, Mr. Jones. But please don't do anything to the Dragon Wizards. At least not until you're sure they're the threat that you believe they are."
Jaleel, tenaciously checking his rifle display, said,
"You're going to be a good man, Robert. And it's for this reason alone that I'm going to take your advice."
The heroic youth nodded, clearly relieved. Jaleel folded his arms, and with a pondering expression said,
"You know, Revelation 12:9 says, 'And the great dragon was cast out, that old Serpent, called the Devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world'. And every time 'dragon' is mentioned in the Bible, it is in reference to Satan. The same can be said for 'wizards'. Hell, in Leviticus 19:31, God himself commands that we 'neither seek after wizards, to be defiled by them: I am the Lord your God'. This being the case, why would a group that claims to be the 'defenders of Christianity' name themselves after things associated with Satan?"
Robert Goering's expression was contemplative,
"I think it's God's way of marking them. Putting a 'warning sign' on them, so to speak. An obvious warning sign that they're blind to ... but one that every righteous person can see quite clearly. I always used to wonder why is it that so many murderers like them are walking about free? How is that so many of their kind demand justice for offenses committed against them, but they never seem to pay for their own atrocities?"
Rasheed said noting for some time. Then finally he said,
"True impartiality is so elusive in this country. You know that all of the black and Hispanic prisoners on death row are there for murdering white people?"
"Well shouldn't they be? Simple equal American justice."
"I won't argue that they don't deserve to die ... but are you also aware
that minorities are murdered by whites in racially-motivated incidents
twenty-nine times more that the other way around? Now, many of these whites
who murdered blacks have indeed been convicted and sentenced to prison, and
yet only two have EVER been sentenced to death, and those
two were involved in that same crime out there in Texas! The vast majority of
whites who are on death row are there for killing other whites. Only two of
the thousands of whites convicted of hate-crime related murders are on
Xxxx"Tell me, how is it that minorities who murder whites can be sentenced to death, but the vast number of whites who murder minorities escape such a penalty?"
"They had trials, and juries recommended the death pen...."
"So minorities are supposed to accept the fact that juries ... and how much
do you want to wager that all of these juries were predominantly white ...
felt the need to slate black offenders for death, while whites who are guilty
of the same crimes are allowed to live?
Xxxx"No, that's unacceptable, Robert. Drag all the whites who murdered minorities out of their cells and off the streets ... place them on death row right alongside the black and Latino killers, THEN you can talk to me about equal justice and all that. Until then, as far as I'm concerned, 'American' and 'justice' are two words that don't belong anywhere near each other."
With extra enthusiasm Robert Goering, Devin Towrey and Osvaldo Villanueva traversed down to the park after school one Thursday afternoon. Because they had arrived at the park some time after most of the neighborhood schools had let out, the recreation area was filled with teeming throngs of youths. Glancing off towards a secluded clearing, Robert eyed one student stretched out and reading a book ...the Turner Diaries of course ... beneath a shaded tree.
"Hey, I think I have this kid in one of my classes at school. His name is Brendan something or other." Devin said, motioning towards the oblivious youth.
Osvaldo shook his head. He too was eyeing the young freckle-faced stranger intently,
"I don't know him, but he's kinda familiar to me somehow...."
Then it happened.
The Latin youth suddenly reached for a knife he carried under his shirt. The knife he'd been concealing since the night he was savagely whipped in the black and dark night a few months earlier. And Robert could see Brendan sort of freeze in shock as he watched the younger boy. And Osvaldo continued to stare right back at him ... his expression was changing ... twisting with a kind of hate that the bold youth had never witnessed. Without any kind of a warning, the Latino youth kicked Brendan in his side!
The freckle-faced eighteen-year-old leaped to his feet, still smarting from the pain in his side. He had dropped the book he had been so engrossed in,
"What the hell is going on here!?"
Osvaldo muttered something unintelligible, staring at Brendan wildly, the knife still set firmly in his grip,
"You were one of those bastards!"
Robert and Devin ... the innocent, confused bystanders ... were in a panic. They looked into their younger friend's eyes and saw the freckle faced boy's death in them.
Brendan glanced around for a rout of escape. Unfortunately Devin just happened to be inadvertently blocking the only evasion route. And to get out of this secluded area he'd have to pass Osvaldo. In other words, the freckle-faced youth was trapped. Trapped and facing the wild-eyed young man with the gleaming knife.
"Mother-fucker!" Osvaldo screamed.
Robert moved closer behind his young friend and halted.
"How you like this??" Osvaldo yelled.
He now had Brendan by the throat. The youth's freckles stood out like 3D on his face ... which was now even paler than usual. He couldn't move ... couldn't speak. All he could do was sort of squeak in pure terror.
After shoving Brendan to the ground, Osvaldo got his arms and legs pinned down and then sat on his chest ... his knees on the frightened youth's elbows. The freckle-faced eighteen-year old's heart was almost visibly beating like crazy, and Robert knew that Brendan must have been thinking to himself, this is how I'm going to die. . . killed by a lunatic Latino kid because me and some friends went too far and whipped him one night.
