Date: Thu, 6 Jun 2013 09:56:58 -0700 (PDT)
From: z119z 2000 <z119z2000@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Carma Klown 1

The Carma Klown

z119z (z119z2000@yahoo.com)

© 2013 by the author

All characters, organizations, and addresses appearing in this work are
fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or to actual
organizations or places is purely coincidental.

Thanks to Joe for his suggestions and his eye for details and
inconsistencies.

The following is the first of nine installments.

*****


—In our age, every record, every image, every bit of data, every memory,
is suspect. Even an individual's sense of self is fluid and malleable. With
the right software, the right drugs, the right indoctrination, one can
change anything and anyone. Whimsy rules. Nothing is permanent. Nothing can
be trusted. You may not be the person you were yesterday.

—The Carma Klown

Chapter 1

Monday, ca. 7:00, June 7, 2010

The sound of water running in the shower tugged Jeff away from sleep and
into a drifting consciousness that mixed elements from a half-remembered
dream about a muddle at work with the current reality on the other side of
his eyelids. For a moment a minor character from the video game he was
working on refused to proceed unless—there was a waterfall to cross, but
Michael was using up all the hot water, and the character wanted
something—and he would have to deal with the problem today but he had
lost the thing—he needed something, but what was it? Or who? Did Michael
have it?  He must remember to ask Michael if he knew where he had put it.

As Jeff's eyes opened, the digital clock on the nightstand changed from
7:06 to 7:07. The door to the bathroom was open, and he lay in bed on his
side, the sheet pulled up to his chin and his hands pushed under his
pillows, watching Michael. The blankets were bunched up against his back
where Michael had tucked them in to keep him warm while he went for his
morning run. Michael often did that. It was odd. Jeff knew that the
pressure and the warmth against his body weren't Michael, but he found them
comforting, as if Michael had left physical reminders of himself to linger
in the bed.

The shower stall had two walls of translucent pebbled glass, and the
bright, early morning light coming through the bathroom window glistened
off a thousand water drops. Michael's body shimmered in a hundred refracted
images as he moved beneath the spray of water. He must have just gotten
back, thought Jeff. Michael usually jumped in the shower immediately,
barely interrupting his stride to toss his running shoes and socks and
shorts on to the floor of the hallway leading to the bedroom. Apparently he
hadn't closed the door to the bathroom securely, and the draft from the
steam being sucked up by the ventilation fan had pulled the door open.

Jeff watched Michael as he lathered soap onto a washcloth. He raised an arm
and for a moment a hand rose above the shower stall, golden-bronze in the
light. The distortions in the glass offset Michael's body so that the hand
appeared unconnected to the rest of Michael's arm. Seven years of being
with Michael had imprinted his body on Jeff's mind. He remembered more than
saw how Michael's backside looked. The well-defined muscles that ran on
either side of his spine, the indentation over his backbone, the swell of
his buttocks, the deep cleft between them, the always surprising reality of
his thighs. They were suddenly present to him in a palpable way. He could
feel them firm and smooth beneath his hands.

Jeff's morning hard-on twitched, and in one easy movement he lifted the
sheet, swung his legs out, and stood up. In five quick steps he crossed the
bedroom, opened the door to the shower, and entered it.

"Wha—?" Michael turned around in surprise.

"Let me wash your back." Jeff took the soapy washcloth out of Michael's
hand. Michael smiled in anticipation and turned around. Jeff's hands glided
across Michael's body, lubricated by the soap. Michael's body was so solid
and dense, golden where the sun had tanned it and a pale ivory around the
hips and upper thighs in the area covered by his jogging shorts. Jeff
massaged the muscles with his eyes closed. He didn't need to look at
them. He knew them from memory, and he wanted to isolate the sensations
coming to his mind from his hands—the familiar yet still fascinating
flesh warmed by the shower, firm and pliable, the smooth skin slippery with
soap. He lowered his hands and began washing Michael's buttocks. Their
curves filled his hands, deeply concave at the sides and swelling to tight,
compact mounds of flesh near the center. He lathered up his hands and ran
his fingers down the crack, working soap into it and gently touching the
sensitive area between the anus and the balls. Michael groaned and his
buttocks shivered as he contracted them and then relaxed them. The area
between Michael's thighs was always so surprisingly hot. Jeff ran his hand
slowly back and forth between the thighs. Michael gasped and his head
titled backwards.

