Warnings: This chapter contains violence, vulgar language, and a graphic scene of physical abuse. Expect more of the same in the chapters to come. You've been warned.
Also, I updated the previous chapter today, so check it out because it dynamically changes the plot. Please continue to review and follow.
Chapter 22: Monster
Twenty-Four Hours Later…
Cesar's POV:
"Police are celebrating the destruction of a major crack cocaine ring in San Fierro. Reports claim that the undercover operation completely stopped the flow of crack cocaine into Los Santos. One undercover cop shared his story of how cool it was to get paid to get high…"
'I've got to find her. Those chotas, they won't be able to do nada. I know gangbangin' motherfuckers with more brains than those idiotas.'
Cesar hopped out his lowrider—which he had just repainted—and walked up to the front door of what had been Kendl's home. Bright yellow police tape marked off the decorative brown door in the setting San Andrean sun. Prying eyes hadn't yet infiltrated the home. Cesar ignored the tape and stepped into the house.
He had shot and killed more than a few people in his life, but Cesar never saw carnage like in the aftermath of the murders at Kendl's house. The living room was in chaos: furniture overturned, walls sprayed with streaks of blood, and chalk outlines marked where the bodies had fallen. A thick aroma of blood and decay lingered in the air. Cesar choked on it until he felt sick to his stomach. The proud Azteca warrior had to cover his mouth and nose to keep from vomiting.
'Some hijoputa could've done this shit to Kendl, but the news said there was only two dead women in here. So Kendl's alright somewhere. If she was dead, the pendejo would eat his own balls for dinner. But if she's alright, dónde está mi amor?'
Cesar snuck into the kitchen and rifled through the cabinets and drawers. In search of some note or letter from Kendl, Cesar checked everything. He knew her handwriting: Kendl wrote loving notes to him back when they were in Los Santos. He knew her style: If she went somewhere suddenly, Kendl wrote notes to say where she went.
There was a week-old to-do list in the kitchen on an 6x6 black chalkboard with "GET A NEW ROOMMATE!" in her handwriting. Kendl had underlined it. A few electric bills from San Andreas Power had been paid in full and on time. 'That's my baby right there, paying her bills on time. When we get back together, I'll trust her to take care of all the money.'
He had to leave the kitchen before the longing in his chest overwhelmed him. There wasn't any note from her in the living room. Cesar gingerly stepped around the bloodstains in the living room and the chalk outlines on the stairs. 'If the motherfucker who hurt you ladies hurt Kendl, I'll take him out too. Vengeance is one fat hijoputa.'
Upstairs, the ladies' bedrooms were eerily quiet as the grave. There was a bathroom in the middle of the hall and a second bathroom inside the first, master bedroom. It reminded Cesar more of a biker bar than a bedroom because of its posters from various races and car shows. There was even an ad for a body shop in Downtown San Fierro that had closed recently. 'Nah, this ain't Kendl's room. My baby ain't never been a car show type of woman, until she met me and rode in her first race.'
The second bedroom was fragrant with calming incense. Chinese-themed furniture filled the room, from the head and footboards of the bed to lacquered dresser against one wall of the red wallpapered room. Cesar liked the trickling waterfall atop one of the lacquered nightstands beside the bed, but Kendl didn't.
The last bedroom at the very end of the hall was empty, but Cesar could smell Kendl's sexual fragrance. 'Looks like she moved out. Pero no tiendo. I thought Kendl was cool with these bitches?'
That was when Cesar heard the police sirens outside.
He went back to the second bedroom. Bamboo shades painted with scenes of Chinese valleys covered the second floor windows. Cesar peered through one and spotted flashing stationary lights. 'Cops. Where the fuck were you dumb hijoputas when my girl's roommates got shot?'
Cesar closed the bamboo shade and scanned the bedroom one last time. He didn't know how feng shuit worked, but he knew how to spot something out of place in a woman's bedroom. Held to the wall by a blue thumbtack, there was a postcard of the dojo in Doherty. Cesar removed it from the wall, turned it over, and read the message on the back of the card.