Osvaldo poked the point of the knife into the hollow of Brendan's throat, and the freckle-faced youth screamed.
"Don't yell so loud, somebody might hear, and I'll have to kill you right away," Osvaldo warned. "You really don't remember me do you? You don't remember when you and your Nazi friends jumped me and flogged the skin off my back? You don't remember whacking me with a baseball bat covered with sharp nails? You don't remember that??"
"I...," Brendan began.
Osvaldo gave him a good shot to the nose with his fist, stopping him short.
Devin, still fluttering about in a freakish hysteria, happened to see a crowd of kids starting up a soccer game nearby. Brendan had spotted them as well, but he knew that he wouldn't have been able to call out to them for help before Osvaldo slit his throat from ear to ear.
The freckle-faced youth begged, tears pouring from his eyes,
"Jesus ... don't cut me!"
Robert stood beside Osvaldo again. He saw that his friend was staring intently into the frightened eighteen-year-old's freckled face. In the Latino youth's mind Brendan was not only the person who'd mercilessly whipped him, but he was also standing proxy for the racists who'd killed his dad. The Latin lad had absolutely no idea that Brendan and his pals were indeed responsible for his father's murder!
"Yeah, I busted your nose."
Osvaldo spat into the terrified boy's freckled face. He ran the tip of the blade over the tender skin protecting Brendan's carotid artery,
"And I'm gonna do a lot worse. I'm gonna mutilate you and then slice a new smile into your neck!"
Brendan began to cry in earnest now. He just knew his time on this earth was up. He watched frozen in terror as the Latino youth emptied his own pockets ... spilling items like shoestrings and hairbrushes onto the pavement.
"Wh-what are you...?"
Without answering, Osvaldo methodically unzipped the youth's pants, pulled them down along with his underwear and seized him by the balls. Then he immediately began to punch the eggs brutally. He used his shoestrings to tie the penis and balls into positions nature never intended. Osvaldo even slapped them to force more blood into the balls so that the sensitivity was increased.
He tied the freckled youth's balls tightly together as he did other things to his enemy's penis. His shoestring became the ultimate ball spreader... turning Brendan's genitals a vivid purple. The balls were tightly bound and then attached to the freckled-youth's neck. The area under his balls was exposed ... the area in front of the asshole. Osvaldo then used the paddle liberally to instill a new vicious form of pain. Then he gave the area a savage scrubbing with his stiff hairbrush.
Once the balls and the skin was completely sensitized, Osvaldo bathed the area with Aqua Velva aftershave. The effect was an unimaginable burning sensation. Brenden arched his back and screamed to the point where he came close to losing consciousness. He did lose consciousness when the Latino youth used generous amounts of the Aqua Velva on his freckled adversary's penis and asshole.
He used a sewing needle with ordinary sewing thread with a knot tied at the end to sew his enemy's foreskin! Brenden's resistance is prevented by Robert who sternly held the freckled youth down. Osvaldo pushed the needle through scrotal skin and savagely sewed the Brendan's dick clear down to his balls by stitching the foreskin to the scrotal sack. He sewed systematically and well ... just the way Rasheed had taught him.
Once the balls were all sewed up into a repulsive package, the Latino youth took his knife and began to slice into his enemy's swollen purple genitals. But before he could inflict much permanent damage....
Robert presented Osvaldo with a heavy, fist-sized rock,
"Here, use this to crush his balls or something ... don't cut them off, Os!"
Brendan was actually grateful to Robert for his action. He figured there was no way in hell that the bold youth was going to prevent Osvaldo from hurting him, so he decided to atleast provide some damage control ... provide the Latin lad with a weapon that would atleast allow the freckle-faced youth to SURVIVE ...if he was lucky ... this violent encounter.
"Huh?" Osvaldo asked, looking up.
Devin Towrey noticed that he himself was beginning to weep almost as hotly as Brendan was.
"If you do that, he'll die ... and that's just going to get you sent to some corrections camp or prison," Robert explained, still holding the heavy rock out to Osvaldo. "So just use this rock to bust his balls up a bit. Save the slashing and all that for when you find the haters who killed your dad."
"Oh, Jesus ... don't cut me!" Brendan continued to plead.
In his heart he most-likely didn't relish the thought about having his ball-sack crushed with a rock either. Osvaldo stared at the rock for a few moments, as if he was inebriated. He dropped the knife he had been threatening to slit the freckle-faced youth with, but he made no move to take the rock that Robert was still offering him.
He climbed off of Brendan Then he started crying ... crying like the bold youth had never seen anyone cry before. Then the Latin lad took off running, and Robert ran after him. Eventually he located the boy, managed to calm him down, then berated him for unwarrantedly attacking a fellow citizen without evidence of a previous wrongdoing.
Osvaldo, still weeping bitterly, was incredulous.,
"But he's the one who whipped me...."
"You can't prove that," Robert quickly chimed in. "And until you can, Brenden is blameless in the eyes of the law. He's innocent until proven guilty ... that's our motto of justice here in America."
While Rasheed was away at the job he'd taken at the post office, the dreaded Dragon Wizards attacked in a mission of revenge. Revenge stemming mainly from Osvaldo's assault upon Brenden days earlier. They attacked the apartment that the ex-con shared with his brother and their Latin foundling.
