Who is the Devil?

By Jonathan Looney

A young man, who has been plagued by nightmares his entire life, discovers that his dreams create the evil in the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483519579

Jonathan Looney

Jonathan Looney (JNCIE-SP #254, JNCIE-ER #2, JNCIE-SEC #43, CCIE Routing & Switching #7797 [Emeritus]), is a senior testing engineer with Juniper Networks. He has managed and automated networks. He has also written tools to automate testing and debugging. He has written training courses for Juniper Networks and also taught an information security course at Syracuse University for several semesters. At Juniper, he currently focuses on testing the Junos kernel and UI features, and conducts product security testing.

Book preview

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PROLOGUE

Hi mommy, said a waking boy in footy pajamas, as he climbed out of bed. He rubbed his eyes, eyes that looked like they belonged to someone other than an eight year old. Eyes that seemed withered and hardened by sights none should see. At least his voice was that of the regular eight year old, still holding that naive innocence of hope and wonder. Good morning, sweetheart. Did you get any sleep? His mother did not dare ask of the boy’s visions out of compassion for him. She did not want him to relive the terrible experiences twice. Six and a half years it has been since her son could tell her of the dreams that take his sleep. She is sure it started before he could talk. He would wake up screaming as a baby, but calm down right away. The doctor said it was colic. The doctor was wrong.

Lucis, honey, breakfast is almost ready. Come and sit at the table.

Ok, Mommy.

Lucis put on the clothes his mother had set out for him and went to the breakfast table.

The occupant in the chair at the other end of the table silently sipped his coffee while reading a bible; his potently piercing dark eyes were only restrained by sliver frames of his glasses. His skin was tinted dark from years of time in the sun. His powerful arms and chest clad in black culminating at the white clerical collar.

G’morning Daddy, Lucis said as he climbed in to the chair next to him.

Good morning Lucis, how did you sleep? The man knew the answer. He knew his son was tormented. Mother scowls at Father. Father pays no mind to the woman’s reaction. He finishes the last of his coffee, inspects the floor of his cup then arises to retrieve more.

As he pours fresh coffee into his cup, the father asked Lucis, How were your dreams son?

Lucis’ mother flashes the man a scornful sneer. Again, the man ignores her and returns to his seat. Lucis sinks into his seat and starts to pout. I don’t wanna talk about it.

The man’s face distorts into a hateful, judgmental frown.

I asked you a question, boy. I expect and answer.

Lucis takes a deep breath and sits up in his chair.

Ok. I’ll tell you, but have to promise not to be mad. I dreamed a girl got hurt by this man. He hit her a lot and tied her to a tree and ripped her clothes. Then he took off his pants and pushed his pee pee into her pee pee a lot. She was crying then she stopped making noise and–

Lucis was interrupted by his father’s hand knocking him out of the chair. The impact stunned Lucis. He could see that his father and mother were yelling but all he could hear was the ringing in his ears.

CHAPTER 1

The night vibrates with the sound of cars as they roll by a small convenience store in a low rent part of town. The streetlights cast an amber halo over the tenants of the night. The car tires hit the potholes in almost a tribal drumbeat. Like a sentry of the hood, a stout young Black man uniformed in ghetto warrior gear leans on a wall outside a corner store, smoking a blunt. His vigilance is interrupted by a figure he catches in his sight. Through the smoke he squints to make out the figure and reaches behind himself; then his eyes grow wide with joy as he recognizes an old friend.

It has been uh long tyme muh ma fuckin’ nigga. How gots ya been? Just like mammy.

A broad-chested street gladiator approaches. His strut hindered by battle wounds causing a subtle limp. They shake hands and greet in a modernized version of warriors of old.

Been uh rough five years, yo. How you doin’, stubs?

The new man positions himself next to Stubs on the wall. Stubs gestures the blunt towards the friend while holding his breath and says through constricted lungs,

Keeping it real. Keeping it real. Hit?

The friend waves away the smoke.

Naw man, they got me piss testing. Hay, how’s dat sweet piece of ass you call a sista?

Stubs directs his red eyed gaze towards the friend. His face goes dead serious. With cold tones as if to speak of a fallen soldier.

You know you my dog but you touch ma sista and I’kill you, shonuff.

The friend stands as if kicked to his feet and turns to face Stubs. He gestures with both hands as if to draw imaginary guns from concealed holsters,

Man, I’m just fuckin witchew! Nigga, please.

He returns to leaning on the wall next to Stubs. Stubs doesn’t look at him. He just takes a small hit and immediately blows it out.