"Hey Katie! Girl, I am loving Las Venturas. Got a job first day here. Come visit me sometime, girl! Kendl."
The address from which the postcard had been sent was a hotel suite in Las Venturas.
Cesar slipped the postcard into the back pocket of his chinos, ran downstairs, and met the police officers in the living room. They pulled out their handguns and flashlights when they spotted him. "Freeze, you sexy Spaniard bastard!" one of the officers yelled in a nasally, high pitched voice.
'Hijoputas, I'm not Spanish just because I speak the language. I'm Azteca.' Cesar raised his hands to present as innocent and helpless a target as possible. He squinted at the officers through the flashlight shining in his eyes. Both officers were White: one was tall, slim, and had a bushy blond mustache atop his lip; the other was almost as tall but older and clean-shaven.
"Sir, did you know that this residence is considered a crime scene, and it's illegal to trespass here?" the older officer asked. He too had a high-pitched, girly voice.
'Los jodidos gays! Estúpidos gringos!' ("The fucking gays! Stupid White men!")
Cesar opted to twist the officers' heads. "Perdón, pero no comprendo. No comprendo, hijos de putas."
The taller one gasped and dropped his flashlight. "Oh my God, the poor thing doesn't even understand English! Did you just cross the border, sweet cheeks?"
"Would you come home with me and landscape my lawn? Or be my pool boy?" the shorter one asked.
"Fuck you, cop pigs." Cesar dropped his hands to his pockets, raised two 9 mm handguns, and aimed at the cops. The cops dropped their flashlights, but before they could pull the triggers on their guns, the Azteca warrior quickly pulled the trigger. Four slugs popped in quick succession: One into each cop's right kneecap; one into the shorter cop's right lung; and the fourth into the taller cop's neck.
Cesar stooped long enough to pick up the officers' guns and lift their keys to their car. He stepped over the squirming officers to the front door. There was only one police car outside. He unlocked the door, tossed the keys inside, and shut the door. The cops would be able to follow him or radio for help.
Whistling the tune of Kid Frost's "La Raza," Cesar leaped behind the driver's seat of his Savanna and drove down Paradiso to Bank Street in the Financial District. No police cars appeared on the dark night's streets, so Cesar turned his radio station to Radio Los Santos. It was the only one that played music he liked and had a host he could tolerate.
"Aye, this is your weather update: We got more fog rollin' in soon," Julio G announced, "so everybody out there needs to be careful and drive safely."
"Gorillas in tha Mist" started playing. Cesar rode with it all the way to his apartment in Doherty. No cops followed him. The apartment was large, luxurious, and empty, which was a strange feeling after he'd lived with someone else for so long: His family, Kendl, Pitbull, and now CJ. Cesar had never lived alone for more than a few hours or a few days at a time. The silence of CJ's absence—following the errand he hadn't told Cesar about—made everything feel so lonely.
He walked through the dark apartment, kicked off his Binco sneakers, and pulled off his shirt. Cesar strode down the hallway to his bedroom. There was no need to turn the light on, but Cesar flicked on the bathroom light anyway. It made him feel like someone else was in the house. Cesar didn't strip down to his boxers to crawl into bed and pull the covers over his lean body. He laid on the sheets over his mattress, pulled the barely necessary comforter over his body, and propped his head on his right arm.
Cesar thought of Kendl until he fell asleep.
Ryder's POV:
"In other news, reformed gangster, troublemaker, and drug dealer—but still a very short man—Ryder Wilson opened a new orphanage today in East Los Santos. Abandoned children from all over the city will now have a safe, non-toxic environment in which to grow and play. Richard Burns was on the scene."
Rico turned off the radio on the desk as Ryder walked into the room. Rico's Binco plaid shirt, Binco khakis, and blue Binco sneakers contrasted sharply with the gray Victim two-piece suit Ryder wore as he walked in. Rico grinned and leaned back in Ryder's leather armchair.
"Good idea, putting out the crack palace as an orphanage. You gonna make a lotta dinero, boss."