There were eight of them. They secured Jaleel's hands behind his back with a police zip-tie, pulled Osvaldo from his bedroom, and dragged the bound man and boy into the living room. Two of the masked neo-Nazis went into the kitchen.
The leader had Jaleel sit on the coffee table as if it were a chair. Osvaldo was on the floor, back to the wall. They had not taped the Latino boy's hands or mouth. Two young men dressed in a swastika-decorated fatigue jackets, jeans and face-concealing masks crouched on either side of the two.
With the casual ease of the sociopath, one of the Dragon Wizards...clearly Brendan ...punched twelve-year-old Osvaldo in the face.
The Latino boy grunted, but refused to give the neo-Nazis any satisfaction by truly crying out. Jaleel struggled against his bonds, cried out in protest behind the tape binding his mouth. The apparent leader rubbed at his crotch ... as if seeing the history teacher bound and gagged was a sexual turn-on.
With a gleaming M-16 rifle held firmly in his hands, he nodded towards one of his fellow Dragon Wizards. Osvaldo finally did cry out as a heavy combat boot thudded into his side. The history teacher, hands still bound behind his back, leaped at the masked youth who had injured his 'son'.
The leader of the Dragon Wizards raised his rifle and brought it crashing down upon Jaleel's head. The history teacher sank to the floor, blood spurting over his face. Osvaldo quickly jumped on top of Jaleel, trying to protect his surrogate father from the second blow that was meant for Jaleel's groin, but as the rifle came crashing down, the full force caught the Latino youth's neck.
Both the man and the boy lay crumpled on the floor, motionless and bleeding.
Why is everyone rushing to school this morning? Robert asked himself as a horde of children hurried through the front gate the following morning, their feet pounding boisterously on the black-topped surface of the school grounds. The way they're bustling in here you'd swear it was the day before Christmas vacation.
A shapely young girl was the last to enter through the school gates. As she drew nearer, Robert recognized her as Sharon Keith, his sweetheart. She was openly weeping,
"Rob," she sobbed when she reached him, "Mr. Jones is dead."
"Huh?" Robert demanded, totally stunned.
He felt a chill from the roots of his hair clear down to his toes.
"Mr. Jones," Sharon wept. "He was murdered. Him and his foster son ... you know, that Spanish boy? They were found dead in their apartment this morning."
Several students who'd heard the girl's announcement immediately began to mutter in hushed, excited voices amongst themselves.
"It was horrible, Rob," Sharon blurted out. "I'm not sure, but from what I hear, Mr. Jones had been clubbed over the head and then shot at close range. The boy ... Osvaldo I think his name is ... was found with his neck broken. Oh, Rob ... who would do something like that?"
Robert's young face was very grave as he put his arm about his weeping girlfriend's shoulders. The bold youth's eyes began to fill with tears, but he remained silent.
Rasheed Jones hadn't even begun to grieve for his deceased brother when what appeared to be a pimply teenager showed up at the door of his apartment. This lad turned out to be Devin Towrey, a former student of Jaleel and a good friend of Robert Goering. The ex-con had never lain eyes upon this young man before, but almost immediately the two began to speak openly about the brutal murder of Jaleel and Osvaldo.
"Jaleel should have 'put a hurting' on those hateful little shits the minute he got wind of those rumors about their plans for him." Rasheed spat through clenched teeth.
Devin sighed with a world-weariness that belied his tender years.
"Don't you think that's exactly what was going through Mr. Jones' mind when the Dragon Wizards came busting into the apartment? That he should have dealt with them earlier instead of following Robert's advice and waiting for them to make the first move?"
"Yeah, Robert did talk Jaleel out of ... "
"Don't you DARE blame Robert for what happened! Because it was ultimately Mr. Jones' choice not to deal with those little Nazis when he first suspected that they were planning to do him in."
Rasheed didn't feel like fighting with this young stranger now. And he didn't want to tell this boy that the last thing on his mind right now was Robert Goering.
"I doubt if I'll ever see Robert again anyway. With both Jaleel and Osvaldo gone, the kid has no reason to came around here anymore."
"That may be true. But you've gotta talk to Robert one more time. You've got to go and see him, even if he doesn't come to see you...."
"Yeah? Why's that?"
"Because if you don't, he's going to spend the rest of his life thinking that you blame him for Mr. Jones' and Osvaldo's death. You can't do that to him ... can't force a kid to carry around a burden like that."
And because he knew that the boy was right, Rasheed nodded silently.
Later in bed that night, Robert Goering rolled to one side, then onto his stomach. He wanted desperately to sleep, but every time he came close he would begin to see everything. In his mind he saw the brutal murders of Jaleel and Osvaldo. See them so clearly that it was almost as if he'd been present at the time of the slayings.
He thanked God that Rasheed had shown up at his house earlier ... had sat him down and assured him that he didn't blame him for his brother's death. The ex-con's exoneration had lifted a very heavy weight from the bold youth's soul. Still, it wasn't helping him to sleep any better.