I ain’t lookin’ at a nigga crazy, just breakin’ dat down fo ya.

The friend returns to watching the street like a wolf keeping vigil for prey.

Aight, aight.

Stubs hits the blunt hard one last time, then drops the rest on the ground and grinds it into the ground with his heal and says, You hit up any of da boys since you been out?

Just you, my nigga. What’s haps on da crew? Y’all scrub off da bitch niggas? Still kickin’ it wit Taco?

Stubs shakes his head as if to rattle out a bad thought.

Shit! We clean of bitch boyz. Whitey ’n Bertdog got wild on ‘em. Bertdog tore up one nigga. Some ‘Hannibal Lecter’ shit. Bit ‘is fuckin’ ear off ‘n ate it.

Stubs wipes his mouth like he had salivated from the thought. The friend bounces off the wall and spins around to look at stubs.

Ah, Damn! Bertdog! They let dat nigga walk the streets? I thought da nigga was in a padded cell.

The friend does a half squat mixed with rolling craps dice to both sides. Stubs chimes in again,

Shonuff. The state fucked up some shit up in da case so they had piece out ‘n Whitey got beef wit some fresh nigga goes byda name, ‘Joe’. Now dat nigga always is skecthin’. Shit comes down hard when he about. He a bad luck nigga or sompum. Whitey got it out for ‘em cause it was Joe who brought the pussies around the way. Those fucks almost brought the mad heat down on us. When shit was tense, dat nigga, Joe was nowhere to be found. The friend returns to his place next to stubs as he soaks in the knowledge of the issues that happened while he was unavailable. As they lean, a group of other men walk around the edge of the store and notice Stubs.

Yo stubs, what up my nigga? says the leader of the group who doesn’t recognize the friend at first. Stubs searches for a light. The leader is a stocky muscular man. His ebony face reads like a aged mountain range of scars and lines from hard life. The friend eyes the leader of the group and says, Bert-Dog, you ain’t changed a got-damn bit. Where Whitey at? The leader freezes for only a second the steps nose to nose with the friend. He searches the eyes of the friend like some animal hiding in a human suit. The friend can feel the heat of Bert-Dog’s mouth as he breaths.

4loc. Bert-Dog steps back and relaxes realizing he is in the presence of loyalty and trust. He continues, Been a too long, nigga. You have missed some shit since your beef. We got beef wit some dumb ass muthafukas over cheese and real-estate. You strapped?

You know it.

You still holdin’ it down?

Nigga, please. Like you had to ask.

No time to play nice. You still my nigga, but they be the fuckin’ door if you need a break, son.

When dos niggas run up on us I need know who got my back.

Just cause I be just out the pen don’t mean I ain’t had your back since day one. I’ll have your back to da end. Do I look like a bitch, nigga?

We cool. We cool. I down witchew ’til day’s end. Whitey round da way. That white boy will be about in a minute. Shit’s going down t’night so be ready.

4loc looks around to check and asks, What’s in the air?

Joe. Stubs and 4loc lean back and look at Bert-Dog sideways, together they reply, WHAAT? Bert-Dog continues,

We hung that snitch nigga off his front porch. And that ain’t it. The beef gets worse. His crew was around da way and ran up on us as we tryin’ to be out. That double dealin’ punk muthafuka was playin’ both sides and dim niggas tripped out ’n wanna smoke a nigga. Joe be hatin’ on Whitey cause he white so I drove dat punk ass right out the doo. Hung ‘im with his own fuckin phone cord. He kept sayin’ shit like ‘that whitey just playin’ you like a bitch cause you a nigga.’ Whitey might be white but he my boy. He my nigga. Anybody talk shit on Whitey, they talk shit on me. So I buried da nigga. Just then a white man jogs up quickly looking around as if he suspected someone was following him.

Speak of the white devil and he shows the fuck up, says stubs.

Bent over holding his knees, Whitey tries to shake off the exercise. Whitey, somewhat out of breath, pants, They on me. I couldn’t shake ‘em bro. Pull yo’ piece. It’s on. Bert-Dog pulls a double barrel twelve gauge out of his pant leg, much to Stubs’ and 4loc’s surprise and says, We at the OK corral, bitches. Make piece with your God. Shit is goin’ down. With that he cocks the shotgun so that both barrels are loaded, then reveals a second gun in his free hand, a semi-automatic 9mm handgun. 4loc says, Word, while pulling out his ‘nina’ and cocks it. Stubs draws two 9mm berettas, cocks each on his legs without using his hands; the blunt still lit in between his teeth, he exclaims, It on niggas!

