Saturday, November 4, 2006



Johel found an alleyway, dank and dark, hiding himself from the pelting rain now soaking him through layers of clothing, hair slicked down, collar high. Streets were empty, stalls packed away, the night drifting from a joyous carnival to the eerie silence of wind whistling through urban canyons, water dribbling with loud splashes into the storm drain, carrying with it all manner of filth and garbage piled in the gutters. He pulled on a packet of smokes but found them soaked though, discarding them to the curb, laying his head back against the hard brick. He closed his eyes and felt his heart slow. Not far now.
Over the sound of the rain, Johel head groans and yelps to the right, far off down the alley way, in its murky bowels of trash-cans and dumpsters and bums curling themselves against anything they could, anything to hide them from the storm. Johel went to turn away, back into the street, but then heard the cries once more. The voice distinctly female, pleading for help.
He followed the wall down with one hand, his head low like a stalking predator, away from the soft light behind, into this den of long, black shadows, like ghouls on the rain slicked ground. The calls came louder.

Two hoodlums stood in the shadow of a dumpster as a third guy violated a screaming woman against the filthy, oiled stained tarmac, her head propped up against the brick of the alley wall, pinning down her arms as she desperately flailed against him, vainly kicking out. One of the hoods saw Johel as he appeared into view, turning to face him. Young bloke with a scrappy goatee, tat on his face, down his jaw-line of a python. The symbol of the Jackers. The government may have thought they ran this city, so might the Drug kingpins growing rich from the flow of synth from the border. Both were wrong. The Jackers were a frightening gang, almost like a cult at times, while not as strong as the west-side crew - Los Diablos - the Jackers had guns and guts, and cuts into drugs and women. Nobody messed with them. And they messed with everyone.

“Something take your fancy, Faggot?” The young one spat, acting as a lookout for the other two; older guys. He hefted a large steel pipe in one hand, a pistol sticking from his belt. Eyes had a faint blue tinge from Scat, a crystalline powder snorted, giving exceptional sensory perception and repressed inhibition.
Johel was silent as he walked closer, taking in the scene fully.
The woman must have caught Johel through one eye, a shadowy hulk opposing one of the Jackers, hearing the young ones bullying calls over the sound of the rain and the sickening gasps of this monster.
“Jesus! Please help me!” She shrieked in pain, a fast slap pounding her gentle face. The lead Jacker turned, shouting between vicious thrusts “Get him the Fuck out of here!”
“You just keep walking” the Kid said through gritted, yellowed teeth, twisting his mouth into a vicious grin. Johel stared into him impassively.
Johel suddenly turned, as if to walk away, but shot back with phenomenal speed. The knife came out in his right, driving up into the lookout's gut, the guy’s face distending in shock and agony as his hand grasped the wound, hot blood dribbling over his fingers, doubling over with the force of it. Johel snapped his head back, then arched it forward, slamming with his forehead into the kid's nose, feeling it shatter with the weight of the strike. As he tumbled down, Johel grabbed the steel piping from his hands, hefting giant metal club like a baseball bat, padding it into the palm of one hand. The second Jacker took it in the side of head, turning a moment before the impact to face the metal bar smashing into his face. His cheek and jaw shattered inwards with the blow, his entire skull inexorably warping around the pole as it landed, crashing him sideways with a dirty snap. Johel dropped the steel piping with a loud, bouncing crash, the last Jacker still heaving over the sniveling, crying frame of the woman, turning at the final second, unable to defend himself. Johel snatched a lock of his stained hair, soaked by the storm raging around, leaning him back and then hurling his face forward, smashing into the brick wall of the alley at top speed. The woman screamed as blood dripped onto her, desperately trying to push away his bulk with her newly freed arms, Johel grasping him in a heavy headlock. He puppetted the Jacker like a ragdoll, taking a step back and ramming the crown of his skull into a dumpster, the tough steel dented by the impact, like a battering ram. He threw the body down, limp in the water of some puddle, blood and water, leaning over it, punching hard into his head. Again and again, his fists flew in followed by filthy crunches, blood on his knuckles, over and over and over until Johel finally collapsed in exhaustion next to the slain corpse, panting with deep, heavy breaths, each expelling a cloud of moisture into the cold air. Finally, Johel turned toward the young woman, legs still splayed, her eyes locked onto him, chilled with fear. Fear of the brutal act he had performed so ruthlessly on her behalf.
Slowly he came to his feet, hauling the three bodies together, then pulling them one by one into the open-air dumpster, one atop the others. The last Jacker still had his pants around his shins which made him difficult to move. As he placed the second Jacker inside; a deeply fractured skull from the impact of the pipe reduced from its hard, carapacial form to slivers of bone over jelly; he emitted a low moan. Johel laid two more into him to be sure, threw in the steel pipe on top and slammed down the lid. Come morning the garbage trucks wouldn't inspect within, and once the bodies were found, if ever, it would be from an unnumbered dumpster, one of thousands throughout the city. Johel left the woman in the alley, sobbing quietly in despair, and limped away into the night.

Yuck right? Theres tunz after this. It will become important why he became so absolutely violent later in the story (part 6 or 7)



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2006 November