Date: Sat, 1 Mar 2008 15:35:01 -0500
From: A. Cheshire Cat <kierkegaard_is_cool@hotmail.com>
Subject: Hungry For It 3, A Chapter About Ballistics

Hungry For It 3
A Chapter About Ballistics
February 29th, 2008 ... or so
A. Cheshire Catt
kierkegaard_is_cool@hotmail.com

--- --- ---

At the Battle of the Plains of Abraham, James Wolfe was the prominent
figurehead at the helm of the British troops. There were others like him,
but as fate would have it he would be the one always portrayed
romantically. The bulk of Wolfe's glory has to do with his circumstances
arriving at the battlefield and his generally-stylish exit. By the end of
the battle, he would be rather victorious and most certainly dead. The
battle was the beginning of a long orgasm of war that would resolve a great
division between the French and English in the New World. Among all the
bloodshed, death and mayhem a fatal bullet was launched and landed in his
chest and the man died as the battle ended, a distant king's crown would
even bow with grief. An allegorical painting was painted with the hero
depicted as if something out of Greek mythology, or like some angel fallen
from the heavens, had been smote by the chaos of man's desire for a
continent of wealth. The history of this nation relied on his mad campaign
against the French, but he was just a general, doing his job well, dutiful
in his niche in the world.

In the capital city of the northern country developed from that battle, a
couple hundred years later, in a finer part of town, in the earlier part of
the last century, a few several-story mansions were built on a street that
was given the name Wolfe. By this time several kings and queens would come
and go in that country far away, each leaving a vogue fingerprint on their
styles of the time. A local philanthropist successfully exploiting the
wealth of the forests in the area desired a mansion be built in the style
of the Edwardian monarch. It took years for it to be completed, but when it
was completed and the man had moved in he worked to amassed a wealth based
on his booming lumber trade as the city at the time was beginning its
sprawl. In that house he raised a family that both blossomed and was
socially acceptable, and alas tragic, was reduced to but one man, the man
who lives there today. The man who lives in that old mansion on Wolfe
street has lived there since his childhood. He has travelled all over the
world, known several reputable, notable, notorious vagabonds and heroes. A
man known to some as the Stranger on Wolfe Street, and his house as the
Haunted House, but is better known to those who know him as William
P. Peterson, Esq.

The house in which Mr. William P. Peterson Esq resides is of the late
Edwardian-style, characterized by steep greystone walls, small windows and
an only-just-slightly inclined roof, it boasts a pompous nearness to the
street on which it was built. It's like a menacing growth of bedrock that
has eaten trees beautifully and is a boast of architecture right next to
the sidewalk. The facade is imposing, no vines penetrate the sturdy walls,
there are no windows that anyone can look into from the street, one must
gain access to the place through a wrought iron gate in a similiarly bold
stone wall that surrounds a courtyard where the door would be found guarded
by two mature mastiffs on heavy chains. Their names being Rome and Venice.
The place was originally used by old Mr. Peterson's grandfather for offices
and as the residence for his family as well. Sadly now the rooms are mostly
vacant and damp, during storms window shades come loose and bang, doors to
unused porches slam hauntedly, and neighboring children have, for decades
now, reported ghastly howls emanating from the rear, lower chambers.
Sometimes grown men shivered to think they heard daemonic moaning coming
from the windowless lower floors while telling their children it's alright,
"Go back to bed," they've said, "it's all in your head."

The gardens in the back are resplendant. Gracie-Delilah Underwood, the
daughter of a mad emigree that came to this country around the time of the
great wars, has lived in the mansion across the back lawn since her younger
years and has always adored the Peterson gardens in the lawn. Tedious care
and a labor of passion created a garden of stone walls and ornamental
detail that with the maturing of the flora has produced a wonder kept
secret and locked and abandoned to it's own seed. She, being admittedly
blind, almost entirely now, is for the most part able to see to a limited
capacity from her right eye, and known by her most intimate of friends to
stare contentedly with the one good eye at the rather impressionistic
foliage and blooms. She remembers "times" and "them" but her memory fails
her now, and there are so few left of that age. Only her loyal servant has
heard the the swooning recollection of bygone eras. Now she's been known to
simply mumble incoherencies about the nature of the garden Mr. Peterson has
kept. She would be the only one with any clear view of the place other
neighbors have fences, trees have grown where there had been views before.
But the back of the mansion, from what Ms. Underwood would see, if she
could, are windows at the back of the house and the mansion's ridiculous
bulk of rooms and assymetrical architecture is apparent from her vantage.
Being as blind as she is, and as unwilling to admit to the blindess as she
is, even her servant being cautious to point things out she might not see,
Mr. Peterson's privacy is assured as long as she lives there.

The upper floors of the mansion are a break from the lower floors. There
are many windows and balconies and terraces and half-doors and stairs,
those upper reaches are airy and wonderful-seeming. The Lumber Baron that
brought the place into being lined the inner chambers and corridors with
the finest quality timber from all across this land and was known to have
imported woods of impeccable, rare tones and age for unbelievably rich
mantles, fireplaces, staircases and ceilings even.

On the other side of the street from the Peterson place, a Victorian was
erected about 20 years after the Lumber Baron built his home. This place
was a private home belonging to the royalist family, named Bowes, up until
only the last five years when it became a boarding school for young men
abandoned to religious zealots. Not much is said of the stone-faced mansion
these boys can see from their bedroom windows on the upper floors, not much
is said except by the boy in the attic who can see directly into the rooms
belonging to Mr. Peterson, who can see the man's flesh when he bares
himself for bed, the man that is otherwise rooted in mystification and
shadow. This boy does not say much, for there are times when he could swear
the man looks from his room and directly at the boy. On the moonless,
stark, starless nights when only the rouge of the street lights reflect off
his eyes and create the most unholy mirage to dance across the street at
this little boy's stare ... he does not say much, that attic-dwelling boy,
for he believes in that house across the street lives the devil.

