THE SENTENCER:HATE

By Blackstone

Denver, Colorado,

The night

Life was good, thought Stuart Smalls, 19 year old neo-Nazi skinhead. Him, and seven

other Aryan brothers were standing around a fallen nigger bum in some smelly

alley. He had just taken a crowbar behind the head and he was squirming, like

the piece of shit that he was. Laughing hysterically, Smalls pulled out a bottle of

lighter fluid.

"You guys like barbecues, huh? We're gonna have ourselves a good one, now!"

The others joined in the laughter.

"How is it you niggers say it?' I'm a light dat ass up!'"

That was when it all went to shit for Smalls and the skinheads.

The bum, who had been nailed, but good, in the head with a crowbar extended

both his hands at lightening speed, his hands forming claws, each hand going for

two different skinheads' crotches.

And Smalls saw something he would take to his grave.

The bum's clawed fingers penetrated fabric and flesh And he extracted his hands

immediately, as quickly as he had shot them out. And the two skinheads went

down, their eyes wide with unspeakable agony as they were castrated and

their screams went for high pitched yells to pig-like squealing, and then dolphin-like

noises.

And the bum was not done yet. As the others watched with horror the brutal

emasculation of two of their comrades, the hobo sent his hands, this time

fingers straight, palms towards the ground into the stomachs of two other

of Small's buddies. The fingers went inside their guts like a hot knife cutting

through butter, and those two started coughing up blood and fighting to keep

their intestines inside of their abdomens.

Then, the bum stood on his feet, as if he had never been clocked with a piece

of steel to the head. He was big. They all saw that before beating him down,

but now, he just seemed ever taller that his near six and a half feet.

His eyes were now locked into Smalls. Jesus, those eyes...He had never seen

anything like this. The face was hard, but without expression...But the eyes...

Cold, like staring into a shotgun...

Two of the other skinheads had recovered from the initial shock of seeing

a man rise up like those zombies in those old horror movies, and disembowel

and emasculate four men, with his bare hands. Both came behind him, both

wielding Louisville sluggers and swing at his skull. That would stop this

monster, that would have to put this evil nigger down...It would have to-

Without ever breaking eye contact with Smalls, the freak just threw his

elbows up and behind him. And both baseball bats broke in two, like

toothpicks. Then he pulled his elbows back and threw then again hitting

them both in the breastbone. That and several ribs broke audibly and they

went down.

Small was paralyzed...This monster had just crippled two men, and had looked

into his eyes while doing it. He almost seemed to...enjoy watching Small's

reaction.

The last skinhead, besides just stood next to Smalls, just as terrified at what

this animal, this devil nigger straight out of hell had done.

"Stu...What do we do?"

Smalls just shook his head, unable to speak.

The huge freak just stood there, waiting. Silent. His bloodied hands by his sides.

His eyes...Christ...Because of the night-time, and his dark skin, just seemed

to glow. Like a...a...

"Stu! Say something!"

Small looked at his friend's face.

"I-"

Then thunder struck and Small's buddy's head exploded and splashed

brains and blood all over Small's face. And he screamed and cursed,

and tried to get the goo of him.

Then he was hit on the head and then darkness.

STEWART SMALLS SOON woke up. He was tied up

and upside down. His eyes

were covered...But he could still see...The blood...heads exploding...

He hear the screams and the bones breaking...

"You are awake."

The voice was deep, creepy, something like Darth Vader, if he talked like a

nigger.

"I need you to spread the word, punk."

"F-F-Fuck you, you goddamn freak ape!" He shrieked with a strange mix

of hysteria and defiance. "My buddies will find you and fuck you up, you

fuckin' gorilla."

"I think there is something you should see, before we go on."

Then the blind fold was removed-

And Stewart Small was hanging upside down 40 stories above the street,

his feet tied to a Gargoyle. He could see the nigger standing on the roof.

He screamed. When he was out of breath, some time later, he was quivering.

And quiet.

"Do I have your attention now?"

Silence.

"I can't hear you."

"Y-Y-Y-Yeah..."