I'm never going to sleep again, Robert thought to himself resignedly ... just before he dropped off to sleep.
And the bold youth was still lying in bed snoring when his clock alarm went off. It had been set to roust him from sleep at an hour when his parents were certain to be slumbering and not-likely to disturb him. He groggily rolled out of bed and threw on his robe.
"I gotta get my own computer," he grumbled, padding downstairs in his bare feet to the living room.
Typing in a command, Robert waited expectantly — thinking that, perhaps, his new program could indeed aid him in locating the killers of Jaleel and Osvaldo. He sat in front of the computer terminal, rubbing his hands together for warmth while waiting for the desired info to materialize.
A chart appeared on the screen. A chart that compares what he'd been able to
learn about The Dragon Wizards with the information contained in his program's
Robert tracked down Eric Troutman at a RAHOWA ... which was a code-name for Racial Holy War ... music concert being held at a local arena the following night. He arrived at the show in costume with Rasheed.
The ex-con was wearing a costume as well, but it wasn't the attire of a super-hero. No, the ex-con was disguised as one of the concert arena's security guards. He and a few "friends" he'd known while in prison had created a phony identification card for him.
A perfectly legal-looking ID card which stated that the heroic youth was named Tyrone Williams.
Robert took a seat and waited. No one took mind of the costume he was dressed in. Truth be known, the heroic youth was the most normally dressed young person in attendance at this punk concert.
When blond, brazen Eric Troutman finally trapsed into the area, the Blood Avenger paused and glanced at his watch. It was almost time for the concert to begin. The swastika-tattooed, hate-minded audience that surrounded him was restless and impatient. They were clapping their hands and stomping their booted feet before nary a note of music could be heard. When the lights dimmed to total darkness, the crowd roared it's approval.
And while everyone was distracted by the band filing their way onto the stage, the Blood Avenger took out his CO2 pistol. A pistol which had once been a part of Jaleel's considerable doomsday arsenal. An arsenal that had recently been given to Robert as a gift by the history teacher's only surviving relative ... his brother, Rasheed.
The CO2 pistol is currently loaded with an automatic-injection hypodermic dart. The hypo was filled with a concentrated two-cc load of tranquilizing orasin. Robert saw Eric stand up halfway to get a better look at the band on stage. The brazen, hateful boy was now in position. So, balancing his gloved hand on his upraised knee, the Blood Avenger aimed his rifle and fired.
The pistol was virtually silent. The blond boy felt the dart hit him in the butt of course, but one of the great things about of the weapon was that it caused almost no pain ... a flea bite would have been more painful. Thus there was no initial impulse to scream or yell out in shock. And if by chance the victim somehow comprehended what was happening to him, it would already be too late to do anything about it.
The brazen boy swiped at his backside, dislodging the dart that had already emptied it's load into his body. It fell unnoticed to the floor. Eric Troutman grunted and leaned over, searching for what he thought was an annoyingly sharp splinter in the chair he had been sitting on.
While he was still searching, his movements quickly became sluggish, and it would be apparent to anyone watching him that something was wrong. Eric was desperately trying to shake his head to clear away the dizziness that had suddenly overwhelmed him, but it was no use. Without a word he collapsed back down into his chair and slumped over, drifting into unconsciousness.
Eric Troutman felt a sharp pain on his backside. He managed to get a look around and saw The Blood Avenger sitting a good distance away in one of the seats located higher up in the arena's fan-stands. Eric saw the young hero put away the rifle he was holding, and immediately made the connection.
He knew he had only seconds to act. So he leaped to his feet ... and over three hundred young people got up with him as the punk band called Pure Massacre began to play with a frenzy, drowning out the brazen blonde youth's cries for help. Then everything began to grow blurry and far away, and Eric soon realized that he was falling. He felt strong hands on him ... lifting him up and steadying him.
As the young hero began to pull him to his feet with the help of a black security guard, Eric heard the Blood Avenger explain to nearby concert-goers,
"He had a little too much to drink."
The brazen blonde youth then heard the Blood Avenger whisper to the guard,
"Okay Rasheed, he's almost out ... let's get him to the car before these brain-dead punkers figure out what's going on."
Just as Eric finally figured out that the young hero and the security guard were in cahoots to kidnap him, darkness dropped over his head and he completely lost consciousness.
Once he and Rasheed transported the unconscious youth back to town, Robert found a coil of thick nylon rope hidden scrupulously in his costume and trussed Eric as he lay on his abdomen, feet drawn up behind him. His feet were bound and secured to another piece of rope that similarly raised his arms. Robert checked the knots, drew them tight and dragged the brazen blond youth to the abandoned gardening shed behind Rasheed's apartment complex. He went into the kitchen and soaked a towel in cold water.
When several minutes of slapping the blond boy with the towel elicited no more than a half-conscious groan, Robert made a trip up to Rasheed's kitchen, retrieved a pitcher of water out of the refrigerator, and dumped the contents on Eric's head. This immediately brought the brazen youth around. Contiguously upon regaining consciousness, the young neo-Nazi was administered a shot of sodium penbarbitol ... also known as truth serum.
