IBO, Brian R. Lundin [the ebook reader .txt] 📗

IBO


Brian Reginald Lundin
 

FORWARD

Malik Jackson was born and raised in one of Chicago’s most infamous and the world’s largest public housing developments, the Robert Taylor Homes located on the South Side of the city. The development was also home to one of the largest black street gangs in the city, the State Street Boys. The State Street Boys were the main drug dealers in the city and Malik was one of their members and he was a drug dealer, but he was also a graduate of Harvard University. Malik helped develop a new drug that went by its street name “IBO.” IBO was more addictive and cheaper than any of the other street drugs were and it soon became the drug of choice in the United States. With the introduction of the new drug in the gang and drug culture of the country, came an increase in the violence associated with drugs and gangs. Drive by shootings and gang killings were common in the black and Hispanic communities and federal, state and local law enforcement agencies seemed powerless to stop the violence, but when this violence began to affect the white communities and their innocent children became the victims of random and senseless acts of violence they demanded government action. The government responded in actions reminiscent of Nazi Germany.


Chapter 1
March 2000

The cold, strong wind whistling through the streets of Chicago picked up and threw loose items like guided missiles.
Although it was only 11:00 pm, the streets were already deserted. The white smoke belching from the roofs of the Robert Taylor Homes sixteen story high rise buildings resembled a red dragon who glared curiously with white eyes down into the dark and dangerous streets. A police siren wailed in the distance and the sounds of cars and buses racing to get somewhere on State Street broke the silence. The man stood silently between two of the abandoned cars in the Federal Street parking lot, waiting. He patted the .22 caliber revolver called a” Saturday Night Special,” hidden beneath his belt as he took a long drag off a joint, closed his eyes and felt its relaxing effects. He was calm, he was cool, and he was ready to do what he had to do.
He heard hurried footsteps coming closer as he took one more long drag of the marijuana cigarette before choking it and putting the short in his pocket to be lit again later. He looked out from the cars and saw his target, walking swiftly with the collar of his coat pulled up. The air had turned colder and the wind whirled the debris scattered over the street, forming a tornado like effect. The man pulled out his weapon and looked into the chamber at the three bullets and slowly walked out the shadows of the cars and when the target was only a few feet away he yelled, “Hey mutherfucka hold up.”
Malik did not hear the man because of the howling wind and kept walking. There was a loud roar and he felt a searing pain in his right shoulder.
There was another roar and he felt a burning sensation in his left arm.
“Damn,” Malik cried.
His mind began spinning, and he could not catch his breath. Instinctively he put his hand to his left arm and felt something wet; when he brought his hand to his face he saw the blood. He heard an engine roar, tires squealing, and heard a rap song coming from the window of an apartment. The next bullet spun him around in a sort of dance, facing his attacker. He tried to run but he stumbled forward and fell face down on the hard, cold pavement, he attempted to break his fall with his right arm but it hung loose at his side.