Now it would come to pass, one frost-bitten afternoon in the last, shortest
month of winter that year, that the boys in the religious reformitory were
at play in the large room dedicated to their study on the second floor.
They were lunging at each other with short sticks shaped like swords, and
they made like pirates all of them, aboard a ship, and they had a drama
like a mutiny. There were those for the captain and those against. They
jumped about noisily on the furniture, they yelled and screamed and joked
and fiegned weeping, and it would seem clear to those watching the boy with
the attic bedroom was the effiminate one, and he was playing the role of
the damsel in distress. But their games were suddenly brought to a halt
when one of the older boys noticed a disturbance at the house across the
street.

"Hey look, there's a car pulled up at the Haunted House," for that is what
they called it now.

"Look, someone's trying to get in."

"Watch."

For the first time in their lives they were going to see someone get into
the mansion. The automobile in question was a long car, a driver unburdened
the passenger by getting out of the car and stepping to the door on the
drivers' side in the back. He opened the door and waited there for the
passenger to alit from the vehicle. A gentleman in black removed himself
from the car and pronounced himself on the street gauntly, tall and ancient
and faded. He put upon his head a bowler, and lowered to the ground the tip
of a long black, silver-headed cane. The street was icy. The boys watched
as the man carefully circumnavigated the car by its front and crept up the
lane to the impressive wrought iron gate. The boys tried to get as close to
the window as possible. They were as quiet as children get when they're up
to no good. They saw the devilish gentleman raise his silver-headed cane to
the gate and with only the subtlest rap upon the wrought iron sent a
chilling peel all throughout the neighborhood; crows in a nearby tree
shuddered.

They watched in amazement, in awe, in angst: would they see him, would they
finally get the chance to see the monster who lived next door? But to their
great sadness the gate was not opened at the hand of anything at all, it
merely unlatched automatically, and the guest was permitted entrance
without a single moment's hesitation.

The boys fell back, the older ones kept guard at the window but they were
all now fallen into a heap of boy-wonder as they shared the little known
facts about the man next door.

Toddery said, "I've heard men crying at the strangest hours. I think
sometimes I hear horses in there too, sometimes guns going off."

"Sometimes I've seen the lights dim," Ronald said, scratching his nose,
"I've seen blue flashes of light from within the rooms at the north side."

"No one's seen anything, nothing happens there."

All of them looked up at the effeminate one who has the room in the attic.

But they all knew stuff happened there. As they lay in their beds at night
the lights of cars pulling up the curb at the house across the street would
be extinguished, and engines would die, as strange guests would arrive at
even stranger hours. There were at times parties held that would go all
night, the street would be lined with shiny luxury cars going in either
direction. Sometimes most cars would take days to leave. Rarely was there
an occassion though when one car would arrive and, like this, a lone figure
would emerge so plainly. It always seemed that no one came in all those
cars and no one left for no one seemed to be seen.

"Have you, any of you, ever seen him?"

"How do you know it's a man?"

"Because it's a man, stupid."

"Shut up, I'm not stupid."

"Well I have."

The room looked again at the effeminate boy. The boy seemed to be telling
the truth, this could be no more plainly seen by the expression on his, a
visage of dread washed over him. "He has scars about his face, and his glow
red. He is bald and pale and fat."

"How do you know this?"

"Ya! Tell us. Have you been over there?"

"I can see into his bedroom window from my attic room."

All of them knew the effeminate boy was alone in that last chamber in the
escalation of this house. They'd never thought to believe it to have an
advantage over theirs.

Then Ronald asked, "Has he ever seen you spying?"

At this point the effeminate one made like he didn't want to answer, for
fear the man who lived across the street saw more than saw him, but perhaps
even read his thoughts sometimes. He was saved from the perilous thought by
one of the bigger boys, who'd been listening closely to the lively debate
but was also keepin a keen eye on the the goings-on next door, suddenly
alerted the group that someone was coming out of the place.

They all climbed up to the window again. They leaned up against the cold
pane of the window and their breaths, combined, hindered their view...
Surely be to God, the old gentleman who'd entered was now leaving, and
behind him was a younger character, draped in a dark robe with a hood drawn
over his head. The man led the younger character, someone no older than the
effeminate boy, no larger, all small and frail like that, lead him with a
taut black leather leash that must have been attached to a collar at the
neck in the hood. The man led the boy to to the front of the car, then down
the passenger side, and the driver, waiting there, opened the door then and
permitted the child entrance to the car. The gentleman then frostily
breathed instructions to the driver and returned to his own side of the
car, being escorted by the driver, who opened the door for the master,
assisted his descent into the dark recess of the vehicle and then climbed
into the front seat of the car, momentarily revving the engine, before
driving off.

As early as it gets dark on winter afternoons, the street lights come
on. And the boys were shivering with the feeling they'd witnessed a
terrible crime. Surely this was proof undeniable of Satan being worshipped
in the house next door, surely this is singularly the most blasphemous
thing they'll ever see in their lives ... but then suddenly the wrought
portal at the gate to the courtyard was darkened by a strangely gloomy
spectre, a doom-draped devil lurking therein, leering out, watching longly
along the path where the boy had been taken, flanked by those
cerebus-gargoyle beasts, Rome and Venice: the man himself, the great
wraith, Mr. William P. Peterson, Esq, none other.

The boys slunk back from the window to the safety of the darkened room, all
but the boy who was most effeminate ... and since he was the only one brave
enough it was he that saw the ghoulish man look up, look right at him, and
it was the effeminate boy that saw clearly the macabre menace in that man's
mournful melancholy when the man clearly saw the boy and the boy jumped
with fright for he'd never thought he'd seen anything like that, for that
man then smiled, as if the boy were a morsel of something quite delicious,
and the man, darkly ravenous, was hungry for it.