"You can quit sucking up to me now, motherfucker," Ryder laughed.
Rico rose from his seat, and Ryder sat in the seat instead. The broad, polished wooden desk and leather armchair were part of the new furnishings Ryder had installed in Big Smoke's former living quarters. Only twenty-four hours after Big Smoke's death, he had replaced everything about him.
"What? I'm just saying the shit that's true. We're the motherfucking kings of Los Santos, now!"
"We?" Ryder's hands adjusted his Victim coat and provided Rico just a glimpse of the handgun tucked in the inner pocket of his jacket.
"I-I meant you, boss. You're the king of Los Santos now."
"That's right! Ain't nobody stoppin' me!" Ryder propped his feet on the desk and reclined with his hands folded behind his head.
"I wouldn't relax so quickly, if I were you."
Frank Tenpenny strolled into Ryder's office, accompanied by Eddie Pulaski. Ryder sat upright. "How'd you motherfuckers get in here and I didn't know about it?"
"We're LSPD, Ryder. We are everywhere and into everything. This badge is an all-access granted pass to wherever we need to be." Tenpenny walked right up to Ryder's desk. "Aren't you gonna invite me to sit down?"
"Rico, gone and get these motherfuckers a chair." Rico left the room. When the door closed behind him, Ryder opened a drawer on the bottom of the desk, took out two banded together stacks of money, and set them on the desk.
"That's your advance. I'm gonna need fifty workers by next Friday."
Tenpenny picked up the stack and ran his thumb over the crisp soft green edges. "This is only five thousand. Has the Los Santos school system failed that badly that you can't tell the difference between five thousand and ten thousand dollars?" He threw the cash back at Ryder. The short gangsta glanced at the stack of money and pushed the cash back across the desk.
"I can count, you bitch ass. That's five thousand for the advance. When I get my fifty workers, you get another ten thousand."
"You know we could throw your ass into jail. Place is pretty packed with east side eses who would love a piece of your black ass, Ryder," Pulaski warned.
"You could do that. And I guess those east side eses could pay you too?" Pulaski scowled and Tenpenny's face was inscrutable. It was exactly the reaction Ryder expected. "Thought so. You all gone and get my orphans, alright?"
"Don't get in too far over your head, Ryder. Although, at your height, that can't be too hard," Tenpenny laughed and left the room.
Before the door shut behind them, Rico walked in, carrying one chair. "Adiós, pendejos," he said to the corrupt cops. He set the chair in front of Ryder's desk and sat down. "Que quieran?"
"Those bitch asses wanted to tell me how to run my motherfucking business. I just need them to bring in my workers for the crack factory."
"So you gonna stay in Los Santos then, boss?"
Ryder jumped to his feet, walked around the desk, and administered a right hook that sent Rico toppling to the floor on his left. "Bitch, quit trying to suck my motherfuckin' dick."
"I ain't tryin' to…"
Ryder kicked Rico in his face while he was down. Blood gushed all over Ryder's sneakers and the wooden panel of his desk. "Don't lie to me, motherfuckin' refried beans!"
He kicked Rico in his face again. The beefy Hispanic cowered, covering his bleeding nose and mouth. Ryder kicked him again. Behind his hands, Rico's nose uttered a soft cracking noise, like bones breaking.
Straightening out his suit, Ryder sat down. "See, taco meat, you don't know what the shit was all about. I don't care who sucks my motherfucking Black dick, whether it's you, Kendl, or one of them stripper bitches downstairs. It's all about power, baby.
"When I fuck you, or them strippers, it's about who's got more power." Ryder punctuated his sentences with blows to Rico's face and ribs. "When the police try to run my motherfuckin' crack empire, it's about them having power over me. When some junkie buys my goods, it's about them having more power over they lives. Everybody wants some power. And when I get that Kendl bitch and fuck her ass, I'm gonna let her brothers and that limp dick motherfuckin' chulo cousin of yours know exactly who's got the power in this city:
"Ryder, nigga."