Jeff knelt on the floor of the shower. He ran his soapy hands up and down
Michael's legs. When he tapped Michael's left foot, Michael raised it and
Jeff washed the foot, sticking a soapy finger between each of the
toes. "Turn around," he said. When Michael complied, he washed the right
foot in the same way. Then he moved his hands up the front of Michael's
thighs, slowly stroking them. When he reached the groin, he washed
Michael's cock and balls, pulling on them gently and cupping them between
his hands. He wrapped the fingers of one hand around the base of Michael's
cock and held it tightly.

Then, still kneeling, he kissed the tip of Michael's cock. The water ran
down over his head, plastering his hair to his scalp and turning it a
darker brown. He ran his tongue over the head of the cock and then up and
down the shaft. With his left hand, he reached around Michael's body and
pulled him close. He took all of Michael's cock into his mouth and began
sucking it while insinuating a finger between Michael's buttocks until he
touched the anus. He vibrated the finger against Michael until he relaxed
and the tip of the finger found its way into him. Michael's cock grew even
harder.

Above him, Michael began to shake. He placed his hands on Jeff's shoulders
and started to knead them. He held each breath until he had to take another
gasping breath, and then he groaned with effort of restraining
himself. Finally he could hold out no longer and began mindlessly thrusting
his cock in and out of Jeff's mouth.

When Michael came, Jeff ceased his motions until Michael settled to rest,
his cock, now growing flaccid and limp but still swollen, in Jeff's
mouth. When Michael signaled with a deep, rasping breath and a pat on
Jeff's shoulder that his orgasm was over, Jeff stood up and turned off the
water. He opened the door to the shower and grabbed a towel off the
rack. He began patting Michael's body dry from head to foot. When he
finished, he wrapped the towel around Michael's waist and give him a push
toward the bedroom. Then he pulled another towel from the rack and dried
himself off.

When Jeff emerged from the bathroom, Michael was already getting
dressed. He paused long enough in buttoning up his shirt to hug Jeff and
say, "That was wonderful. Thank you. What was the occasion?"

"No occasion. Chalk it up to just simple lust." He finished buttoning
Michael's shirt and smoothed it over his shoulders and chest.

"Three cheers for simple lust then." Michael smiled as he pulled on his
pants. "I'm always up for that. Next time you have another attack of simple
lust, feel free to use me."

 "Oh, I got your shirt wet. There." Jeff pointed to spot on the right arm.

"It's okay. Something to remember this morning by. Don't worry about
it. It'll be hidden by my jacket, and it will dry soon enough."

"Are you off then?" Jeff tried to keep the disappointment out of his
voice."You should eat some breakfast at least."

"Can't. I gotta go. I don't even have time for coffee. I got a text from
Altmann while I was out jogging. He has some video that he wants me to look
at." As Michael spoke, he pulled on his shoulder holster and buckled it
into place. Then he reached into the closet and opened the safe. He pulled
out his gun and inserted it into the holster, snapping the flap over it and
adjusting it so that it rode inconspicuously on his left side in the hollow
beneath his chest muscles.

The gun safe was a concession to Jeff. He hated waking up in the morning
and seeing the gun sitting on the dresser or on the night stand on
Michael's side of the bed. It reminded him too much of the dangers of
Michael's job, and he didn't like the casual way that Michael treated
it. He would have preferred that Michael not bring it into their home at
all, but departmental regulations specified that every officer had to have
his gun within reach at all times. When they had bought the condo, they had
compromised on the safe in the closet. It would be, Michael had joked, the
only thing hidden in the closet in their apartment.

