Grievous Grudge

The man who used the fake identity of JB Strand sat in his little hotel room alone, smoking crack and drinking. His early years haunted him. His mom had been a junkie prostitute that left a map work of scars across his back from cigarette cherries and extension cord whippings. When he was only six, she let a pedophile pay to molest him. He watched a trick murder her when he was 11. He barely escaped that killer and became a street orphan. A local dope dealer gave JB a job running dope for him because JB could go into the good white neighborhoods delivering drugs without being hassled by racist cops. JB made enough money to rent his own room in a ghetto building and take care of himself.

When JB was 12, a rival dope dealer tried to rob him on the street. The robber pointed a pistol, demanding JB’s money and dope. JB dropped prone while pulling his own pistol from his pocket. The robber’s hasty hail of lead buzzed above JB like a wave of wasps, and one stung his back. JB held his gun in both hands, lining up his sights on the center body mass of the mugger. JB tugged his trigger twice, and both bullets tacked and trounced the torso of his foe, terminating him from further fighting as he fell floundering around on the ground. JB fled and left the thug dead on the end of that street.

Days later, a pair of the dead gangster’s homeys hunted JB down. JB spotted them stepping out of the alley with their barrels bristling his way. JB fell flat while being attacked and produced his pistol from his pocket. The pair of gang bangers’ Glocks popped nonstop in frenetic fusillades at his fallen figure. Some of the strafing salvoes hit and skipped off the street quite close to JB, pinging on pavement while pelting him with pieces of stinging shrapnel. JB’s gun fanned their figures with a fountain of fire to peg the leg and lung of one. JB twitched the trigger twice more, spearing the sternum of the second shooter. Both men, stapled by JB’s shots died, while he survived with superficial grazes. JB got away with all three homicides.

At age 14, JB was nabbed red handed beating a grown man up with a gun butt after the thug tried robbing JB. JB pistol-whipped him in a brutal blitzkrieg of blows that put the punk in a coma briefly. JB did two years in a Chicago juvenile penitentiary. He learned to lift weights and box there. He became big and bad and did numerous stints in segregation for fighting.

At age 16, he was released into a foster home. He left there and took a job working for cash doing construction while living in a rooming house. During those next four years, he became a successful dope dealer. He was ashamed of the way that he had trouble getting aroused for women unless he could hit and choke them. He paid hookers for that. Along the way he killed two hookers and got away with both homicides.

Ironically he got locked up over another convict while he was at a corner bar. JB was flirting with a pretty girl when her boyfriend, Big D showed up. D was a huge black man who stood nearly seven feet tall and weighed over 300 pounds with a powerlifter’s build. The men argued briefly before D pounced with pugilistic precision, pumping a pair of punches that bunged JB’s head and chest. JB withstood the wallops while weaving and winging a slick low kick that nailed D’s knee. JB followed up with a fist that knifed D’s noggin near the ear. D furiously flailed at JB’s face, but JB nimbly wheeled and reeled clear.

The two men circled and scrambled in the skirmish, exchanging enfilades of blows and locked holds mixed with kicks.  D became winded in the long match and began blowing like a beached whale. JB bombarded him in a burst of blows, high and low, followed by a kick that gouged D’s groin. JB bowled D over with a punt in the nuts.

JB foolishly left D sprawled on the street and went back in the bar to drink more. Minutes later, D burst into the bar with his pistol, profusely popping a venomous volley that veered in the vitals of the poor girl JB was drinking with.  JB fell tangled up with the girl as her body bounced from the bullets, bludgeoning her, and she inadvertently blocked JB from D’s berserk barrage. From the floor, JB’s tiny pocket pistol puffed out projectiles that punctured D’s pectoral, and he was toppled by the tumult of lead that threaded through him. JB fled the fight that night and tried to lay low at home.

D survived. The girl died. JB was caught by surprise when cops tackled him outside his building. JB shrewdly cut a deal with the ADA to testify against D in exchange for a three-year prison sentence. JB did all three years due to his fighting in prison. He was released without parole and was lucky to get out back in the mid-1990s before DNA testing became mandatory for felons.

JB went back to doing some construction work before dealing drugs again. He tried to suppress his dark desires to hurt and kill women, but he killed three more hookers along the way. Now, cancer was eating a hole in his brain, and he would die soon. There was nothing left holding him back. He intended to leave a trail of bodies in his wake. Tod Krane was high on that kill list.

