Chapter 11: Is it Good for the Jews? (Honest Adolph Volume III)

Wallace Runnymede Novel

Saul Friedman sat and stared at the grave.

“Lucy, Lucy, Luce-Luce-Luce,” he snorted, as he burst into tears.

There was no frickin’ justice in this world; that’s one thing for sure, ah hah hah…

But these assholes! These frickin’ assholes!

“Fuck you!” Saul shrieked at the top of his voice, shaking his fist at the heavens.

In a flash, the entire neighborhood set to caterwauling and barking.

Almost lifeless with despair, Saul choked and spluttered his way to the entrance of the graveyard.

All of the sudden, he was halted by a figure; lurking in the shadows, behind the trees.

“Evenin’, Jew!” the little schmuck spat with triumph.

Saul’s fury turned to a cold, silent terror, as he gazed nervously up and down at the figure in front of him.

“I know there’s a lot of you fuckin’ Zios about,” the bastard sneered.

“I’ve been trying to think if there’s a solution to that.”

Saul’s nose twitched a little at the heartless joke.

“Twitch away, you filthy kike,” the bastard cackled.

Without the slightest warning, he threw a feeble punch at Saul.

It was enough to fell the frail old man, and send his glasses flying into the mud.

Within two minutes, Saul was trussed up to the point of being immovable.

Saul gazed dimly through tear-stained eyes at the bottle his tormentor was carrying.

With unbearably cruel exquisiteness of torture, a flood of oil that could have been thrown on in one second was destined to take several minutes.

Saul’s lip quivered as he tried to speak.

The murderer of Big Xian mocked every single stammer.

The work was done.

Saul knew what it was all about.

As the lad stood above him with the lighter, Saul managed to weakly groan:

“Can’t we…

“Can’t we… talk about… this?”

The demonic laughter, this time, was so shrill and Saul was set into an unrestrainable convulsion of horror. The ropes tore shreds out of his rugged skin as he screamed to be put of his misery; no longer able to contain himself.

At length, Saul quit screaming and crying and stared, exhausted, no fight left, at the cigarette lighter.

There was to be no mercy.

Saul closed his eyes as his tormentor knelt down, and gracefully, lovingly, swept the lighter down against his oil-stained beard.

All of a sudden, a hideous scream issued from the darkness.

Saul had no idea what the hell was going on.

The bastard was lying on the ground, lifeless, beside Saul’s neck. Bleeding from a hideous blow from a baseball bat.

“You are sooooooooo fuckin’ cruel, ┬áCain Ingershill, that’s what you are! Nah! Nah! Nah! Nah! Nah! Nah! Leave them damn poor lil Jew boys alone!” blubbered Little Jip, as he ran away, not yet realizing the full significance of what he had done.

Author: Wallace's Books