Michael pulled on his sportscoat and adjusted his tie. He patted the top of
his hair to flatten it, but as soon as he turned away from the mirror, it
sprang back up. He embraced the still naked Jeff and kissed him. "Mmmm, I
love you. I am so lucky."

Jeff smiled and replied, "Not as lucky as me. I love you too. Will you be
back for dinner tonight?" Again, it was an effort not to let too much
longing creep into his voice.

"As far as I know. Altmann probably needs information on this video before
he goes to some meeting. That's usually why he calls me in early. If I'm
going to be late, I'll let you know." Even as he spoke, Michael was putting
his keys and phone into his pockets and picking up an assortment of coins
to take with him. He patted his pockets to make sure that he had
everything, picked up the case with his personal laptop, and aimed a smile
at Jeff as he left.

If I hadn't woken up and seen Michael in the shower and then joined him,
thought Jeff, I wonder if he would even have spoken to me. He probably
would have let me sleep. He could hear Michael now, "I didn't want to wake
you. I know you were up late working again." That was the pattern
lately. Their schedules didn't seem to match any more. Jeff had to time a
lot of his work so that he could discuss projects in real-time with the
illustrators in the Mountain View office of Jacoby and Greene in
California. The people he worked with there had an elastic notion of flex
time. None of them seemed to get to work until early afternoon California
time, and they kept at it until two or three in the morning New York
time. It wasn't difficult for Jeff to stay up. He had always been a night
person. Michael, however, was a morning person, and his job schedule called
for him to show up by nine. Most of the time Michael was already asleep by
the time Jeff made it to bed. At night he had to be careful not to disturb
Michael's sleep, and in the morning Michael had to be careful not to
disturb him. That seemed to be the story of their relationship now. They
tiptoed around each other.

Some days they hardly had a chance to speak, let alone have a
conversation. When they had first met, the excitement of having someone to
talk to in a way that you couldn't talk to other people had been the
starting point of their relationship. It was what made them both sure that
something special was beginning. Staying up until two in the morning and
talking happened almost daily. They usually went to bed only because the
talk led to touching and kissing and clothes being pulled off and minds
becoming aroused and bodies overwhelming them with an urgent physical need
for release. Suddenly it was just necessary to be in bed, and that led to
sex, and exhaustion eventually led to sleep. In those days when they took a
shower together, Michael didn't rush off as soon as it was over.

Michael still wants sex, thought Jeff, at least when I remind him that sex
is an option. He hadn't, after all, said he didn't have the time this
morning and pushed me out of the shower. No, he had waited until I had
finished servicing him. And "service" felt like the right word for what had
happened. But neither had he wasted any time once the shower was over to
get away.

Worse, Michael didn't even seem to be aware that there might be a
problem—that I might want a few more minutes with him and a bit of
reciprocity. Maybe not an orgasm, but a little physical enthusiasm, a
little regret that he had to dash off. Jeff shook his head. I've got to
stop feeling sorry for myself, he thought. The relationship was still
strong. They were even talking about formalizing it, and the discussion was
progressing from Should we get married? to When and how should we get
married? They had bought the condo. True, it wasn't large—just the
bedroom, a fair-sized living room, a room barely larger that a closet that
he used as a home office, and a small kitchen—but it was in a decent
neighborhood and had some of the things realtors said were important like
closet space and plenty of light. Moreover, both of them, without needing
to discuss it, knew that buying the condo was a sign that the relationship
was permanent. And their families and friends had known that as well. The
condo was littered with housewarming gifts that had been presented to them
with smiles and congratulations.

But their jobs, especially Michael's career ambitions, were beginning to
intrude more and more into their daily life. Jeff understood Michael's need
to be successful, and he wanted him to succeed. Still, he missed the
maelstrom of the early days, that whirlwind engulfing them and sending
everything else spinning away. And he missed the conversations. Perhaps no
relationship could remain at that intense level forever. At least, there
was still a relationship. For which, he reminded himself, he should be
thankful.