The Blood Avenger was matter-of-fact when questioning Eric about various murders that had occurred around town. The youth admitted that he and the Dragon Wizards had killed no less than a dozen people over the past year ... claimed that they were far more zealous and radical than their many neo-Nazi contemporaries. Their murder victims had indeed included Pasquale Villanueva, his son Osvaldo and Jaleel Jones. Eventually Rasheed got around asking the brazen youth about his murdered nephew ... a mere child who had been found strangled to death some time ago.
"Oh, yeah, I remember that kid. He was one of the first critters that me and the Dragon Wizards ever took out. We cornered him behind a clump of trees and choked the life out of him. Then we dumped him like the trash that he was. We all had a good laugh about it later. I suggested to my buds that we should beat the kid's brains out instead of strangling him, but the others said that this wouldn't work 'cause the kid was a nigger ... no brains, get it?"
Rasheed beat the brazen youth unconscious, then revived him, then beat him unconscious again.
By the time Eric awoke the second time, The Blood Avenger was willing and able to plow the young neo-Nazi's tight hole. But he needed to make his penis hard first before he impaled the dazed youth.
"Foreplay is required here," Robert announced as he untied the beaten Eric's hands.
Then he began to tenderly kiss the side of the dazed youth's exposed neck, to lick the sweat and blood that dawdled there with a slow indiscriminate motions of the tongue. The Blood Avenger did all of this while holding the groaning, semi-conscious youth in a way that kept the totally limp, lifeless neo-Nazi on his feet. He licked the dazed young man from shoulder to ear and back again ... lapped at the stream of blood trickling down the corner of his mouth, the crease behind his ear.
Robert, joining in, moved his mouth wetly along Eric Troutman's jaw ... stopped to suck at the dazed youth's ear, and then moved down the warm column of the neo-Nazi's throat. He then tossed the youth to the ground where he and Rasheed stripped him naked.
When this was completed the Blood Avenger pressed this throbbing dick against Eric's pale ass. Upon deciding that the blond young man's hole was TOO virginal, Robert decided that he needed something to 'open up' the neo-Nazi's hole a little more ... to make the orifice ready to accept his dick.
So with his left hand Robert used his knife to reach into Eric's ass-hole and located the tight hole. He used the tip of the blade and explored and viciously stabbed deep inside.
Then Robert's rock-hard penis pushes against the tight pale butt ... eventually pushing deeply inside until the Blood Avenger had emptied himself completely within the screaming neo-Nazi's torn and bloody anal cavity.
Now that Robert was done, the ex-con decided to have his own turn at "extending justice" on the young neo-Nazi.
He cinched his hands around the groaning brazen youth's neck ... as if he intended to strangle him. He glared down coldly at Eric,
"You shouldn't be allowed to live, hear me? And I feel this way not because
you and your friends killed my brother and my nephew ... or because you killed
little Osvaldo and his dad.
Xxxx"No you should be executed because you're a plague-carrier. You carry a subtle plague whose symptoms manifest in the things you say and do. And all of these evil things you say and do, especially in regards to my people, will only worsen as you get older."
Robert's mouth was agape as he watched the ex-con. He had never heard Rasheed speak so mellifluously before ... had never seen such a look of cold antipathy in his dark eyes.
Rasheed continued to glare down at the brazen blond youth,
"With one hundred percent accuracy I can already predict the agenda that
your future adult self will have for my people, Every heroic deed, in regards
to blacks, you'll try your best to conceal. Every black accomplishment you'll
attempt to downgrade or void with bitter, twisted lies. Every attempt by
blacks to reclaim or celebrate their culture you'll demean or put down. You'll
react to every black who ascends to position of authority with resentment and
Xxxx"That's exactly what you'll do — along with racially-motivated murder and Lord only knows what else. And a person who would do something like that ... do something so evil just to cause pain ... just to lash out with jealousy and envy and guile ... you shouldn't be allowed to get any older. The plague-like hate that you carry will only spread."
Eric Troutman, frightened beyond all reason, managed to wrench himself free from the ex-con. His freedom was short-lived however. In an instant Rasheed had Eric's throat in his hands before the brazen youth could back away ... a quick squeeze of the ex-con's hands and the young murderer passed out and went limp.
Robert and Rasheed sat quietly in chairs positioned near the cot where the brazen young murderer had been sprawled. The two chattered at each other, each trying to figure out what to do with their captive. Rasheed suggested that they turn Troutman in and let the corrections system take care of him.
Robert shook his head,
"No, there wouldn't be any real justice. The Anonymous Brotherhood will protect him once he was in jail."
"Like they protected Brad Sparger, Jeffery Dahmer and Rex Logan? Please!
No, the Anonymous Brotherhood used to be able to protect prisoners in jail
because they had racist prison guards on their side to hide their activities
and act as 'bodyguards' to a 'certain constituency' of the prison populace.
Xxxx"But the governor has sent an investigative probe into prison corruption. As a result, all the prison guards who used to help the Anonymous Brotherhood are gone. Now that particular group is nothing but a pitifully small, helpless 'gang' in prison now. It's all the wardens can do to keep them from being corn-holed every night."