Tears were streaking up his face, as well as sweat.

"Tell them, punk. Tell anyone within earshot that the Sentencer is here, and that

there is no escape for the scum of the city. Tell them that what has happened

tonight is just a glimpse at the hell that is coming for them. The worst is yet

to come. Tell them. Did you get all that, punk?"

"Y-Y-Y-Yeah..."

"Good. Enjoy the view."

"H-H-H-Hey, you-you can't leave me like this, come back, come BACK! No-NOOO!"

And he screamed some more, but the Sentencer was already walking away. In a way, the

skinhead was lucky, his night would end as soon as the cops would come get him.

Luther Jones was just getting started.

DETECTIVES RENEE MENENDEZ AND HARVEY Bulworth came to the skyscraper.

The word mismatch was an understatement when one looked at them. Renee Menendez

was a slender, fit and elegant woman in her early 30s. Her black hair was tied in a ponytail

Despite her plain grey business suit-jacket and pants-and the late hour, there was no hiding

the fact that she was a stunning woman.

Her partner was a different story. He was about her height, 5'9". And they were both cops.

The similarities ended there. He was a heavyset, rumpled, unshaven, grouchy, cigar chomping,

worn out fedora wearing man. But also, one of the best cops on the force. If a little quick

to smack suspects around.

"Christ, Menendez, I hate high places."

"Well, Harv, the way your career is going, you have nothing to be afraid of."

"Are you bein' a smartass?"

"Harv, I was merely pointing out the fact that you bow down to no man and that your will

is indomitable, that is why the powers-that-be hesitate to give you a promotion for fear

that you will make too many waves."

"In other words, I pissed off way too many people and my chances of moving up are

fucked."

"Eloquent as always, Harv."

"Life is too short for bullshit, Menendez."

The two detectives saw the paramedics tending to a young man.

"Skinhead." Bulworth said.

"Yeah." Menendez said.

Being on of the "mud people" often targeted by skinheads, Menedez did not like skinheads

too much. But this one did not seem to be too much of a threat. His eyes were wide and

he was ranting, seemingly delirious.

"What's this hump's problem?" Bulworth asked a uniform cop.

"You heard the call. A police chopper found this guy hung up-side-down above the street.

By the time more units come, he starts blabbering about "a black devil" or some shit like

that..."

" 'Black devil.'" Menendez said.

"Yup. Some monster that killed seven of his friends in an alley somewhere. The guy's mind is

ruined. Won't get much out of it."

"What else does he say.?" asked Bulworth.

"Somethin about how 'hell is coming'..."the cop answered with a shrug.

"Let me talk to him," Menendez suggested.

"Uh...Menendez," Bulworth said." He is a skinhead. He..."

"Are you afraid he will insult my Aztec ancestry?"

"He will, kid."

"How sweet, but I am a big girl, Harv. I can handle myself."

"Go right ahead ,then." Bulworth said.

She walked over to the skinhead.

"Looks like that, she should be modelling," the uniform said.

"Yeah, why don't you tell her? I am sure she has never heard that before."

"I don't know, Harv, I heard she was a dyke. Nobody has ever seen her go on a date..."

"I ain't never seen you with a broad. That make you queer?"

"Hey, I have two ex-wives."

"That how it starts before they find their way out of the closet..."

"Screw you, Harv."

"Buy me coffee first."

The cop blushed and walked away as Menendez walked back. She had a strange look

on her face. Concern.

"What is it?"

"Trouble. The punk dropped a name. The Sentencer."

"Holeeeee shit. 'Black devil.' Punk was right."

"How do you mean?"

"Hell is coming."

LUTHER JONES WAS IN TOWN TO work two "cases".

Completely unrelated, but both required his attention.

The rise of skin-head violence that was straining race relations in the

city and that was also targeting the city's homeless. And the news of a new drug hitting the ghettoes. Something as destructive and addictive as "Ice", but that seem to cause

extreme psychotic behaviour: hallucinations that more often than not resulted in killing

sprees.

Two cases. Two kinds of scum that were destroying lives in this city. Both deserving

final judgement.