--- --- ---

Some people do not realize the role they play in the creation of heroes.
Their distance from the battlefield, their distance from the tragedy,
removes their glory from any spotlight. Their role is crucial and
undeniable. Perhaps in a time long ago, there was a woman who worked the
streets of Montreal, she would have a been a woman of the night, catering
to the whims, no matter how fantastic and horrible, of sailors coming up
the St. Lawrence, kissing them before they leave for the battlefields, or
spitting at them as they leave her abused and sore. By day she would have
worked in a factory where lead bullets are pressed in excruciating heat and
she'd be reduced to wear nothing but an apron to protect her from anything
that might spill and burn her. She is covered in scars and her face is
fragmented with the terror of her existense. She presses bullets,
grimacing, hating her life. And as these bullets are pressed they get put
into cases that are then heavily loaded into crates, and shipped by horse
and cart to the front lines of a battle that grows and grows with intensity
to the north of Montreal, on those great Plains of Abraham, the sky red
with war, the soil ripe with bloody innocence lost. The bullets are brought
to the front lines and they are given out to the French soldiers who load
their muskets, lines of men prepare to fire ... and one them, anonymous and
lost to the ages ... one them shoots his gun, the sounds cracks the air,
the bullet pressed by the whore volleys through the air, high and soaring,
whistling as it travels faster than the eye can see and lands right in the
chest of the great James Wolfe, leaving him for dead ... slaying him,
tragically. Final words uttered symbollically as the bullets steams the
blood of his heart. But how would she have known, what role really does she
play? It could have been her or the woman next to her in the factory, it
would have happened anyway. But let's believe for just one second, that she
pressed the bullet with a certain smirk on her face, let's believe it was
something all quite intentional.

A few centuries later, in the city that would become the capital, on a
street cutting right through the heart of the business district, in an
internet cafe, in a booth numbered "7" there was a young man with
headphones on, bopping back and forth to a James Brown tune. He had brown
hair, brown eyes and was considered to be attractive by all those who court
him. He is just some boy really, from the country, moved to the city,
dropped out of school, struggling to make his way. He knows how to work the
men who are willing to pay, he knows how to please 'em. That's what he's
doing right now. He's sitting there arranging, via the internet, a
rendezvous that will pay for his dinner. He's 21, he's tall and thin, he's
got a fantastic complexion, he's got these eyebrows that dance around his
face expressing things that normal people dare not express in front of
others.

He's talking with a man who has a picture of himself standing in front of
an actual Rolls, a shiny black car with an impressive grill, but that means
nothing to this young man dancing in the chair to the James Brown tune. All
he cares about is the money that he'll make and the fact that in his pants
there's an erection about 7.5 inches long someone lucky enough to have
enough money will have. "Get up offa that thing, and dance till you feel
betta," he types that in the window ... he's encouraging the man to hurry
up and invite him over. The man on the other side of the conversation warns
him that he and his buddies are totally chill and that he's really been up
for two days now, and being that this is the afternoon of the second day
they are all a little relaxed, subdued, chill. They've been doin blow and
stuff like that but if he needs the cash he can respect that and he'll
throw him a couple of bills if he comes over and entertains them.

He gets the address and heads out.

The winter is almost over but it was sure cold out that day. The streets,
in the late afternoon, appeared to have melted during the day but had
refrozen now that the sun was fallen into the grip of the building-lined
streets. Where there was sun it was warm but where there was not it was
not. He hopped on a bus heading into the sun and everyone on it was blind
as the sun poured down the aisle and shone as if through an amber prism
into their eyes. He'd been doing this for a while now. A couple of
years. When he turned 19 he started going to the bars and was just the
right height, and definitely thin enough, to make for himself a little bit
of a reputation as a very good fuck. His cock was great, his ass was
superb. He wore nice shirts. Great pants. He had a Russian friend that
always told him, "Doesn't matter what you wear as long as you've got good
shoes." He tapped his DG skaters to the beat of that James Brown tune that
he just couldn't get out of his head.

When he'd been partying hard for a year and started doing drugs and getting
a reputation for being like that guy from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,
he started to run out of money. He loved the lifestyle but had to figure
something out. He'd been frequenting places like bath houses and the
backrooms of porn shops with an air of impunity that placed him in the rank
of some of the finest regal bitches in this town. Or so he thinks. Then he
crossed the line one day, walking out of the back of porn shop with a
rather dissatisfied look on his face, he realized, "Why should I pay for
bad sex when they can pay me and I will make their bad sex good?"

His name is Matt. And I mean, how many Matts do you know? Exactly. There
are probably, on this bus alone, the bus that's he's headed into the sunset
on, at least ten Matts, and he's just another one. Matts, these days,
they're dime a dozen. And he's out there chargin' a good, exploitative buck
for himself.

What's mind-blowing is that there are people, like this guy he's goin to
see, that's willing to pay for the "entertainment", for the attention, for
the sexuality.

He hopped off the bus in the Little Italy rip-off neighborhood and found
the proper street soon enough, jauntily up the stairs to the place he went,
he knocked on the door ... waited ... knocked again ... checked his hair in
the window ... waited ... checked the address ... ya, it's right ... pouted
... knocked again ... the door opened and he was invited in by a Native
person that was either a man lookin a lot like a woman or a woman that was
not quite a man.

What's going on here? He walked through the door and caught himself
trembling a bit. You know it's rather nerve-wrecking walking into a
situation like this, you never know what you're going to walk in on. He was
aware that the man who'd invited him had warned him that he was there with
his buddies. Seeing that the man in the picture was a large man white man
with little hair to speak of and glasses, he imagined the friends he'd
mentioned to be of similar calibre. He'd not realized that he'd be dealing
with humans of the random variety.