The heroic youth and the ex-con were still discussing what Troutman's fate in prison might be when the brazen youth began to show signs of regaining consciousness. The Blood Avenger crept up to the side of his cot,
"Glad you're awake, Troutman. Time for you to pay for your crime ... to take that final journey."
Robert moved closer to the cot and began to place the sharp point of a hypodermic to the blond boy's upper arm,
"You ready to go?"
"Wh-what are you talking abou...."
Troutman tried to move away from the needle. Strong arms held him down to the cot, preventing him from moving. He tried his hardest to break away from the ex-cons grip, but it was no use.
"Jaleel and Tariq Jones, Osvaldo Villanueva , Pasquale Villanueva and who knows how many others ... all people whom you and your little neo-Nazi brothers have murdered recently." Robert said, his eyes hard. "Just because they were 'different' from you, they were executed."
Troutman shook his head from side to side, panicked blue eyes bulging from their sockets.
Both the Blood Avenger and the ex-con studied the youth's thrashing body. Neither showed any emotion, but it was clear that anger and a desire for justice swirled tumultuously within both of them. Robert looked into Troutman's terrified face, then he saw Osvaldo and Jaleel again. That was when the heroic youth pressed the syringe needle into the skin of Eric's arm,
"Okay, time for the first injection."
Rasheed looked down at Troutman and laughed as Robert began to inject the drug into the brazen blond youth,
"What the Blood Avenger is injecting into you right now is Sodium
Thiopental, boy ... this will bring about unconsciousness. Then he's going to
inject you with Pancuronium Bromide which will paralyze all of your bodily
functions. Finally he's gonna inject your sorry ass with Potassium Chloride
... which will stop your heart.
Xxxx"Yeah, you wanted to kill like the big boys, now you gon' die like one. This is a certified lethal injection ... the exact same series of shots that kill big grown men on death row."
Eric Troutman tried to scream, but it was absorbed by The Blood Avenger's gloved hand which was now firmly cupped over his mouth. The blond boy's blue eyes moved wildly from side to side. Finally the heroic youth injected the sodium Thiopental into Eric.
When the blond boy's body was finally still, The Blood Avenger put away the hyperdermic syringe, and Rasheed stopped restraining the now motionless youth. "When he wakes up in an hour he's going to realize we we're only bullshittin' about killin' him."
The Blood Avenger nodded,
"Yeah, but scaring him up to this point was pretty fun. I'll wait and see if he turns himself in and confesses what he and the Dragon Wizards did. If not, we'll have to visit him again ... and take more drastic steps."
"We should take the drastic steps NOW," Rasheed replied as he began to methodically strip the unconscious neo-Nazi youth naked. "This boy is a murderer ... he took several innocent lives and was still able to sleep at night. This mutha fuckas gotta be punished for that. The police and anyone else can have him AFTER we're done giving him a punishment he'll never forget."
Now the brazen youth was naked, Robert's eyes locked onto this pale, meaty, dangling target between Eric Troutman's legs. He dropped to his knees and examined it for a moment. He peeled back the thick, pliable outer skin and tugged the hood down with it.
The naked dick-head slid into view. The dome was actually oily with a mixture panic-piss and inexplicable precum. It gave off a unrivaled odor that wafted up to the Blood Avenger.
This heightened his senses. Heightened his animalistic, carnal desires.
Robert brought his face closer to it and took a good whiff of the malodorous penis for what seemed like an hour ... sniffed until the neo-Nazi began to regain consciousness.
Then he takes the sweaty smelly tool into his mouth, slurping all over it and viciously biting into the foreskin with his teeth. Then he savagely bites Eric's member off, chewing blissfully on the urine and cum flavored meat and using his tongue to lap away at the blood coating his ravenous mouth
Eric, who had barely regained consciousness, opened his mouth and tried to scream ... but no sound came out of his throat. When he was able to speak again, all he could manage through his haze of pain was a series of agonized moans.
Watching all of this in replete fascination, Rasheed Jones' dick became as hard as steel. The sight of the Blood Avenger feasting on the brazen youth's meat had affected him like a powerful aphrodisiac, and his horniness had elevated to an unprecedented level. He pushed Robert aside, flipped Eric over and rammed his raging hard-on into the brazen youth's anus to the hilt. And the young neo-Nazi screamed anew.
The ex-con wrapped his arms around the sweating, bleeding, youth and crushed Eric to him as he planted his cock deep into the tight, young cavity ...until his tool was completely surrounded with warm passionate juices and blood. Eric continued to contort and scream weakly ... in utter agony.
As he continuously impaled the youth with his tool, Rasheed muttered,
"Yeahhh! Just like the old days in the joint ... you Nazis still have the sweetest meat around."
As he fucked Eric, the ex-con nuzzled his face into the crook of the moaning youth's neck, his tongue tasting the writhing, brazen young man.
The young neo-Nazi's body began to convulse and soon a stream of hot piss and a crimson stream of blood shot out of the puckered hole where Eric's penis USED to be. Quickly the Blood Avenger knelt beside Rasheed in order to ravenously drink in the spurting piss and blood. Not satisfied, the Blood Avenger shoved the ex-con aside and bent over Eric at crotch level ... so that he could suck the golden fluid directly from the area where the brazen youth's penis had once dangled.