Jones had gotten rid of his bloodied clothes, thankful he had worn surgeon's gloves

when he took care of those thugs in the alley. He could have easily shot them. But

that would not have been enough. They used terror tactics and extreme violence

on their victims. Not just beatings, sometimes mutilating and burning people alive.

He had to send a message. They thought they knew what fighting dirty was.

They thought they knew what vicious was. They thought they what ruthlessness was.

They were wrong. The sight their friends disembowelled and castrated by an unarmed

man is worth a thousand statements, a million graffiti.

While Jones had gotten leads on the skinheads, he was yet to learn anything on the

drug dealing network. But he would. In time. He had set things in motion. With

some friendly coercion, he had acquired the help of a couple of lowlifes who he will

get back to in a day or two, hopefully with some leads. The winning argument was

the special ankle bracelets he had used. Each of his snitches wore one. Each of them

had two transmitters. One of them recorded every word that they said.

The other one was connected to a small C-4 charge. The charge was hooked

to a coded detonator. Temper proof. So, when Jones would listen to the

recordings, if they tried to weasel out of the arrangement, they would have

to learn to get around on one foot.

All of his snitches have taken the chance to call him, quote: " a sick, evil bastard."

End quote.

He has been called things like that before and has yet to find evidence to contrary.

Though some people have claimed to have seen the "good" in him. Maybe they

were right too.

Jones did not know. Nor did he care. He had work to do. A war to fight.

He knew why, and especially how to fight it.

So while his intelligence network was hard at work, the vigilante had time to

work the neo-Nazis.

The Sentencer was learning time-efficient vigilantism.

Now he was heading for the park. Several attacks on the homeless have taken

place there as well. Several people have been set on fire there.

That was about to stop. Soon.

He soon reached the park.

He was wearing black fatigues, black leather gloves with cut-off fingers.

A silenced HK SOCOM .45acp pistol under his left armpit and a .50AE Desert

Eagle on his right hip completed

the wardrobe. He also brought a little something special for this occasion

in a big duffel bag.

As he went into the forest, old familiar feelings took over :the feeling of

being deep in the bush, searing heat, bugs, the sounds of the jungle...

But this was a different place, different time, different war, different jungle.

And-

A gunshot.

Two.

Someone crying.

The Sentencer picked up the pace, his blood running cold.

And then he saw it.

He saw two people lying on the ground, in a pool of blood. There

were about a half-dozen skinheads, a couple of them with guns, and a handful

of homeless people.

And a child crying over the dead bodies.

A child...crying...

And suddenly Jones was no longer in the park. He was in Harlem.

He was a boy in his teens in Harlem, in his uncle's garage on a hot

sunny, summer day. He was covered in grease, he was sweating,

but happy.

Then Jamie, his first love came by and surprised him. She was so pretty

in her nice flowery dress. Uncle Marcus stood there, looking at Luther

and said:

"Well, boy, you gonna stand there covered in grease all day, or you gonna

make yourself look decent for the lady?"

And Luther rushed to the apartment above the garage to change and on his

back down, cleaned and changed, he heard two gunshots. And screeching

tires.

And there they were. The two people that were his entire universe, their

bodies shattered and bloody. Uncle Marcus had lied

to Luther for months. Business was bad. Uncle Marcus

went to loan sharks. And he paid them back. But they wanted

more and more...He then refused to pay more. So they killed him.

To make a point to any other reluctant payer in the neighbourhood.

That day, his eyes filled with tears, his heart ripped out of his chest, that hot,

sunny, summer day, holding the shattered bodies, he knew how the world

worked. There were predators and prey. Wolves and sheep. And

someone had protect the sheep.

So it began there. He joined the army, then Special Forces, spent every

down time he had in Japan training with the hardest masters in

martial arts. Taking abuse. Pushing his body beyond the limits of

physical pain. Learning to focus. Learning to

harness the rage that was burning within him.

One of his teachers told that he had to reach aiki, spiritual harmony,

and mold his anger into a weapon as sharp and precise as a

sword. A sword that will be used to destroy all evil and

pacify the world.