Jeff walked naked through the apartment, stepping around Michael's jogging
clothes (he would pick them up later), and into the kitchen. He put bread
into the toaster and made coffee. Maybe the dampening of ardor was a good
sign, a sign of comfort in each other's presence. The extraordinary had
become routine, and they had settled into an equilibrium. Married life
rather than crazed, passionate romance. At least that's what I'll keep
telling myself, he thought.




Chapter 2

Monday, ca. 8:30 a.m., June 7, 2010

"What are you?" The harsh whisper came from off screen.

The image on the monitor was centered on a kneeling man. He was isolated in
the glare of spotlights that revealed only a small area of the uniformly
matte black space surrounding him. He appeared to be in his fifties. He
wore a charcoal gray business suit, a white shirt, and a tie with diagonal
blue and red stripes. The sharp edge of a white handkerchief protruded from
the breast pocket of his suit coat. The cuffs of his shirt extended a
uniform quarter inch beyond the sleeves of his jacket and gleamed in the
bright light. His body was bent slightly forward at the waist so that he
could rest the tips of his fingertips on the floor. A watchband was
partially visible on his left wrist. His black hair was flecked with gray
and cut short. It clung to his head like a helmet. It was flawlessly and
expensively styled. He was clean shaven, and he glowed with
health. Obviously he had never gone hungry or lacked for good medical or
dental care. Everything about the man's clothing and appearance exuded the
subdued look of power that success, wealth, and privilege can give a
man. High-powered lawyer, a CEO of a major company, successful
politician—the man could easily have stepped into any of those roles.

None of that mattered, however. It was the expression on his face that
captured attention. His eyes shifted from side to side, as if looking
directly into the camera would acknowledge the presence of viewers on the
far side of the lens.  He was almost in tears; his body vibrated with
tension. He had the look of a man from whom everything had been taken, even
the last wisp of self-respect. The man's chin dropped and he closed his
eyes, shutting himself away from the camera's remorseless gaze. He looked
guilty.

"I am a faggot." His voice was almost inaudible.

"Louder. Don't mumble. Speak clearly."

"I am a faggot." The man briefly looked directly into the camera before his
eyes darted away again. His voice trembled, and he gnawed at his lower lip
with his teeth. For a moment he looked like a student who hadn't done his
homework the night before and was worried that he might be giving the wrong
answer.

"Correct. You are a faggot. And what sort of faggot are you?"

"I am a worthless, pathetic, old faggot."

"That is correct. You are a worthless, pathetic, old faggot. And what is a
worthless, pathetic, old faggot like you good for?"

The man suddenly looked relieved. He knew the correct answers after
all. The warmth in the hidden speaker's voice showed that he was doing
well. He knew that he was pleasing the man. He no longer had to worry about
being punished because he was getting things wrong. He raised his voice and
almost shouted his response. "The only thing that this worthless, pathetic,
old faggot is good for is to worship other men's assholes by rimming them."

"Correct. And does the worthless, pathetic, old faggot like to rim other
men's assholes?"

"This worthless, pathetic, old faggot loves to rim other men's assholes."
For the first time, the man looked hopeful and enthusiastic as if a
promised reward was in view. He smiled and looked directly into the camera.

"Yes, you do. But do other men want you to rim them?"

"No, other men do not want me to rim them."

"Why not?"

"Because I am a worthless, pathetic, old faggot."  The man suddenly began
to cry. Noiseless tears welled up along his lower eyelids and then brimmed
over and ran down his cheeks as his mood plummeted from jubilation to
despair.

"That's right. No one wants to have anything to do with a worthless,
pathetic, old faggot like you."

"No. No one." The man's voice caught on an anguished sob.