The air is thick. Each soldier holds his breath for a second as if it was his last; each of them cherish each moment with the boys they call ‘brothers’. 4loc breaks the silence with, Whitey, I ain’t seen you in a minute, but you my nigga no matter what color your skin is. You are the only white boy I would let call me a ‘nigga’ and see that it means respect. The rest acknowledge the sentiment by nodding or saying yeah or both.

The silence is broken once again. This time it is not welcomed. Five cars roll slowly up to the store and stop. One of Bert-Dog’s group walk quickly inside the store and warn the patrons. The patrons and store staff run for cover as the tension mounts. One of the people who reside in the cars step out. He is a tall, smooth dressed black man. He straightens his suit as he speaks, I see you have a white boy in that mess of black. He has wronged our race and I seek to remedy that.

Bert-Dog stands twelve gauge hidden behind his leg. He replies, fo’ a nigga you sound awful white for askin’ to burn white boy, snowflake. The leader blinks placidly and continues, The white man has persecuted us for hundreds of years; why should we bow down to this one Caucasian’s tyranny?

Someone in Bert-Dog’s crew says, What are you doin’, runnin’ fo’ mayor? You can’t have ‘em. So get the fuck out!

4loc, with his gun aimed at the tall man in the suit, repositions himself and his trigger finger tenses just enough. The bullet is freed and meets the tall man.

Lucis! Get out of bed! You are going to be late for school! Lucis rubs his sore eyes and blinks. Did you get sleep last night? his mother stands at the door with her default concerned look. She has gone through this routine for sixteen years, twelve doctors, and three husbands now. Behind her eyes aches the years of exams, therapy sessions, and nights brimming with tears. His father, a cold Baptist preacher with bitter hands, left ten years ago. She remembers him saying, That boy’s dreams are from the devil, and when he raised his hand to his only son for dreaming a graphic rape; she’d had enough. The psychologists said it was his fault. They always say that. No one has been able to help her little boy.

It was just a gang fight last night. I’m fine, he smiles through his weathered eyes and lays back. Lucis focus’ on the poster on the ceiling above his bed. Geiger, what do you dream about? With a snicker, his mother returns to the kitchen where the scent of frying pork meat emanates. He hears her mumble something about him not being a serial killer. The room is dark, in spite of Lucis’ mother flipping the light switch on.

Did the doctor actually say you could have that damn 3D light crap? She hollars. Lucis grumbles and steps on the pile of dirty clothes next to his bed,

Yes mom, He said it might even help me in the long run! replying to his mother’s yell from the other side of the house.

She never will let that go; will she? he asks his deformed patchwork of splintered stuffed animal parts doll on his headboard. Hmpf, like you would ever answer me. How I ever convinced her to let me paint my walls black is beyond me.

Come in here and eat your breakfast! She barks as she snaps open the blinds letting in an offensive white light.

Ouch! Why do you have to have the blinds open when I come in here?

Well, if you would just open your window, you might be better a adjusted to the sun.

But the doc–

I know what the doctor said, … did you hear me?

…

As he stands near the table, his already pale face goes ashen. She looks back at the TV that has caught his attention. … Here I stand in the aftermath of what was a brutal event last night. Two warring gang sects– Click.

MOOOM! Why did you turn it off!?

Her voice, cold and hard, Finish you meal and get dressed.

Lucis’ face returns to a dull pale as he sits down to his plate of bacon and eggs. She is a little taking aback by it. They don’t talk about it. They go on with the routine. This dance is more comfortable.

She drinks her juice and peers at her boy with a curious eye, Lucis I need you to refrain from wearing your makeup today.

He looks up in vague disappointment at the notion, And why would that be a good idea? he states in indignation and goes back to his meal.

Because we are going to a new specialist.

His face grinds to a glare of bland contempt at her as she gets up and walks around the table. His voice drips to a flat note as he speaks, You know what happens when I don’t look like I normally do at school? The doctor eventually schedules a session to study me for some group and I don’t have time to get all nice and ‘boy pretty’ for you and then it looks bad for everyone. He shuffles the eggs and bacon pieces around his plate. She stands behind him and gently twiddles with his sleep styled hair,

But you look so cute when you are aren’t all in black and have painted on holes for eyes

In mid-bite, with the fork almost to his lips, he freezes. His face loses its expression. He doesn’t look up and in a chilly tone says, But I am not going to this menagerie to be cute, now am I? Her lips tighten as a flash of all the ‘circus style’ viewings her son has been subjected to dance through her skull. Viewed like a freak show for PhDs.

Her voice is distant, "Well I guess we’ll just