He sucked and swallowed, savoring the explicit brackishness of the now passed out Eric Troutman's bodily fluids. He drank them down, unheeding of the fact that they burned his throat as they slid down in slimy globs.
Once the Blood Avenger had satisfied his thirst, Rasheed picked the unconscious Eric up like a load of rags, carried him outside and unceremoniously dumped him into a trash bin located behind a nearby Chinese restaurant. Then the heroic youth and the ex-con quietly left the eatery, closing the gate door quietly behind them.
Two days later, the Blood Avenger, fully costumed, was patrolling the night streets. The young hero had been searching diligently for signs of anyone in distress when he spontaneously decided to do a weapons check.
He was in the process of examining the condition of his non-lethal tranquilizer pistols when he was suddenly grabbed roughly from behind. He struggled ferociously for a moment, and was just about to retrieve his Intimidator 200,000 volt stun-gun when he received a stunning blow on the base of his skull.
The heroic youth's eyes filled with a dazzling flash of light.
"This is the traitorous, cape-wearing son of a bitch we've been looking for," a rough, but familiar voice said as Robert sank into unconsciousness.
Dragon Wizard Brendan Hardgraves untied the Blood Avenger's hands while Dragon Wizard Jason Worthing ... who he had dreamed of a day such as this one ... began to expertly tie a noose. The heroic youth remained where he was on the ground in an isolated clearing, breathing, but still out cold.
Freckle-faced Brendan slapped the young super-hero's face a few times in an attempt to awaken him, but to no avail. The other members of the Dragon Wizards stood around watching ...like a flock of interns at a teaching hospital.
Seizing the young hero by his ankles, stoic Jason dragged Robert under the tree that he and his friend intended to hang him from. Brendan was securing the rope when several shots rang out.
The freckle-faced youth dropped the rope, and his lifeless ... and nearly headless ... body pitched forward. His brains had been blown out by The Blood Avenger who had regained consciousness and was sitting beneath the tree with a still-smoking Uru Mekanika SMG rifle in his hands.
The desperate young hero had used one of the Dragon Wizards' own carelessly set-aside weapons to put a few well-aimed shells into young Brendan's chest and head.
The Blood Avenger stood up and then moved forward in a crouch as the other Dragon Wizards advanced on him. He realized that if he gave these young neo-Nazis a chance to bring their other weapons into play, he would be dead. So he did the only thing that he could, given this dire situation.
He fired upon all of them.
After it was all over, the heroic youth stood with his back to what would have been his hanging tree, the rifle still gripped tightly in his hands. There were dead bodies and the stench of fresh blood all around him now. He had killed all of the Dragon Wizards. Not one had escaped.
"Looks like me and the cavalry arrived a bit too late, eh, Robert?" said a familiar voice.
Hearing his true name broke the silence that had threatened to engulf the heroic youth. Robert's eyes eventually found Rasheed, who was standing on the edge of the clearing. The ex-con had his hands jammed into his pockets, and he was shaking his head as he stared down at the lifeless bodies of the enemy dead.
Rasheed wasn't alone. There were at least two dozen young people surrounding him. The Blood Avengers recognized them as being Latino only because they had simultaneously lowered the hoods of their jackets from their heads. Tan-faces with glossy black hair were now visible.
These youths were a street-gang known as Los Muchachos Muerte ... or "The Death Boys". This band of young toughs had been seeking out the Dragon Wizards ever since one of their members was murdered by the neo-Nazi clique four days earlier.
Unfortunately they now realized that their act of vengeance would be denied them ... that The Blood Avenger had seen to it that there wasn't a single Dragon Wizard left for them to slay.
Robert nearly retched at the sight of the corpses that littered the ground around him. He had to walk in a zigzag pattern, stepping carefully between motionless legs ... around pale and lifeless faces ... around blood-stained chests and bellies ... just to reach where the ex-con was standing a few yards away.
Once he was beside Rasheed, the young person stared back at the bloody scene. He almost couldn't bear to watch as the snickering 'Muchachos Muerte' began to toss the dead bodies face-down into a haphazardly dug mass grave.
The general populace ... including the friends and families of the young neo-Nazis ... would never find out what became of the Dragon Wizards. There would be rumors that they all joined a doomsday cult in Oregon, or were absorbed into the much larger Aryan Resistance Clan in Arizona, or were hiding out in some Apocalyptic stronghold in Mount Zion, Utah. No one would ever realize that these hateful, young extremists were all taking a dirt-nap in a park just on the outskirts of town.
It was while walking to school that Robert spotted Eric Troutman more than a month later. The brazen blond youth had his books beneath his arm and was totally unaware of the fact that every one of his fellow Dragon Wizards were dead ...though he hadn't attempted to contact any of them since his shameful castration.
The youth was psychologically as well as physically disfigured by the ordeal he had suffered at the hands of the Blood Avenger and the ex-con called Rasheed. Still, he had recovered as best he could and was determined to resume his life as if his kidnapping had never occurred.
