Chapter 1 #2
Standing, I walk back to the kitchen. The pool of blood is bigger now.
Who knew that a body held that much blood?
But then again, he’s a big fucker. He has 20 lbs on me.
Had I corrected myself. He had 20 lbs. I look down at his body again, the urge to stab into his flesh comes over me, and I kneel near his body, removing my blood knife.
I stab into his flesh, over and over, the slight resistance of his flesh fucking delicious.
His open eyes stared up at the ceiling, and I stabbed his eyes, wanting to punish him.
He ruined our already chaotic lives. His dirty shirt was covered in beer and, God knows, what else.
I stab into his stomach, and this time, when my erection comes, I let it.
I keep piercing his dead flesh, and orgasms, groaning through the pleasure of mutilating his corpse.
I stab his neck, his stomach, all the while my cock is hard.
Panting, I turn to his crotch, his flaccid penis hanging out of his pants.
The sight of it enrages me more. He raped my sister.
Lifting the knife, I viciously hack, his body jerking with the force.
Each downward arc splatters blood on my face and chest. It gets in my eyes and my lips, my tongue flicks out, and the taste of it is surprisingly delicious.
My eyes focus on what’s left of his crotch.
At the sight of the butchered mess that was once his penis, my orgasm rips through me.
I ejaculate over and over, cum filling my underwear, soaking the inside of my jeans.
I feel lightheaded, euphoric, the slick blood coating my hands and the handle of the knife.
I sit back on my haunches, out of breath, trying to get air in my lungs.
The smell of his blood and the gin mix, and my cock twitches, getting hard again.
I just came, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Fuck.
Standing, I stumble back, shaky, and head for the sink, turning on the water to rinse his blood off my face.
Once my face is clean and I can no longer smell the gore and carnage, the mania that I just felt starts to fade.
I reach into my pocket for my cellphone to call my best friends.
With gritted teeth, I tell him what happened.
Olu’s shouted obscenities on the other end don’t surprise me. But his following statement does.
“My uncle is coming.”
Hearing that the vice-president of the Legion Lords is on his way should scare me, but right now the only fear I have is for my sister.
“Remove his hands and head. Any tattoos too.”
Looking up from the bruised body of my stepfather, I glance over my shoulder at the vice president of the Legion Lords. Onyx’s uncle frightens me, even after all the things I’ve been through with my stepfather and the neighborhood we live in.
Along with the fear, there is respect. The man is enormous, even taller than my 6’4 frame and Onyx’s 6’7 frame.
Thickly muscled with tattoos covering his dark brown skin, Rashon Etienne is one of the most feared men in the neighborhood.
Onyx’s family comes from a well-known Black family, one that has been in Chicago since the time of Jean Baptiste Point du Sable.
Over 300 years of ancestry means he and his family have deep roots.
His relatives have been governors, senators, and, yes, gang members too.
Either way, they run Chicago right alongside the Legion.
Rashon, being the vice-president of the Chicago branch of the Legion Lords, means he knows everything and everyone. Having him here to help me eases some of my worry.
I’ve known him since I was old enough to realize that the men who rode their bikes along our streets wearing leather jackets and vests with the three skulls and a crown belonged to a band of men who did what they wanted, when they wanted, and also killed without a second thought.
Seeing dead bodies wasn’t new in my neighborhood.
Junkies were rampant, but the ones that were bloody and missing parts were the most alarming.
Those were the result of people who crossed the Legion.
Hearing Rashon say to remove the head and hands confirms what I always knew. They were responsible for the unnamed bodies that the ambulances would pick up. The ones all the teenagers whispered about.
“We don’t have those tools, Uncle Shon,” Onyx said quietly, standing next to me.
“They’re in the car. Get ’em.”
Onyx walks toward the pickup truck that just a few minutes ago had carried the bleeding body of my stepfather in the back, wrapped in a blue tarp.
On the trip with his uncle, driving me and Onyx next to him in the front, both of us covered in his blood, our blood to the outskirts of a wooded area, I thought about my life and what I was doing, what I was doing at 18 years old.
