A Barbarian in Chicago- Wulf!

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Wes led the way north, to the relatively safe community of Bridgeport. Eventually he stopped in front of a two story brownstone, with a large garage in the back alley. The door rolled up, and the two vehicles rolled inside. Wes lowered the door immediately.

“We’re going to have to change your plates, and paint your jeep at the very least. It would probably be best for you to leave at night, anyway. There is a mandatory one year prison term for even possessing a firearm in the city, much less using one!”

“The only thing I used that gun for was to crush Tibo’s finger bones on it…” said Wulf in a deep voice.

“I know, I know- but they are going to change the evidence, they will say or make up anything to stir up hatred against a white who hurts a black! The powers that be don’t care if it is self-defense, or anything else- they have their politically correct agenda, which is that white people abuse blacks, and that explains everything, all the time. They’ve been telling this lie for so long now, that I think some of them are really beginning to actually believe it themselves!”

The two left the detached garage, and went into the house, which had multiple locks and deadbolts on several doors leading to the living quarters. Plain, almost Spartan on the outside, on the inside of the house were shelves and shelves of books, and classic paintings from the Renaissance. There was one portrait of a striking woman, but that was the only indication of a female presence in the room.

Wes caught his gaze. “That’s my wife, Cassandra,” he said. “She was killed in a car-jacking 5 years ago. Black perps, never caught, not even really pursued. Papers tried to hush it up; it didn’t fit the template.” Wulf nodded grimly, his hands clenched into fists. “And the worst part? I know who did it! But I can’t prove it, and the regular Chicago police detective who knows I know is just waiting for me to make a move against them. Two south side punks, come up here to raid on white women, Asians, and elderly.”

“Wait,” said Wes, as a sort of light grew in his eyes, presaging a sudden thought. “How about if I hire you to take care of these savages- you are disappearing anyway, you have to. And, no one would ever suspect you, who has no ties or knowledge of this case. I would pay you well, even give you my own car to escape in- Oh God- if anybody could do this it’s you- I’ve seen you in action!” His voice had a thrill of passionate intensity in it.

Wulf nodded, his arms crossed over his powerful chest. “You have been fair to me. I will repay you in this manner, and then go.”

Wes looked towards the portrait of his murdered wife, and said with a vicious hiss, “Let’s do it tonight!”

A couple of hours later, the companions were ready. “I will point them out to you,” said Wes. “They’re both 21 now, they were 16 year old punks when they murdered Cassie. They’ve really moved up, now they deal drugs, among other things. They hang out in this dive,” he said, pointing out a seedy bar with a number of black men sitting and lounging around on the front steps. The blacks eyed the two white men in the late model sedan challengingly. Some called out obscenities, and gestured menacingly, simply because it was two white men in “their” neighborhood.

Another black man emerged from the dark doorway. “That’s one!” said Wes. He was a tall, strongly built black man, but with a large gut to match his large limbs. His head was shaved, and gleamed in the streetlight. As he came out onto the pavement, he stopped to light a cigarette. He peered at the sedan through the smoke, then, recognizing Wes through the glass, took off at a run.

Wes followed in the car, until the black figure cut down an alley. “That one’s called Demoan,” he said. “Feel ready for the hunt?” With a grunt, Wulf launched himself from the opened car door. His daily training ensured he would quickly catch the running black, who was staggering from lack of oxygen. Cigarettes never help your running speed!

Gasping, Demoan stopped and turned. He pulled out a small automatic pistol, but before he could fire Wulf threw his hunting knife with pantherish swiftness. The blade lodged in the chest of the black man, who sagged to the earth, pierced through the heart. Smiling grimly, Wulf retrieved his weapon, and loped off back to the waiting car. “One down,” he said as he got back in the car.

“And one to go.” said Wes. His face was set in a determined grimace.

The two drove about for hours, but could not find the other punk, who Wes said was called Rasha. They were back in the vicinity of Hyde Park, when they saw an older vehicle stopped at a red light. Suddenly, there was a crash, as a tire iron smashed in the side window! A youngish black man was holding the iron rod, and his face was twisted in a ghastly grin of rage.

As luck would have it, one of the very few mounted police officers of the Chicago police force happened to be patrolling within earshot. He started riding towards the sound.