The snow surprisingly, cooled the hotness that he felt in his arm and shoulder but he had no feelings in his legs. Surprisingly, there was no pain. Malik turned his head, saw three young girls running, and heard their screams. Malik looked at the snow turning red under his body, red with his blood that was trickling down his face from his mouth and ears and mingling with the smoky vapors of his breath. His right arm was shaking uncontrollably and he was cold although under his parka was a thick black hoodie and a heavy wool sweater and shirt, I should have worn a heavier coat he thought
The noise of the cars speeding down State Street begins to sound like thunder; the stench from the garbage dumps that sat outside the buildings had a thousand different smells that made him nauseous. He noticed the frost on the side of the building and he started to feel dizzy as the pain came in lightning bolts. The pain began to stab in his shoulder and arm like a sharp knife. As he lay on the ground, he watched in amazement as his blood ran down his left side and changed direction. The red oozing blood began to stain his hooded sweatshirt and it flowed over his stomach and crotch and unto the wet, snow covered street, where it pooled into a red mass. He breathed in the cold, wet snow as his breathing became shallow and came in wheezes, agonizing and piercing. He was angry and wanted to get up, to fight back, but his legs had no strength. Amused Malik looked down at his feet that were turned inward and said, “I’m pigeon-toed.”
He could feel the pulsing of his heart in a crazy rhythm, racing, then skipping, then fluttering. Malik could hear his organs with an unnatural clarity: his lungs seemed to be straining for oxygen. Drowsiness was starting to overtake his growing sense of panic and he embraced the darkness, eagerly pleading for death to release him from the pain. A car raced past on Federal Street, the belching exhaust fumes choking him as he gasped for air.
Black and white spots danced in front of his eyes and heard the police siren. He was nauseated and felt both hot and cold at the same time. He felt as if he needed to have a bowel movement and to urinate. When the pain seemed unbearable, he suddenly experienced a calming peace, as if he was floating delightfully on a sea of white clouds.
Everything around him was white, a white sky, white buildings and even little black boys and girls skipping around in bright white clothing.
As the pulsing blood became a pool under his body, he raised his head and saw a shadowy figure walking towards him. The figure was dressed in a black leather coat, a black hood was on his head, but he could see the smile, the predatory smile of a wild beast stalking his prey. The figure seemed to be moving in slow motion exhibiting a dangerous patience. He was in no hurry, his prey was wounded and defenseless, lying in dirty snow, bleeding, unable to move or fight back. The man’s steps were deliberate and labored as he approached Malik. Malik felt himself losing control of his bladder and bowel. His warm urine quickly froze on his legs and he smelled the sickening odor of his bowel, Malik felt ashamed. Then there was darkness as dark and rich as a Baker’s chocolate.
The shooter stood over Malik and watched as he voided his bladder and bowels. He smiled as his target fought for air, drowning in his own blood.
The man placed the weapon at Malik’s temple and pulled the trigger again, but it just clicked, he was out of bullets. No matter he thought he would be dead in minutes.
He was satisfied he had gotten his revenge. The man pulled out the marijuana short, lit it and calmly walked away into the cold darkness.

Chapter 2

Malik awakened to a smell of alcohol and disinfects and someone had removed his clothes and inserted an IV needle into the vein on the back of his right hand. He looked up and saw a white tube attached to a plastic bag containing a clear liquid hanging on a pole going into the needle. As his eyes started to adjust to the dimness of the room, he noticed a dark screened television suspended from the ceiling looking down at him.
He turned his head slightly and saw the perfectly white blinds and drapes. The walls in the room was an off colored white and there was a small table next to his bed that contained a telephone, a white plastic water pitcher and paper cups.
He heard strange voices over an intercom-paging people, “Doctor Morris, Room 101, Doctor Williams Room 202, and Nurse Williams, patient ringing in Room 105,” as he drifted off to sleep a sharp pain in his right shoulder and a severe itch in his left arm, awaken him. He tried to raise his right hand to scratch his left arm but couldn't it was in a cast. The cast went from the middle of his shoulder to his wrist. Another kind of wrap-around harness went from his belly button to his shoulder blade. A thin wire connected to a harness lifted his body off the bed. The itch got worse and so did the pain. His eyes were now completely adjusted to the darkness of the room and he saw tubes underneath the covers on his bed running to a machine that showed staggered horizontal lines on its blue screen. He looked down and saw that the only parts of his body touching the bed were his lower legs and feet. The itch got worse, he tried to call out but he could not. A thin clear tube ran from his mouth to a bag suspended on another pole. A strip of grey tape held the tube in place. He closed his eyes and saw the dark shadow moving toward him again, slowly and deliberately, but this time he saw the gun in his right hand and the smile on his face, then there was darkness.
He woke up to the smell of cheap perfume and stale booze. As his eyes slowly opened, he could see the dirty auburn wig, red smeared lipstick, bloodshot eyes and a dazed look; he could also hear the slurred speech,
"My son, my baby, what have they done to you? What did they do to you?” the slurred voice repeated.
He becomes aware of a tall black man wearing a white coat, white shirt, and dark bowtie. The horn rimmed glasses he wore and his mingled gray hair cut short made him look very distinguished. Standing next to, the man was his mother. The tall man bent over him and looked into his eyes, one and then the other with some type of instrument.
After putting the instrument into his white coat pocket he asked in a quiet voice,
“How you feeling young man?”
“Sore,” was Malik’s response?
Someone had removed the tape and the tube and he was surprise that he could talk, but everything else was the same.
“Look what they done to my baby,” Barbara his mother said again.
Malik nostrils flared. He smelled the unmistakable mingling of odors associated with his mother-the stench of marijuana cigarette smoke, and the reeking smell of cheap perfume she used to mask her lack of hygiene. Her feminine odors combined