The X-Man - Brian R. Lundin (smallest ebook reader TXT) 📗

of imaginative ways to make her suffer. He visualized how she would look dead and naked in a bath tub after being fucked in the ass, but he knew it was too soon after the last one.

ADA (SCREAMING)
Lunch over, Esau get your black ass back to work

FADE IN:
Esau looked up from the bench and saw Ada towering over him. She was a tall woman, at least six feet and she seemed to enjoy looking down at him with her upturned nose, too much makeup and gapped teeth. Esau could feel the pills working, he was losing control and felt crazed. He got up from the bench and looked up Ada.


ESAU
Fuck you, you ugly motherfucker

ADA (LOOKING AGRILY AT ESAU)
You’re fired, you little fuck,
FADE IN:
Esau walks off the construction site, the drugs were working, he felt good, and he wanted to fuck, to kill, and to take out his anger at Ada on some other black woman who always was fucking over some poor black man. He knew if he killed Ada the police might suspect him, so he had to find another black bitch. He walked to 43rd South Western Avenue and took an eastbound bus to 43rd South King Drive transferred to a southbound bus. He looked out the dirty bus window at the thousands of blacks who lived, worked and died there. Esau closed his eyes and remembered how when he was a young boy he and his mom Avery, when she wasn’t high, would stroll down what used to be called South Parkway before being renamed Martin Luther King Drive. He recalled how Bronzeville had become the hub of activity it was a thriving, vibrant and self-contained black Mecca of political and economic power seated in Chicago’s 2nd, 3rd and 4th Wards. He recalled his mother pointing out the successful black businesses, civic organizations and churches that comprised an area approximately five square miles, starting north at 31st and ending at 55th Street, State Street on the west to Cottage Grove Avenue on the east. The bus passed black owned banks, hotels and self-supported businesses that comprised the black community. He noticed the magnificent greystones building and mansions on King Drive where many of the black political bosses lived as well as doctors, lawyers, dentists and respected Pullman Porters. He remembered his first trip to Provident Hospital to visit his dying grandmother and how he and his mother looked into the windows of soul food restaurants, and restaurant that served gourmet foods, fine steaks and chops. There were taverns, clothing stores, barbershops, gambling dens, night clubs and poolrooms. Bronzeville was in every way, “A city within a city.”Esau got off the bus at 47th South King Drive and walked passed what use to be the Regal Theater the apex of the black entertainment world in Chicago, the Regal rendered a tremendous boost to the cities black culture and was a lavish Byzantine edifice with its tall columns, plush carpeting and velvet drapes. The theater was the central mainstay of black entertainment life from the late 1920’s to the early 1970’s. Balaban and Kattzs opened the theater on February 24, 1928. It was the depression and most people barely had enough money for the essentials and certainly couldn’t afford a ticket. Never -the- less, the owners kept the tickets cheap which allowed the poor blacks to attend. The theater hired a Blackman Kenneth Blewitt as an usher. Blewitt was an energetic and personable usher and in 1929 he was promoted to manager. Blewitt had four stage shows or revues everyday, 7 days a week featuring beautiful and shapely black showgirls and usually a boring movie in between. Many people with nowhere else to go would spend the entire day at the theater moving closer to the stage after every show. The theater catered specifically to the entertainment tastes of African Americans and featured top named black entertainers who performed on its stage; Cab Calloway, Louis Armstrong, Lena Horne, and Duke Ellington performed there frequently. 47th Street came alive at night; the night sky illuminated with the flashing bright neon lights of the jazz and blues clubs. The Policy Kings were the affluent men in Bronzeville, they drove their finely dressed girlfriends and wives in late model cars as they went to the blues clubs or dinner. The hustler ruled the strip, the policy men, gamblers and pool sharks all called 47th street home. The residents living in Bronzeville believed if you was new to the city and was looking for someone just stand at 47th South King Drive and you would eventually see them, they also believed that you could get anything you wanted on 47th street from girls to drugs, which was mainly marijuana and heroin. Esau walked to Jimmy’s Joint at 51st South Calumet Avenue and sat at the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. He downed a couple more pills and thought about Ada, how to get back at her, how to make her scream. Get control of yourself, you can’t fuck with her, not now, wait,” he heard a voice inside his head say. He looked out the grimy windows of the tavern and noticed an attractive dark skinned young lady leaving the Arab Grocery store across the street. It was about 5:30 pm and starting to get dark. The woman wore a battered overcoat and was carrying a shopping bag. The booze and the pills were really working now; he got an erection looking at her. He left the tavern and followed her to 5225 South Prairie Avenue and watched as the lights came on in the first floor apartment. Esau walked slowly passed the decrepit three and four story brick apartments. Steel shutters covered the abandon businesses. He went around to a gangway next to the building and waited and watched. There were no curtains on the window and he noticed one of the windows was partially opened. He swallowed a couple more pills as he watched the woman undress and walk around the small apartment wearing only a bra and pink panties. He got another erection and knew he couldn‘t wait any longer. He found an old crate, pulled himself up to the window, squeezed through the small opening in the window and entered the apartment.