He walked in and the native person who let him in, without removing the
cigarette from their lips, spilling ashes on the tile floor of the kitchen,
said nothing of a greeting and simply returned to the living room where he,
yes, it was most definitely a he, one could tell now because the form was
entirely tit-less and it had the hands of a man when he ashed his
cigarette, well that man finished the story he was telling the other two
men in the room. "... and the guy put all the billiard balls inside him,
seriously, I don't lie, and then proceeded to shit them out in front of us
all and expected us to give him money. Well, I've never seen the regulars
so upset because now none of them could play pool till some queen cleaned
and disinfected them."

"Hi." Matt was nervous, all of this was different from other
encounters. He'd grown accustomed to the typical greeting, an older man
with nervous disposition, analytically approving of Matt's shapely body and
style and calm grin. But no one in this room was even looking at him. The
man at the computer was apparently the man who'd invited him. The Native
person sitting in the chair at the dinner table was obviously the only one
talking, coughing, smoking, and perhaps had been doing so for 48 hours
now. The other person in the room was on the couch with a laptop on his
lap, he was younger than them, about 28, and he was a little muscular and
definitely pleasing to the eye.

The fat man at the computer raised his eyes and pushed his glasses up on
his nose and said, "You'll do."

Hearing that the boy was approved of the Native person changed tones. He
turned to greet the boy. "I had no idea you were coming. I hadn't cleaned
or brushed my hair or anything. He told me you were coming, that we were
going to be entertained, when you knocked on the door." The boy laughed at
the Native's mannerisms as the gestures was a ballet of bent wrists and
pointed fingers, the person had a way of speaking that was so dramatic that
it became obvious this person was a Drag Queen of some considerable
prestige, she was simply not done up, there was a crown missing from her
head, but it was clear it was meant to go there. She started humming a
country tune and the boy listened. But was it a country tune or just
something that sounded like it would make a trucker cry?

The boy on the couch occupied Matt's imagination. The man at the computer
noticed this and said, "This is her house," pointing at the Native person
at the end of the table babbling to herself. "Her name is Janet." Janet
then pointed at the picture on the wall over the large screen television.
She had her mouth full of smoke as she said, "I was queen of Pride for two
years in a row, back there about five years ago. And what does it get me,
nothing, nothing at all."

The fat man at the computer said, "That guy's the neighbor, he lives
downstairs."

The boy on the couch said, "Hey." That was it.

"So are you interested in fucking or being fucked," was the next thing out
of his mouth and this completely caught the boy off guard.

"Well I have a nice cock ... I can fuck ... "

"Let's see it."

At this the boy looked again at the audience, but this time he got really
nervous. The boy on the couch, his face was hidden slightly by the screen
of the laptop but his eyes kept looking up curiously to see what the boy
was doing.

Now the boy had never stripped as such, not for an audience. He'd stripped
in front of older men and he'd seduced himself in front of the mirror in
his room getting ready to go out. But never like this.

"So you've never done this before?"

"No ... is it that obvious?"

Janet said, "Yes," and ashed her cigarette on the floor.

The boy was offered something to drink, it was very strong with vodka. Then
he was told to try again. This time the shades were pulled and the room was
filled with that amber light from the sun, dyed a brownish tinge from the
curtains, he appeared much like a boy from a porn flick from the seventies
in so many ways, brown hair tossed, cigarette in hand. The smoke from his
cigarette wafted up around him like the tendrils of the pre-AIDS era and he
felt himself losing himself to the music of that Donna Summer track he
loves so much.

The audience was a bit intrigued then as he slipped open the buckle of his
belt and then pulled open the buttons of his jeans and revealed the
waist-band of his slightly over-priced red-white-and-blue superman
tighties-for-men. He danced like he does in the after hours clubs where he
is a drop-dead-gorgeous angel in the back-corner where only the savantes of
the sinful hours dare look. He closed his eyes and rolled his head on his
shoulders and started to reach inside his shirt to graze his nipples to get
them taut. He lifted his shirt to reveal adolescent abs and a slight
treasure trail ... he flicked his navel with a thumb and produced a gasp
from the drag queen and made the boy on the couch light a cigarette.

He removed his shirt and danced then with his back to them, swaying his ass
like a pendulum to the beat of the sultry disco track ... oooo .... it's so
good it's so good it's so good it's so good ... it's sooo gooooood. And
then when the octave raised he turned and began the mesmerizing removal of
his pants and the belt made a percussive rap upon the hardwood floor
signalling the boys near-nudity ... only in his underwear he widened his
legs, ran his fingers up the inside of his pale, smooth thighs, and shook
his shoulders a litte more intensely. He flexed his buttocks, one at a
time, both together. At this point he eyed the man on the computer and
thought that he might make this a bit more personal. So he started to go
toward his host ... but the man said ... no ... "Do him!" And he pointed at
the boy on the couch.

For whatever reason the man's dictation was almost a welcome diversion from
the inevitable fuck from the fat man. But at this point the man on the
couch removed the laptop from his lap and revealed that he was in all
actuality a little muscular, his shaved head, he gleaming green eyes, all
of it had a rather thug aura that was definitely attractive. The boy
straddled him there on the couch and mounted him in such a way that the
glaringly erect penis, harbored in the heroic underwear, just ever so
delicately rubbed the neighbor's face. The song kept escalating and
escalating and the intensity of this lapdance became more and more erotic.

"Take off the underwear now ... this is a private home, there are no rules
here."

And with that the underwear was removed by the neighbor's teeth and slipped
down the boy's legs. The white socks he was wearing, with their thick blue
stripes, remained pulled up high across the calves. Yes the cock was
delicate and slight, but the perfect length, cut, and the balls hung low
from them and the bush was trimmed nicely. This boy was delicious. Naked,
he was a young, taut, Adonis. There was an exchange of looks between the
neighbor and the fat man and it was clear what was about to happen wouldn't
neccesarily happen to the beat of the music ... the track ended, there was
silence and then there was the sound of the neighbor taking off his belt,
his pants and shirt ... oh it was a muscular man ... his cock was
tremendous though, and this made the boy nervous. He'd never taken a cock
this large, it was a thick 8.5 inch cock that slapped against his thighs
and progressively hardened.