The camera slowly circled around the man until it showed him from
behind. Another man sauntered passed him and into the shot, with his back
to the camera. He was shirtless and visible only from the shoulders
down. Taut muscles fanned out symmetrically from both sides of the deep
groove of his backbone. His jeans were old—the back pocket on the left
had a hole in one bottom corner where his wallet had worn through the
fabric. The dark brown belt that circled his narrow waist was dry and
cracked and scuffed. Not that he needed a belt to hold the jeans up—his
muscular legs and ass filled them and stretched them tight—the belt was
a character statement rather than a necessity. He stopped about a yard away
from the kneeling man and reached around to the front of his body. The
microphone caught the faint clink of metal against metal, and for a moment
the belt tightened across the man's back as he unbuckled it. The man slowly
peeled his jeans off his ass until they came to rest about two-thirds of
the way down his buttocks.

The kneeling man licked his lips and looked hungrily at the second man. The
camera moved past the first man to focus on what he was regarding with such
desire. Gradually the camera panned in until the shot was centered above
and slightly to the second man's left side. The lens looked down into the
crack between his buttocks. The top of the crack was a shallow, elongated
oval. Below that the crack plunged into a shadow leading downward toward a
dark triangle formed by the belt line of his jeans and the rounded arcs of
his glutes. The kneeling man moaned hungrily.

The second man pushed his jeans down until his entire ass was
visible. Strands of fine black hair feathered the crack. The man bent
forward at the waist and used his hands to spread his buttocks apart. His
fingertips dug into his flesh, dimpling it. The camera moved in, focusing
on the wrinkled slit of his asshole. It was surrounded by hair. As the
camera lingered on it, the man flexed it so that it appeared to wink at the
camera.

"Would you like to rim this man's asshole?" The voice sounded amused, like
someone teasing a pet with a treat held carefully out of reach.

"Yes, yes." The man spoke with longing. "Please."

"Please what?"

"Please let me rim this man's asshole."

"But no one, certainly not this man, wants anything to do with you. You are
a pathetic, worthless, old faggot."

The man slumped. "Please, please don't torture me. I'll be good. I'll do
what you want. Just let me rim him." He looked as if he were about to start
crying again.

"But you know that he feels nothing but contempt for you. No real man would
want you." The voice grew stern and hard. "With a body like that, he could
have anyone he wants. Someone far more desirable than you. Unless," the
whisper continued, "Unless, of course, you pay him handsomely for the
privilege. That's the only reason a real man would let a pathetic,
worthless, old faggot like you rim his asshole."

"I'll pay. I'll pay." The man eagerly reached into his suit jacket and
pulled out a long wallet bulging with money. "Here, I have money. I can
pay." He straightened up and began pulling bills from the wallet.

"It will cost you $5,000."

"Yes, $5,000." The man grabbed a handful of bills from his wallet and began
counting them out, laying each bill on the floor. "100, 200, 300
. . . 1,000." When he reached 1,000, he picked the pile up and straightened
the edges to form a neat stack. He repeated the count and the action four
more times. Then he picked the five stacks up one by one, joined them
together, and then reverently laid the bills on the floor.

"Count them again."

"Yes, Sir." The man hastened to obey. He was so eager and anxious to
please. When he finished, he looked toward the camera with a plea in his
eyes. "It's all there. $5,000."

"Yes. You have purchased five minutes. Time starts now."

On the bottom right-hand corner of the screen, a clock appeared. It briefly
read "5:00" before shifting to 4:59. The man wasted no time, He crawled on
all fours over to the other man and shoved his face into the man's ass and
began licking. The camera zoomed in. His nose disappeared into the
crack. The thrusts of his tongue were visible as convulsive movements of
his cheeks and throat. His face shook from side to side as he tried to
force it deeper between the other man's buttocks, his eyes closed in
ecstasy. His grunts and moans of pleasure formed a rhythmic counterpoint to
his movements. From time to time, he gasped as he pulled back briefly to
fill his lungs before resuming his onslaught. The second man's buttocks
quivered from the impacts of the man's head against them.