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Three days later, JB casually carried an expanding light ladder over his shoulder during dusk beside a big building. He eased into an alley and surreptitiously studied the street. Two young black men were perched on a porch, drinking and talking loudly about fifty yards from JB. He knew they were the street soldier sentries for Lamont, who lived upstairs. The pair couldn’t see JB in his shadowy spot. JB pulled out a 22 rifle and extended the stock. A bulbous homemade silencer bobbed on the barrel. JB squinted through the scope, making his crosshairs cover the cranium of the closest culprit. JB almost tenderly touched the trigger, and there was a muffled shot as the rimfire round found the forehead of the first fella.  The guy dropped like a rock. The surviving soldier only froze briefly, but it was enough. JB’s next surgical shot screwed through the sentry’s skull. He fell near his friend.

JB quickly collapsed the rifle and stuffed it back in his duffel sack. He crossed the busy evening street boldly. The night was alive with the sounds of voices and vehicles, along with the blaring rap music Lamont was playing upstairs. JB slipped in the alley and extended his ladder to the second-story window. He swiftly scaled the ladder and found that his female partner in crime named Jazz, had unlatched it. JB used a pry bar to peel it open, and he entered the dark room. The walls were vibrating with Lamont’s rap music. JB used a penlight taped to the barrel of his pistol to proceed.

JB entered the dimly lit gloom of the living room, where he encountered Lamont and Jazz in the nude, drinking. Lamont was a tall, lean, and mean-looking bald-headed black man. Jazz was a busty beautiful blond hooker. Lamont spotted JB and tried to bolt to the bedroom. JB’s 22 plugged the thug with a slug in the gut. Three more rounds pounded Lamont from neck to noggin in a deluge of DNA debris that painted the place. Lamont’s existence ended there.

“Here!” Jazz called to JB while excitedly pointing to a corner of the carpet.

With a construction worker’s skills, JB pulled the right tools from his bag and quickly sawed through the floorboards, securing Lamont’s floor safe. JB withdrew a small fortune in cash and drugs while Jazz excitedly watched him work. Soon after, they exited the establishment side by side.

Three Days Later

JB was bored. Jazz had survived two days of his torture before finally dying. He was amused that the whore actually thought he would share the robbery loot with her. JB figured that she earned her brutal, slow death because she had set her trick Lamont up to be killed and robbed by JB. Now she was a corpse on his couch, and the fun was done. He decided to go out for a drink. He walked to the corner bar.

When entering the establishment, he encountered a face from his nightmares. The white man looked to be in his fifties with a beer belly, burly body, bushy beard, and bald head. It was the man that JB’s mother called Uncle Dan and took money from so Dan could rape JB as a boy. Memories flooded JB of being so small and weak while being horribly hurt by the pervert.  JB waited and watched Dan for about an hour before Dan exited the place. JB closely followed. Outside, Dan sensed the threat and turned around after reaching in his truck bed to pick up a hammer.

“Are you following me?” Dan demanded while holding the hammer high.

“Don’t you recognize me, Uncle Dan?” JB asked.

Dan shut up in shock while studying the big, strong man accosting him. Dan seemed to realize one of his past pedophile victims had found him. Fear flooded Dan.

“Get away! I don’t know you!” Dan blustered.

JB’s move was smooth as he skipped in reach. JB’s knife dived deep into the meat, eviscerating Dan’s abdomen in an uppercut. JB nabbed the hammer from Dan’s hand. Dan reeled and squealed, seeing his intestines erupt out of his abdomen. JB used the hammer like a Viking to chop in Dan’s chest. Dan collapsed on the concrete, moaning. Mercilessly, JB stomped Dan’s skull.

“I’ve got the cops on the phone! Leave him alone! I’m armed!” the bar owner shouted from the doorway.

JB could see the speaker’s silhouette and ducked below Dan’s truck while pulling his pistol. JB bobbed up and delivered a dervish of shots that dinged the doorway and whaled the wall. The guy inside ducked and chucked a flood of slugs JB's way, and that riot of rounds tagged the truck loudly. JB scrambled to another vehicle and outpoured more ammo that banged the bar. The bar owner flushed a flock of shots that ventilated the vehicle, almost hitting JB.

JB decided to flee the scene. He’d just settled the biggest grudge of his life. He could die content with that fact.