I had just murdered a man for assaulting my sister, and I would do it again.
Hearing that he’d been molesting her for months makes me sick, and staring down at his lifeless body, I wish I could do it again, choke him more.
“Here.”
I look up, shaking off the memory of squeezing the life out of my stepfather’s body, and stare at the saw in Onyx’s hand.
A hand that is just as bruised as mine. Another memory hit of Onyx beating his body, even when he was dead.
Punching the corpse over and over, the still warm blood splattering on his shirt, on my jeans, on the dirty kitchen floor.
I knew the bastard couldn’t feel it since I thought when he stopped breathing, but Onyx didn’t care.
His rage was equal to mine. I knew how much he protected my sister.
Ivory was his shadow, and he’s protected her since before she could talk.
“Start with the hands first. The head will take the longest. We’ll burn them after and move the ashes to a new location.”
Rashon says matter-of-factly, and I nod, moving automatically.
I swallow at the task before us and look at the older black man. “Do I—do we need gloves?”
He smiles, and I shiver at the cruel look on his face. “Do you want gloves?”
An answer escapes me. I don’t fucking know.
Chaca’s booming laugh interrupts my thoughts, and I turn to the older man.
He’s shorter than Rashon, me, and Onyx, but his body is a mass of muscles, and for the height he lacks, I recognize his strength.
His absolute control is clear with every step he makes.
He’s in his forties or fifties, and from the stories that Onyx tells, he is not one to fuck with.
He’s the club’s enforcer, and I know he’s killed more than I can count.
He’s a transplant from El Salvador and also comes from a pretty scary family.
He doesn’t talk about this past much, and I sure as hell would never ask.
From what little Onyx has told me, Chaca’s past is better left unsaid.
The one time I did ask him about this name, he laughed and said it means ‘fucking’. He grinned and said that an old girlfriend had nicknamed him. I have no idea what his real name is, and I know he would never reveal it to me.
His thick, grizzly gray beard reaches mid-chest, and his bald head glints in the waning light. The dome is covered in tattoos. What looks like hundreds of tiny silver piercings dot his ears. A big gold septum piercing hangs from his nose.
“You don’t need gloves for this one, kid. Fingerprints won’t survive what we have planned.”
I nod, my body full of tingles, almost as if I’m clamoring to do this. Both Onyx and I kneel next to the body, and I pick up one of my stepfather’s hands. He’s started to stiffen, but his flesh and muscles are still malleable.
I pick up the saw that Chaca placed next to me, testing its weight.
Holding his wrist, I turn when Chaca squats next to me.
“The bone will be the hardest part. The tendons and cartilage will move like butter under the blade. But nice, even movements will work best with the bone. It will go quickly. Concentrate.”
I nod and follow his instructions, leaning into his commands as I see.
I hide my moan at the gritty sound coming from the saw’s teeth carving through the flesh.
The blood is not flowing as strongly, but my cock twitches and I pause, astonished at what’s happening.
I’m getting hard at the crunch when the saw starts moving through the dense outer layer of his bones.
The friction causes vibrations to skate up my arm.
Once his hand is removed, I hold it, feeling its weight.
I want to rip his fingers apart because these are the hands that touched my sister.
“Take off the rings,” Chaca announces.
I pick up the severed hand and take off the rings on his fingers and pocket them.
“Don’t wear them. Someone could recognize them.”
I nod, filing away all the information.
Wet, squishing noises come from the other side of his body as Onyx saws his other wrist. His dark face is focused, and I see the complete concentration, the vicious pleasure.
Our eyes meet, and the bonds of friendship are immortalized.
He knows what this means as well. We are in this together, and we don’t regret it.
Rashon stands near and walks over to me, looking down. He lights a cigarette, the orange glow a focal point. He points down at my stepfather’s head. “The head.”
Chaca points to just below his chin. “Start here. Try to get between the bones. Right below the first vertebrae.” He takes out a silver glint knife with a slightly curved blade. The face of a skull is sketched into the metal. “Use the knife first, and cut through the tendons and ligaments.”