Robert stiffened at the sight of this young man who had caused so much suffering and death. He glared at Eric with as much hatred as he was capable of mustering. The blond brazen youth, however, was oblivious to the bold youth's glare. His attitude would have been considerably different had he been aware that young Robert was secretly the Blood Avenger.
"Hey, Robert," said a familiar voice.
The bold youth turned as was amazed to see Rasheed Jones striding towards him,
"What're you doing here, Rash?"
"I'm heading to your school," the ex-con said flatly. "You're principal called and asked me to drop by and ... clear out Jaleel's desk in the grade section."
Before Robert could comment, Eric Troutman, who found Rasheed's voice VERY familiar ... turned around and glanced at the ex-con. Almost instantly his blue eyes widened in surprise and horror.
He had recognized Rasheed ... recognized him as the man who had aided the Blood Avenger in kidnapping him. He would have recognized Robert as being the young super-hero, but the brazen youth's mind simply refused to register the fact that he had been kidnapped and humiliated by a youth his own age.
Before Eric could flee from the ex-con, however, a group of young Latino VATOS seemed to emerge out of nowhere. They surrounded the brazen blond youth and two of them roughly took hold of his arms.
"Let go of me, you fucking tortilla-benders!" he shouted in protest. "What the hell do you think you're doing!"
"Jus' come along with us, ese," the leader of the gang of young vatos ordered.
This group of 'carnelitos' were the Muchachos Muerte ... a group that had been cheated out of slaying a group of Dragon Wizards, but would settle for taking care of one of that neo-Nazi group's most prominent members,
"This'll all be over in a sec."
They pulled the hapless brazen youth towards a nearby alley.
"Help!" Eric shouted.
He was trying desperately to wrench himself free of his captors,
"Someone help me!!"
One of the Muchachos Muerte gave the youth a good punch in the gut and then yanked him into the alley and out of view of everyone. Robert and Rasheed heard another muffled cry for help emanating from the alley, then silence. Cold deadly silence.
A few seconds later two Muchachos Muerte emerged from the alley, slapping high-fives and laughing. One of them had clothes stained bright red with fresh blood. The other had Eric Troutman's combat boots slung trophy-like around his neck by the laces.
Unbuttoning his shirt and revealing the metal chest-plate of his Blood Avenger costume hidden underneath, Robert said,
"We've gotta help him!"
"Hold it, Clark Kent," Rasheed said taking hold of the boy's shoulder, "I think it's a little too late for ole Eric."
Robert was horrified,
"But the Death Brothers just dragged him into that alley and ... and...."
"Well, it happened and there isn't anything we can do about it now." the ex-con said.
Robert's eyes widened in stunned disbelief,
"But, Rasheed, the Death Boys just grabbed Eric and...."
"Hey," Rasheed stared intently into the bold youth's eyes. "As a friend once told me ... GET OVER IT."
Robert was dismayed at Rasheed's casualness. The heroic youth shuddered as he glanced towards the alley where Eric had been forcibly dragged off to. Cautiously he made his way towards it.
Robert Goering tentatively peered into the back street and saw that the castration process that he himself had started over a month earlier was being finished by the Latino gang. One of the Muertes had a razor blade and was making miniature cuts on Eric's nut sack ... a nut sack hanging below nothing — no penis above it. Once they saw blood and heard Eric's screams, the Death Boys' excitement VISIBLY doubled.
They had suspended the brazen youth from a fire-escape. The head Muerte was armed with a straight razor. He pulled hard on Eric's balls and had placed this razor about an inch from the base of the sack. He lightly drew the razor over the brazen youth's nuts and soon more thin lines of blood appeared. Eric writhed and jerked in agony and terror.
"Yes ... these are the roosts of all evil, hombre."
The head Muerte pressed a little harder and drew it over the Brazen youth's dickless nut sack again. His fellow Death Boys cheered when they saw the skin separating and the meat under it becoming more and more exposed.
The head Muerte looked into the brazen youth's immeasurably horrified blue eyes and laughed coldly. Then he began to saw off Eric's balls completely.
The brazen youth could feel the razor slicing through his nuts and could no longer feel the Death Boy's hand grasping what remained of his genitalia. Eric was still pleading when the head Muerte held the severed balls up for his fellow Death Boys to see ... then casually tossed them over his shoulder as if they were nothing.
Every member of Muchachos Muertes cheered gleefully and savagely. Then the leader began to use the blade on other parts of the screaming, violently shaking brazen youth's body.
Eric was being sliced to pieces bit by bit, but he wasn't dead yet. Robert came close to saving him ...then he began to think about Jaleel Jones, Osvaldo Villanueva and the other faceless victims of the Dragon Wizards. A savage sense of justice filled his heart.
He watched leader of the Muertes completely blew his load in his pants and then ... inexplicably ... kissed Eric Troutman on the neck before using his razor to slit the brazen youth's throat.
Robert watched Eric's gurgling, bloody demise ... only turning away after the Neo-Nazis final death spasm.
"You know what?" Rob said to Rasheed after leaving the alley and rejoining the ex-con at the corner. "I really think I WILL get over it."