The boy climbed up on the sofa and allowed the guy to eat out his ass, it
felt great having the hot guy's tongue slither in and out of his puckering
hole and he made sex noises to show the audience how good it felt. Once it
was all loosened the guy pulled the boy down a bit and started shoving his
cock inside.

"Ow, easy ... oh ... ouch ... wait." But the fat man gave instructions to
not hold off and the guy complied with a sinister smirk on his face that
the boy didn't like so much. The thug neighbor spit on his own cock, and
then proceeded. The neighbor moaned as he felt the boy's tight grip on his
shaft. It hurt him, the boy I mean, but he thought about the money and he
sort of swallowed his pride and closed his eyes tight. He felt the shaft
penetrating him and he knew it was going to only hurt if he resisted so he
tried his best to relax. The guy was hot. That was the consolation. He let
himself be forced onto the cock at the guy's hot hands. He squirmed with
discomfort. It was almost unbearable, the sting went through his hole
body. And then the fucking began properly and he couldn't stand it. The
smile left his face and he let the push the assault deeper and deeper and
harder and harder into him. "Fuckin bastard," he muttered. The kid wasn't
enjoying himself and this is what the fat man was looking for. There was a
sudden flash of a camera, they were takin pictures of this fuck.

All this was measured then by the flash of the camera. The various
positions he was put into. Legs up, flash, wide apart, flash, the deeper
the fuck went into him, flash, deeper, flash. He was pulled then down from
the seemly safety of the couch to the floor, hard and cold, where the
sunlight ebbed from the day, and there was a lack of personality, only the
thrill of pornography permeating all the thrusts madly driven into
him. There was a dissatisfied look in the guy's eyes. Matt could see he was
somehow not pleasing the guy so he stopped resisting and tried his best to
please the crowd. It was so hard to please them though, it hurt so much.

"Oh ya, feels good now." The neighbor pet the kid's face sloppily and it
irritated the kid that there was no love involved in this. Now there was a
hand over his face to remove from the kid any sense of identity.

He saw the drag queen put out the cigarette and get up to mix another
drink. The lack of attention given to the moment shamed him a bit. The
fucking continued while the movement in the house grew. The fat man started
massaging his own cock in his pants. When the drag queen returned to the
table the fat man tossed her a baggy with blow in it and gestured that
lines were to be drawn.

The fucking continued and at one point the look on the kid's face was a
smudge of shame and pride, that was what the camera captured in a blinding
flash. Matt was hating this now and thought it would never end and the guy
fucking him was thinking that all the blow he'd done would prevent him from
cumming. But then the boy started making his sex noises again and
reiterated how much it was hurting and this made the guy fucking him pull
out and shoot a thick rope of cum all over the kid's face and down his
chest and stomach. With that the neighbor got up and dressed and left.

The boy remained laying on the floor under the watchful gaze of the fat man
who then summoned the boy to stand. "Still hard eh," he said, almost
disapprovingly.

"Yessir." The boy was shaking, his legs were wobbling. He had cum running
down him and some was about to drip on the floor.

"You're all dirty."

The native went out for cigarettes and left the boy alone with the fat
man. The house was very quiet, it made Matt really uncomfortable. He wasn't
sure what the guy was lookin for.

So the man held up a camera and threw a dildo at the boy.

He asked the boy his name while the film ran.

"Matt, sir."

"Matt, sir," the man mocked his childish tone, "I want you to suck on the
dildo boy."

"Yes sir."

He sucked on it, getting it all wet. It was a bit bigger than even the big
cock he'd just had fuck him. It was blue, dark blue, and had artificial
veins and a head. He was getting scared of what self-mutilation was
coming. The thing was heavy. He slobbered all over the length of it and
eyed the camera nervously. The film captured that reluctance.

"Now lay down on the floor and start fucking yourself with it."

"It's really big, sir."

"Don't argue with me."

The man picked up a hundred and flicked it with two fingers at him. "Put it
in your mouth and stick the cock in your ass."

The taste of money is bittersweet, for that taste people will do the most
unspeakable things.

"Do it boy. Stick it."

He stretched his hole around it and pushed it in.

"You don't want me fuckin you with it so get your fuckin arse around that
cock."

A muffled "yessir" was caught on him.

It hurt already and it was no where near gettin in.

"I have to pee sir. May I pee."

"Piss on yourself, and fuck yourself already."

"Um."

He threw more money at him. "Piss boy."

The boy focussed on pissing. He closed his eyes and let it go and soon a
warm arc of golden piss was splashing all over him.

"Piss on your face. Ya. Get it all over yourself, you dirty whore. That's
what you are you know, you're just some fuckin cheap piece of faggot meat."

"Yessir."

"Fuck off, fuckin shove that cock in ya and start jerkin."

The boy jerked himself while he was still pissin, the stench of the piss
nearly sickened him because he'd never really had to do this before.

Suddenly the man got out of the chair and had his own cock out and he was
jerkin it while he held the camera. "Fuckin dirty worthless whore. That's
right. That's right ... I'm gonna fuck you with this cock." He pointed at
the huge cock that could barely make it inside the boy's arse.

"I'll do it."

"Nah, you're too slow.

"No ..."

"Are you arguin with me?"

"No ... I can't ... it hurts, it's too big."

This is when the line was crossed and the man got down in the puddle of
piss and stopped filming and grabbed onto the cock and forced it in
more. Now there was blood around the dildo as the boy's arse tore open to
receive it. He fucked the kid hard with it. The kid was crying. "Cum you
little whore, cum hard all over yourself."