Meanwhile, Wes and Wulf jumped out of their car, running towards the scene, which was a couple of blocks away. Wes counted himself in excellent shape, but was startled at the ease with which the youth who accompanied him pulled away in front.

The black punk had ripped open the car door, and pulled out the driver, who was a young woman with skin that was like cafe au lais, and straight black hair that rippled down her back, glowing faintly in the street lamps. From roughly one block away, Wulf was shocked to see the face of his teacher, Miss Trina Gilbert from the high school fine arts class!

At that moment, up rode the police officer on his large jet black horse, a taser in his hand. The order had come from the higher ups to not use deadly force, and this older black officer was trying not to get in trouble before his retirement in a year. When the punk turned to see, holding the woman before him as a shield, he suddenly grinned. A taser? He pulled out a small gun, and shot the officer, who slumped and fell from his horse.

Meanwhile, from the passenger side of the woman’s car, a smallish figure emerged. He launched himself at the punk, who was easily twice his weight, as the woman began kicking him. The punk could easily handle these two, both the woman and the little black kid with glasses. Now that the cop was down, this was beginning to look like the start of a fun night… At that moment, he felt an iron grip around his throat.

He was lifted as a cat lifts a mouse in its jaws, kicking and thrashing. He couldn’t breathe, and the woman and boy pulled away from him.

“Wulf!” shouted Wes, coming up gasping for air. “That’s him- that’s Rasha!” Startled, Wulf eased his grip on the punk, and looked back at Wes, who nodded. And Rasha, suddenly recognizing Wes from the courtroom where he had been accused of killing his wife, knew things were now not looking like a fun night at all. And, with that in mind, he pointed up with his gun and shot at the huge white youth.

His aim was not good, since his arm had been pinned down by his side, and the caliber of the bullet was small, but he did get a shot through Wulf’s massive left leg. Wulf slumped to the side, and Sasha the punk slid out from his grasp. Turning quickly, he set off on a run down the street, intent now only on escape. He knew what Wes would do to him, and he knew he deserved it!

Wes was too winded now to even follow, and stood by the woman and the small black boy. Wulf turned, leaning on the car hood to take the weight off of his injured leg, and he saw who the two were. “Trina? And Jafiro?? You two were the victims?”

Trina sobbed, and threw her arms around his neck. “Oh, Wulf- I was just giving Jafiro a ride to my spare room, since he is kind of, well, homeless, and I saw him on the street. Next thing I know, that…scum tried to car-jack us, but you came along and oh…” Here she trailed off again in sobs.

“Yeah, Wulf my man, yo save the day, man!” said Jafiro. He smiled up at him through his thick glasses, his brown eyes happy.

Wes was examining the officer, who was still unconscious, but moaning faintly. “He’s not dead, but he’s sure not good. I think that fall from the horse knocked him out completely.”

Disengaging himself from Trina somewhat reluctantly, the white youth felt himself completely reverting to type- once again, he was the youth of the wild, the primitive barbarian who upheld his personal values with the weight of his own power. With only a slight limp, he went up to the large horse, who was startled still by the gunshot and noise, but whose reins had remained wrapped about the unconscious police officer’s wrist.

Wulf picked up the reins, and made as if to mount the animal. It started away violently, pulling back. Wulf simply knotted the reins in one huge fist, and yanked the animals large head downwards, violently. The horse had never felt such superior strength from a human, and lowered its head in submission. Wulf leapt upon its back, and galloped off into the night.

Trina, Jafiro, and Wes all just watched open-mouthed as the giant youth careened away like a centaur, hooves ringing sparks from the city paving, in hot pursuit of the black thief, drug dealer, murderer, and who knew what all else named Rasha. In Wulf's hand was his big hunting knife, and it shone in the dark like a silver spike.

Rasha heard the hoofbeats, but had no idea what they portended until he turned as he ran, his eyes shining whitely in his face. Those eyes became filled with terror as he saw the huge figure atop that pursuing dark steed, the blazing blue eyes, the mane of reddish hair flying back over his shoulders like an avenging angel of death.

In desperation, Rasha took out his gun and began firing. Again, and yet again he fired, but to no visible result- the animal and rider came on relentlessly, until at the last he tried to get out of the way, but it was too late. Hooves, thundering down on him with the weight of both horse and man, left him a red ruin.

Looking down, Wulf put his unused knife back in its sheath. “That’s number two,” he said.

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