FADE IN:
Esau felt edgy and anxious so he swallowed a Thorazine pill with a sip of water. He wanted to go out, to find some young thing that wanted him, but he was feeling unusually jumpy and his mind was racing. He wanted to, needed to fuck and kill someone. He was naked except for a pair of laced pink panties and the only light in the dark claustrophobic room was from a dim table lamp. He pulled an old loosely bound album from his suitcase under the bed, the pictures were in chronological order the first picture was marked 10 January 2000, Gary, Indiana, Mary Jones. He looked at the color Polaroid pictures of, Mariah Williams, Tonya James, Robin Honeywell and his latest victim Peggy Smith, they were all naked and looking at him through lust-filled eyes, they wanted him and couldn’t wait. He thought about Peggy. He watched her at the health Club and could tell she was lonely and needed a good fuck. How stupid she was to invite him into her apartment. Well she got what she wanted a good fuck. He remembered her moans of ecstasy as he entered her and how she pleaded with him to go deeper. He remembered how Mary looked as she walked to the Catholic High School in her pleated blue skirt and starched white blouse, her budding breast fitted tightly against her shirt. The second victim was marked 10 February 2000, Rita Maxwell, Gary, Indiana. She also was about fifteen, but unlike Mary Jones she didn’t go to school she was a whore. The third picture was marked 10 June 2001 Sandra Wheatly, East Chicago, Illinois and the last picture Janice woods 2003 Harvey, Illinois. He noticed how they all posed for him with their big eyes bulging with the pantyhose tied tightly around their necks. He could still feel their bodies as he lifted them and took them to be cleaned in the bathtub and he could see the resignation in their eyes, there was no fear or resistance, just acceptance as he plugged the knife into their chest just below the right firm nipple. He got off the chair and looked out the grimy window at the young girls jumping rope on the sidewalk at the Ida B. Wells projects. He watched as a young girl who had just started developing breast jumped up and down, her little breast in perfect time with the rope, the blood rushed to his loins. An old woman wearing a black mini-skirt, black high heel shoes and a battered pee coat that showed her flabby breast hurriedly walk past and displayed a toothless smile, close behind her and holding her hand was an equally old white man.“Dirty fuckin’ whore,” he screamed out the window, but the couple was gone. His stomach ached, reminding him that he had not eaten since early that morning and then he had only two biscuits and coffee at Gladys’s Restaurant. He thought about going back for lunch but he didn’t like eating in front of people. A muscle cramped in his right leg and he rubbed it, he really didn’t mind the pain, he had gotten use to it. He picked up the remote that was chained to the beat-up table and turned to the news. An attractive black woman was reading the news about the recent killing of a pregnant young black woman named Peggy Smith who had been brutally mutilated, raped and killed by the serial killer known as the X-Man. “The Medical Examiner stated that bits of skin under her fingernails belonged to a black person, Sonia Tappper for NBC News.”
In the background were photos of the other six victims believed to be of the X-Man. Enraged he got out and chair and looked closely at the photos, he recognized his four victims but not the other three. Someone was stealing his thunder and putting the blame on him, taking credit for his work. He slammed around the room knocked over the chair and fell. He got back up and slammed his fist into the wall. “Who was this asshole,” he thought to himself. He lit a blunt and slowly sipped a can of Budweiser Beer as the newswoman interviewed Detective Sergeant John Ringo, head of the X-Man Taskforce.“We believe that these killings are the acts of a sick, homicidal maniac, but I want to stress to the people of this great city that we will not permit this city to be terrorized by a sicko or a copycat.”“What the fuck you mean “sicko,” you black muthafucker,” he screamed at the television. He grabbed the remote and turned off the television, walked into the dirty bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. He turned his head from side to side and admired his deep black eyes, smooth skin, and handsome features. He looked at the scar on his left arm where Mariah Williams had scratched him, but it