The kid started jerkin himself off. He stroked his cock hard. He stroked it
good. He chewed the money. A tear came to his eye. The man started filming
again with one hand and forcing the cock in further and further with the
other. The boy slid on the piss-slick floor and the man said, "Keep it
together, make yourself cum."

And finally the boy started jerkin his meat really fast and shot load after
load of hot boy cum all over himself and was filthy after the orgasm. With
that the man removed the cock slowly from his sore arse and the boy
shuddered with the agony of its removal. The fat man said, "Now that's
entertainment."

The man got up and started strokin his cock and told the kid to suck it
till he came. Which really only took a minute ... and the kid pulled back
and got cum all over his face, in his eye, on his nostril ... the man
shivered. It felt good exercising control like that. The authority he
commanded was exquisite.

The boy showered and returned to the living room. He was told to remain
naked ... no, not even a towel. The man cleared his throat, he enjoyed the
boy's nudity more now that it wasn't so cocky and sure of itself. The kid
picked the bills out of the piss on the floor.

"Say," the fat man said, "that's some dirty money you got there." Then,
offering another line, he politely asked, "You wouldn't happen to know
where I could get some good quality blow. I'll throw another bill in it if
you can get it here in an hour."

The kid did know someone who was definitely reliable, being that it was
still early on an evening in the middle of the week he was certain that it
wouldn't be a problem at all.

"Sure, I got a man ..."

He was told to wait around till the guy came. And surely the man came soon
enough. The guy was a friend of Matt's that would always help him out in a
jam. Matt told the guy that he'd throw in an extra fifty if he'd hurry
up. Money will make a man do almost anything.

When the aboriginal drag queen returned she squealed with delight that they
were going to get more blow and that someone was coming to deliver it. She
lit a cigarette and went at combing her hair, a nicety that Matt might have
received have the native known he was coming. The native then took a mop to
the piss and eyed the kid on the couch, Matt was so sad, quiet, abused and
feeling like he'd been reduced to the pathetic state he'd resisting
admitting himself to be for so long. This would be his last trick.

The look in his eye was now one of such vile remorse for the manner in
which he'd been living but no camera caught it, nothing would take note of
it but his ego. Several weeks later, talking to a friend, he'd remark that
his escort-days were over but he'd uncharacteristically omit the details of
his decision for these details are things he is already forgetting.

When the knock came to the door they were more hasty with opening it this
time. The man that came in was impressive, taller than Matt, darker skin, a
man of some Latin persuasion, stylish in that way blow dealers are, with a
nice white leather belt and an appropriately offensive buckle. A muscular
chest and a pair of biceps worth the launch of a thousand ships held a
black teeshirt tight. Up the back of the neck the tips of feathery tatoos
suggested a branding hidden by the shirt.

Matt stood, still naked, refused the right to dress till the man
arrived. The dealer, recognizing him knew to not say anything about the
situation lest he not make the sale. The kid pointed to the fat man at the
table and said it was he who wanted the blow, "It's cool, let's get this
over with ... I want to go home."

"Fine kid ... get dressed ... but let's see what this man has to offer."

The Native came in the room and whinnied like a horse. "What a stud," she
neighed.

The man at the table took in the lady in the room. He couldn't believe this
place. "Well Matt, looks like you've been keeping good company." Matt
ignored his dealer while he bent over to get his pants with an aching body,
already seizing.

"Say, you look like a fine dealer of things." They cut lines and each had
one. The dealer accepted out of duty to the trade. The stuff was of great
quality, the abundance was admirable.

"Well yes, I can get my hands on some things."

"Things eh." The fat man shrugged his shoulders. "What about a boy?"

"What kind of boy, that kind of boy?" He pointed at Matt.

"No ... it's not for me. See. I'm a man with many eccentric
associates. They can pay large sums for the things they want. I know of a
particular man that would be looking for a young boy. Someone like this
Matt is already too old, soon he'll be nothing but the likes of Janet here,
his jokes won't even be funny and he'll be babbling songs that aren't even
songs."

Matt was approaching madness. All he wanted was to leave.

"Matt, it's been a pleasure," the fat man said from that place at the helm
of the room, "but I would like it very much if you left."

"Gladly."

Now the man who brought the drugs watched as the kid left the place, he
couldn't imagine the hell unleashed in the boy's mind as he nearly fell
down the icy steps he'd so jauntily ascended when he'd arrived.

At that table where the drugs were being divided the gentlemen now
discussed matters of a very grim variety.

"Do you think you could do it?"

"What kind of money are we talking about?"

"Well. I can see you're a smart man: but do you know of a boy?"

He thought about it for only a moment. A few months ago he'd encountered a
boy in the most unlikely of places. "I know of one, he's not connected to
any family. He's ... he's," he wasn't sure if he should mention that at the
time he became aware of the boy he brutally fucked him, him and his friend
did, "well, he's twelve years old."

"It's not that I need a virgin or anything, this man just wants someone to
make his own. The last one, he said, cried too much for his mother and had
to be dealt with in a way befitting such a circumstance."

"Oh? Well, yes. This boy would suit then."

The fat man wrote a number on a slip of paper and slid it across the
table. The drag queen saw the number and coughed, but it was more that a
drip had choked her for she was used to seeing the fat man display such
large sums so casually.

Since the drag queen choked though the dealer presumed this to be an
acceptable offer. It was easily far more money than he could have ever seen
dealing with blow and the people who buy blow. He looked at the man a
little more nervously, with a little more scrutiny really. For money, for a
boy ... they shook hands.

They discussed the matter of instructions, they conversed lightly on the
matter of ethics and professionalism when it comes to these matters. All
was settled. One was glad to do business with the other, the other assured
him of the ease with which this would transpire and assured him he'd
deliver the boy where ever it was he wanted him delivered before the week
was out. The proper contact information was divulged.

"They call me Big Daddy," the fat man said.

"They call me Dude," this dealer of things said.