He became such a cold blooded and efficient killing machine that it

concerned him. He needed time off. He needed time to remember

what he once was. And when going back to Harlem for the first

time in almost 20 years and seeing things that were intolerable, he

started a new war. An illegal, immoral, but to him, a necessary war.

The scum only knew the language of violence,

and Luther Jones was quite fluent in that language as well. There would

be no compromise. No mercy. No remorse. He would have to give

up any hope of a normal life to do it.

The Sentencer was born. Right or wrong, he was here.

...And now he was in the forest ,looking at the child crying over his dead

parents. Jones could not raise the dead. But he could avenge them.

He came out of hiding, holding the .50 hand cannon in his right hand. The

monster handgun gleamed under the moonlight as it belched 350 grains

of death. The big thundering explosion of the huge slug leaving the

barrel startled all and it beheaded the nearest skinhead. The corpse

dropped like a broken puppet.

And then, really got to work...

BULWORTH AND MENENDEZ WENT TO THE PARK after the

skyscraper. Another team of detectives had been dispatched to the

alley, Hudson and Hicks. The place was a bee's hive of uniformed

personnel, from paramedics to firemen to cops.

"Guy is keeping busy, I'll give him that," Bulworth told his partner.

"Nobody likes a lazy killer, Harv."

"Especially not undertakers."

A detective came to meet them, he was wearing a hanky over his mouth,

and was coughing. He had tears in his eyes.

"Don't get all emotional, Drake, " Bulworth cracked wise.

"Har-dee-fuckin'-har, Harv."

"You and Vasquez on this too?" Menendez asked.

"Yeah, we were the first to take the call."

"Whaddawegot?" Bulworth said.

"Six DOAs. Three gunshot wounds. We figure the Q-balls smoked a couple

of the homeless before..."Drake just shook his head.

"It can't be anymore gruesome than the alley scene Hudson and Hicks are doin'".

Bulworth observed.

"I would not bet on it. Come on." Drake said.

Menendez and Bulworth exchanged a glance. And they followed Drake

towards the crime scene. Then, the stench hit them.

"Jesus H. Christ!" Harv shouted." What the fuck..."

"You will see, Harv." Drake promised.

Then they did.

"Madre de Dios..."Menendez said, and crossed herself.

There was a tall monument, the statue of one the guys who founded the city or

something, but that was not the story. There were four charred bodies were chained

to it. Burned to almost nothing. The funk of burning flesh was unbearable. Bul-

worth and Menendez were coughing and gagging.

"Yeah, "Drake said." that's what I said too when I saw them. We got a witness."

"Let me guess, he is shelled shocked and is rambling about a 'black devil'." Menendez

said.

"Hey, you are a black magic woman." Drake said.

"High priestess of santeria." Menendez said with a tired smile". Where is he?"

"I'll go get him," Drake said before walking off.

"This is...sick..."Bulworth observed looking at the four blackened...things that used

to be people. Scumbags, yeah, but people still. "He could have just shot them.

He must get off on this shit."

"Maybe they were dead before they got barbecued, Harv."

"You wanna bet on it, Menendez?"

"Not really. Besides, I thought you were doing Gambling Anonymous. You shouldn't be

betting."

"AA takes up most of my time. That and the job."

"Uh-huh."

"Don't nag, Menendez, not now."

"Fine. Looks like our guy with Drake and Vasquez."

The two cops brought a skinhead to Renee and Harv. Menendez had called it right,

wide eyes, sweat, shakes...

"Here he is," Vasquez spat." The guy is so spooked, didn't even call me 'spic' when he saw

me."

"Maybe he is reformed "Bulworth said." What's this mook's name?"

"Hubert." Drake said.

"Hey, Hubert, "Bulworth said," I am Detective Bulworth this is Detective Menendez. Got

a story for us?"

He nodded frantically.

"Let us hear it."

