Over the years, I have witnessed scores of cruel, horrible, repulsive crimes such as hate crimes, gang-related beatings and random muggings of men, women and adolescents. Frankly, I have participated in some of the latter myself. However, I can never forget the first time I witnessed someone actually being butchered, before my eyes.
It was a cold, sunny afternoon. A bunch of us were hanging out in front of my apartment building, just relaxing, when a man with a baseball bat in his hand, ran by us. He crossed to the other side of the street and approached another man from behind, who was walking nonchalantly; he certainly did not give the appearance of a man on the run. The batter, without a word of warning, struck the mans skull, full force, with every ounce of energy he could muster. The crack of the bat, as it struck its mark, created a loud, eerie noise, akin to a hammer pounding into concrete. The man fell to the pavement. He was motionless. He was probably dead or unconscious, at that point. The bat wielder was not through; he struck the victim at least five or six times more, with the same vigor as his original battering, before he fled the scene. None of us chased the attacker. This all happened in the span of several seconds; we just did not have time to react, if, indeed, we were inclined to.
We were all dazed by the sudden turn of events, almost, but not quite, in a state of suspended animation, when there is a cessation of ones vital functions. We stood transfixed, riveted to the spot until, finally, our faculties reanimated, we drifted across the street, not in a particular hurry to view the horrific remains. It was a repulsive sight to behold. His head was cracked open, like a coconut but instead of white meat, there was ugly red, bulky matter. The red was his blood oozing out of the gash and the other bulky stuff was what was left of his battered brain. His face was unrecognizable, beaten to a hideous pulp. A couple of teeth, mixed with gore and hair lay in a puddle of blood. His body twitched and convulsed and finally came to a dead rest. That macabre sight will remain with me until my dying day; not that I will it to; I just cant shake it from my memory bank. It totally grossed me out.
I knew the police would be arriving soon and begin questioning the onlookers. I didnt want to be questioned: not that I could have shed any light on the subject. I neither knew the victim nor the killer. But, especially in Harlem, silence is golden. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil is the order of the day, everyday. A few hours later, the body was removed and brought to the morgue. What prompted such brutal, bestial, savage behavior on the part of the butcher, we will never know. Now, the victim was just another crime statistic. Everything returned to what passes for normal, in Harlem.
Another heinous act my friends and I witnessed, which also staggers the imagination, occurred on a cold, winter day. The once white, pristine snow was now black and gray and ugly, from trampled feet, tire marks and automobile exhausts. It was one of those nights when one would, ordinarily, prefer to sit before the TV and nosh away. However, my friends and I were sitting in a parked car, listening to music, making small talk, kidding around, as usual, when we heard a loud ruckus coming from one of the apartment buildings where we knew drugs were bought and sold. The next thing we noticed was a few of our friends exiting the building and running down the street. We filed out of the car, quick-like, following them. It soon became apparent that they were chasing some guy. When they finally caught up with him, they proceeded to whack and wallop him, en masse. He immediately slumped to the ground and fell into a prone position, giving his assailant a larger target to punch, kick and stomp on. Besides their fists, they picked up debris from the street, such as beer bottles, rocks and even chunk of ice and pummeled him with that also. He was bleeding profusely; so were the knuckles and fists of some of his attackers. I asked one of the bruisers what gives, why was he being mauled? He told me that the victim was in the midst of a drug buy when he grabbed the drug and made a run for it. Despite the cold weather, they stripped him until he was naked. Then, one of the guys pulled out a pair of pliers from his jacket and, while the gang held him down, he applied the pliers to the mans testicles, squeezing the heads together. The victims frantic screams were bloodcurdling as he wept, pleading for his life. It was such an agonizing, heartfelt scream that it seemed that everyone present felt his torturous pain vicariously. It hurt me just watching the terrible ordeal and I am not easily moved.
The pliers wielder kept squeezing and releasing the pliers sadistically, keeping it fixed on the mans sac. In spite of myself, I felt sorry for him because the pain he was enduring must have been truly unbearable. His face and body were oozing with blood, forming rivulets, which coursed down his nude torso. I thought they were actually going to kill him on the spot but, eventually, they released him. At this point, he was completely disoriented. I dont think he knew where he was or where he was going. He moved slowly toward some parked cars, fell on the ice, got up, fell again, grimacing from the excruciating pain which the slippery falls occasioned, on his black and blue bruised body. The pain and the icy conditions, notwithstanding, he kept trying to flee from the scene of his suffering, pain and torment. He finally made it.
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