And like that the bullet was delivered to the front lines, and the gun that
would deliver the shot was armed ... now fate was laying in the wait
... nothing but a battlefield stood in the way.

--- --- ---

And now the tragedy.

Now I know nothing of ballistics or what it is about a gun, not to mention
a musket specifically, that puts a bullet from the barrel of a gun into the
chest of another man. Nor what happens once that bullet has found the
unfortunate host and ricochets inside oblitering the life it has. I don't
even know the anatomical chaos the dangerous gun-shot can do. I do know
that the obvious intentions and the simplest devices can be all it takes to
do the most damage in this world. That day that saw General James Wolfe get
shot noticed him standing vulnerably on the rampart, issuing commands to
his troops, commanding them however stupidly and bravely. The man across
the battlefield, the Frenchman who spied the red coat there, lowered the
gun's barrel to the horizon, held it's stock firmly at his shoulder, took
aim ...

The sun broke on the day, that first day of spring, and it stirred birds in
the trees and made them all chirp wildly. There was a smell in the air of
the softened, frost-abandoned soil, that churned the senses of the city
into a savory delight of growth and filled the imagination of the dreamers
awaking with hope and promise. The sun would not last all day though, but
now in the morning, when it was warmest, there was a thrill about the town
that the spell of winter had been broken. The window was open in the
bedroom that belonged to the man with the dragon tattoo that breathed fire
on his shoulders. The breeze came in and the sounds of the traffic were
muted by the wafting melodies of this beautiful day.

The man with the tatoo is today one of the happiest men in the world. He
feels noble and peaceful and content. He rolls over and finds next to him
the sonorous purr of his slumbering lover. Though just a boy or because
he's just a boy, this man feels a splendid gift has been given to him. The
boy is loyal to him and he has never known such return from another
person. The man has realized that is what life is about, the satisfaction
in the comradery in duality. He hears horns blare out on the traffic
wailing road. The boy stirs with this interuption too.

The boy's eyes open and see the man staring at him. The boy has eyes like
cat eyes and the bright light insults his dream darkened eyes, he squints
and smiles. This is one of the boy cutest qualities, when he wakes up and
his innocence is alive in the new day. The boy mutters a choked-up hello,
"Good morning" follows.

"You're such a handsome young man." The man pets his face adorably,
affectionately correcting a mislaid hair. Brown hair, and green eyes make
his tiny face so sweet. The man leans in and kisses him. Their lips melt
and grip each other at the same time.

They start to grope each other, their morning-soft flesh being rubbed and
warmed and the sunlight bathing their bodies with Edenistic virtue. The man
nibbled the boy's nipples and licked at the smell in the armpits and
stroked the length of the boy's arms to revitalize him. The sensations
drove the boy to the edge of his passion and his erection grew and was felt
against the man's belly, causing his large erection to rub against the
boy's legs. They began moaning and panting. The man flipped the boy over
and pleased him with gentle kisses down the curvy spine, dappling puckered
lips against one, then the other buttock. He slid his nose down the crack
of his boy ass and raised up the bouquet to better feast on the hole there.

The boy let out a whipering fart. He blushed and apologized.

"Shh, don't ever apologize."

The man stuck his tongue in the boy's hole and slobbering enjoyed a taste
of the spice buried there. He poked with his finger, stretching the warming
orifice, massaging it tenderly and inspiring a sonnet of exclamations from
the kid. Then when condition were right he pushed his long cock up to the
hole and pushed to be inside his lover. A slick of sweat instantly covered
the boy, like a minor key in an otherwise treble cleffed symphony. The
panting changed tones. There was a great flourish of instrumentation and
then the man felt his whole cock shoved into the boy and the boy was
paralized with delight. "I'm gonna fuck you beautiful lover-boy." The way
the man spoke surprised even him. It was him talking but it was like he was
doing it better than he'd ever known himself to. The boy pushed himself
against the man's body and wanted this more than anything, he felt nothing
but the rub of the man-flesh, the flash of his thrusts, he enjoyed it and
offered different angles to allow the man he loved to get deeper in him, to
permit his the best opportunity for his pleasure.

"Do you want this?" The man asked it without thinking, the boy
thought. "Yes. I want this, I want you and this, and you doing this."

There was much kissing, and they way they kissed each other was as if they
knew each other's mouth, knew each other's treasure was this kind of
closeness. The birds on the fence outside were maybe the luckiest creatures
in all the world for being the only ones able to see the triumph of love
like this that day. The bodies of the lovers were thrusting and gyrating
around each other and the sheets were being thrown around and pillows were
being used. The man moaning and the boy grunting, to the birds was a
baritone chorus moving in, they seasoned the melody with soprana
rhythms. The boy came all over the sheets and the birds triumphantly
acheived a flourish crescendo and the man heard the birds singing and
poured out most joyously the juice of his morning love.

"I swear to god kid," the man said as he crashed like a final refrain,
"you're such a handsome young man."

The boy laughed and admired the man. The kid begged suddenly, "Guess what?"

"What?"

"Today's my birthday."

"Really? Wow. How old are you?"

"I'm 13 years old."

"Well well, I think a birthday breakfast feast is in order."

"No, it's alright."

"No. I insist. I have a bit of extra cash this morning. I'm going out right
away to get everything for pancakes, french toast, scrambled eggs, fried
potatoes, ham, sausage, bacon ... the whole sha-bang. I'll get some fresh
coffee."

"But I don't drink coffee."

"Well you gotta now, you're practically a man."

"Practically?"

"Well, almost, you're not there yet, there's definitely a homestretch left
to go."

He pouted, when asked why, "Because I don't think I'll ever be a man."

"Oh someday. I mean, you're almost there, enjoy these last few years of it,
the rest is much harder and ..."

He stopped, he suddenly realized that 'hard' for this kid wasn't
necessarily going to be something he'd need to be introduced to anytime
soon.