"Well, it's like this. We come to the park, and we wanna clean up the park y' know, all

the lousy fuckin, bums? Anyway, we are rousting some bums and we shoot a couple of

them...And their brat starts bawlin'. And then BOOM! Joey's head blows up and out comes this huge fuckin' nigger ,he has a gun in each hand. His

eyes...Jesus, his eyes..."

The skinhead had this expression, with a 1000 yard stare and was shuddering.

Bulworth smacked him, not too hard, just get him back in this solar system.

"Hubert? You with us?"

"Yeah, yeah...So this huge nigger has his guns, and he is telling the bums like' take the

bodies away, get out of here, I'll handle this.' And they leave. He looks down at the brat.

He was quiet I thought he was gonna cry or somethin'-"

"Cry?" Menendez said.

"Well, not cry, but his eyes changed when he looked at the kid. Like he felt sorry for him

or something. Then he looked back at us. And his eyes were...were..."

"Go on," Bulworth said.

"So, now, he calls me over. His voice...Like...He calls me over. And I do, and whacks

on the head with the Desert Eagle. When I wake up, I am chained to a tree, my eyes

are scotch taped so I can't close them? I couldn't move a muscle. And I see my buddies

tied to the statue. And I am wondering what the fuck is going on, then the nigger comes

back...And he has this weird back pack thing, and I am wondering what the hell...And then

it hits me. And I start freaking out, but he tells me with his creepy voice.' Don't worry punk.

I won't hurt. I need you. I need you to watch and listen, so pay attention. Pay close attention.' The crazy fuck had a flame thrower! A fuckin' flame thrower ! He aims it at my buddies.

And now I know why he taped my eyes open and bound my neck, so I could watch.

And I watch, and I am listening...the guys are screaming, screaming...The fucker made me

watch...Son of a bitch...They were screaming...The smell...Then he comes right next to me

and says. 'Look and listen. And remember. And tell them about it. Tell them The Sentencer is coming. Tell them this is just the beginning. Tell them I am just getting warmed up. Unlike them-he pointed at my buddies-I haven't started cooking yet. Tell them.' And I am listening to that evil fucker, and watching my friends burn alive...

and the smell...and the screams... 'Have a good evening' he says, and walks

away."

Bulworth and Menendez, as well as Vasquez and Drake have no sympathy for skinheads...

but that was horrific. The guy broke down in tears. Who wouldn't. Drake and Vasquez

took him away. That little shit had probably hurt a lot of innocent people, Bulworth thought, he got off easy...or did he? He would have nightmares for the rest of his

life. But part of Bulworth was thinking that they deserved no better. But, Christ...

"Sick bastard"...Harv said for the second time that night.

"Yeah...Guy wants to make an impression."

"I think it's working."

And the night was not over...

There was this deserted lot where skinheads hung out a lot. They had been so ruthless that they had driven many minorities out of that neighbourhood. They sent several Molotov cocktails in stores, even an apartment building.

Well, exactly thirteen skinheads were found shot to death in that lot, with one survivor, without a scratch, alive to tell the tale.

Another hang out, a closed down gas station, was another multiple murder scene. Seven skinheads, tied up facing the walls, each with a hollow point .45 ACP in the back of the

head. Once again, someone was alive to tell the story.

And at last, but not least, a old closed down factory, where another dozen skinheads have

been found shot to death.

With a live traumatized witness.

Count for the night: 38 dead, two crippled, two castrated.

THE SENTENCER decided to call it a night and rest a couple of hours. Rest and hunt again.

As he did often, he chose a dive of a hotel that was in a part of town where no one

asked questions. Except for him.

He went to his room showered and worked out. He then sat down and listened to the

day's recordings from his "Intel network". Every second. He could not afford to miss

a detail. Next to him, the powerful remote that could detonate the C-4 charge

on their ankles. Maybe he would get a line on the drug dealers. Then he could get

some sleep. Have a few nightmares, get up in the morning and start over.

He tried to forget the child's eyes...and not hear his cries...But he knew he wouldn't.

The child would haunt him. Like all of the others he has failed to save in the past.

Including Marcus and Jamie. Reminding him he could never stop. Never. His only

true rest would be in the grave.