"Okay, okay, but someday everything that's happened will seem so long ago,
you might not even remember it all ... but it's the best part."

"This is the best part."

The man stopped and realized, though boys and men may vary in age,
sometimes what is experienced by a person is simply what makes us
human. Sometimes it's what makes us men.

"Well I'm going to shower, quickly, and I'm going to get dressed and out
the door I go. I don't want you to move from this spot, sleep in, enjoy
your thirteenth birthday." He kissed the boy on the cheek and went out of
the room. Soon the sound of the shower was heard but the boy drifted off to
sleep about then, only to be awakened by the slamming of the front door.

He got up then. He went out to the living room and went instinctively to
the computer where his email account showed no emails. There was no one
there writing to wish him a happy birthday.

He then insisted upon a song to listen to. He turned on the radio and found
a tune. (Young Folks it's called.) And he danced around to it in the living
room. He was wearing his underwear because he knew he wouldn't be
disturbed. At least he didn't think so. All of a sudden there was a knock
at the door. He wrapped the blanket from the couch around his waist and
went to the door.

It was Dude.

"Well look at this," his shadow was dark in the door. He was wearing all
black. His eyes were wired looking, a bit tired. He seemed threatening by
the way he stood so close to the threshold, his large muscular frame
filling the door. He was breathing heavily.

"Um, he's not home."

"That's a damn shame," Dude said.

"I don't think you should come in. He'll be back soon. If you come back
later you might catch him."

"Oh it's alright, I'll wait."

"Um, no." He went to shut the door but then the door stopped because Dude
had shoved his foot in the way and it prevented him from getting it
closed. Classic manouever. "Get out!" The boy screamed but Dude pushed the
door open easily and threw the boy back with the intensity of the intrusion
and politely shut the door behind him and locked it. "Now that's no way to
treat a guest." He made his way into the room, his big black boots
thundering on the floor, the boy retreated out of fright. He tripped over
the tail of the blanket and fell back into the chair where Dude swiftly
moved in to corner him.

The boy didn't have a chance to say anything .

Dude picked up the boy's face and held it in his fingers like a piece of
fruit. "Yes. You're delicious." The boy squirmed, Dude held him still.

"Yes, I'd sure like to get a piece of this again."

"No. Stop it. I don't want to with you."

"Why, you feel like this guy treats you right?"

"I love him!"

"HA!" Dude released his prison cell hold on the boy and moved back to laugh
most heartily to this revelation. "You're so young. You don't know what
love is. You're just a kid. That man is a monster. He's a pervert. He's a
social outcast. He used to rob banks you fool, he'd kill you if you crossed
him. You don't even know what you're talking about."

"Stop it! You don't anything about us."

"Us? Well I'm sorry, you're right." He seemed to sarctastic like a grease
spill on a kitchen floor with the promise of a fatal slip by someone
foolish enough to step on it. "But then again I don't care about your
little 'us' or your fantastic feelings of love."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm going to take you away from him." He said it so matter-of-factly, at
first it didn't make any sense. "He's afraid of me stealing his television,
his radio, he music ... the real prize is the thing he was leat guarded
about."

The boy was so scared he heard a ringing in his ears. It was like a ghost
were standing beside him screaming to get out, to run, but he was unaware
of it, only heard it, knew nothing of the real danger.

"See here boy, you're coming with me and you're not going to do anything
about it."

"Never."

The boy got up to flee but so serendiptously, Dude delivered a walloping
punch to the face that sounded like a gunshot in the boy's ears and he fell
gloriously to the floor. Dude was shocked at how easy it had been. Now he
had to get the body out.

He took out his cellphone. Pressed some buttons. The plan was happening,
all the chaos of this was put out now and had been laying in wait but the
action could start now. This big bang and catapulted into full speed. He He
grabbed the blanket the boy had been using and wrapped the kid up in it not
much differently than a concerned relative might coddle a sick child. He
made to whisk the child from the house but looked back and saw nothing more
that he would require but for some reason he believed it necessary to
notify the guy he was selling drugs to for the last little while, the man
whom this boy claimed to love but knew nothing about and put the boy down
awkwardly on the couch to write a note on some paper on the coffee table
... "He's gone, he was never yours to have." He then took from the house
this boy in his underwear wrapped in a blanket. The car he'd arranged was
waiting for him and cars were veering around it on the busy road. No one in
any of the other cars saw anything, no one would say anything about the
thing they didn't really notice as they steered around the illegally
stopped car on the street, it was just a man lowering a sick-looking boy
into a car ... perhaps on the way to the hospital ... or perhaps on the way
to hell.

The car sped off and the street was continuously busy with the current of
cars and trucks and then a man carrying four bags of groceries came down
along the sidewalk and marched up the stairs and went into the house. "I'm
back sleepy-head," he said with a cheerful ring. The house seemed strangely
quiet. Too quiet. The birds had stopped singing. There was a sting in the
air, as if a temperal wasp had landed here, and poisoned the air with a
venom painfully poked in.

He went to the kitchen and put down the groceries. He went into the
bedroom, but there was no one there. The radio was on ... funny how silence
can contain music. The bathroom was untouched since his shower. The rooms
were all empty. "Where are you? Are you hiding?"

He went back to the living room. "This isn't funny, come on, show --" But
then he saw the note. Then he read it. He looked around.

And then the proverbial bullet lodged itself in his body and the mayhem of
its design obliterated all peace from his composure. Then he died ... his
love had been taken from him.

[Author's Note

... There's more to come ... this was only a chapter, but a chapter that I
had to write for you to understand the rest, sorry there's not a lot of
weird, perverted sex like I normally shoot out, but this one worked well
and I wanted to run with it.

There are more chapters coming. But artistically speaking this chapter's
done. Sorry about the whole cheezy war-hero metaphor ... there was a little
poetic license taken ... but all in all I enjoyed this.

Till the next one ...

A. Cheshire Catt]

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