A bell sounded. "Time's up," the voice giving the orders said.

The second man straightened up, fastened his jeans, and walked off. The
first man's face shone with sweat and spit. He had drooled so much that the
front of his shirt and the collar of his suit coat were wet.

"What are you?"

"I am a faggot."

"What sort of faggot are you?"

"I am a worthless, pathetic, old faggot."

"And what are you good for?"

"The only thing that this worthless, pathetic, old faggot is good for is to
worship other men's assholes by rimming them."

"What is the worthless faggot's name?"

"John Rossiter."

"And where does the pathetic faggot live?"

"22 Nyland Heights Drive."

"And what will the old faggot do?"

"The worthless, pathetic, old faggot will worship the asshole of any man
who shows up at his home."

"Stand up."

"Yes, Sir."

"Turn around and drop your pants."

The man quickly undid his belt and unzipped, letting his pants drop to the
floor. He dug his thumbs under the waistband of his dark blue boxers and
bent forward as he pushed them down. For a brief second a smudge was
visible on his left buttock, but as he stood up the tail of shirt and his
suit coat fell down and covered his ass.

"Show your ass. Immediately." For the first time the hidden speaker spoke
in anger.

"Yes, Sir. Right away, Sir." The man grabbed at his coat and shirt and
jerked them up. "I'm sorry, Sir."

The camera moved in until the tattoo on the man's left buttock filled the
screen. A clown stuffed into a small cartoon car with oversized wheels sped
away from the viewer. His upper body was twisted around so that he looked
backward over his shoulder. His left arm was raised and waving
good-bye. Large arches had been painted over his eyes in lurid orange and
yellow inks, and a red ball was fixed to his nose. The tip of the thumb of
his right hand was pressed against the ball and the fingers were spread and
wriggling in a rude gesture. The skin around the tattoo was red and
puffy. The tattoo was fresh.

The video of the man ended and a message in white letters against a black
background appeared: "Another korporate kriminal punished by The Carma
Klown. Join The Carma Klown in the fight against korporate assholes. Help
punish John Rossiter and others like him. Use the comments section below to
expose the guilty. The Klown makes the punishment fit the crime." The
message dissolved as a picture of a grotesque, evil-looking clown came into
focus on the screen. A tiny car appeared in the upper left-hand corner and
then sped toward the clown, growing larger and larger. When it stopped, the
clown leaped into it. As the car raced off, he looked back over his
shoulder and waved, mimicking the tattoo on Rossiter's butt. The image
remained on the screen for several seconds before the video stopped.

Detective Michael Chang stirred uneasily in his seat. When he arrived at
work, he found a manila file sitting on his desk. Attached to the cover of
the file folder a penciled note from Captain Altmann gave a URL followed by
"Have a look at this. Meeting with Redding and Baker at 9:30 in the
conference room next to my office." Inside the folder was a two-page
printout of an internet bio for a John Rossiter. According to the
biography, Rossiter was 58 and the CEO of an investment firm bearing his
name. He had an impressive résumé. Harvard undergraduate and Harvard
Business School. Employed at several major financial firms before branching
out and founding his own company. The company had apparently weathered the
2008 collapse well and come out even stronger. Its holdings were estimated
at around $42 billion. Rossiter had been married twice. His first marriage
had ended in divorce in 1998. He had two daughters from that marriage. He
had remarried in 2001 and had a seven-year-old son by wife number two.

As soon as he saw the name on the printout, Michael knew what the case
was. Rossiter's name and face had been splashed across the front pages of
all the newspapers in the city that morning. He was the latest victim of
The Carma Klown's campaign against those who had caused the 2008 recession
and then profited from it. Michael hadn't stopped to read the story, but he
had overheard a remark on the subway that spoke of Rossiter as if he were
dead. Clearly Rossiter and/or The Carma Klown had done something that had
led to the involvement of the Midtown Major Crimes Division.

The URL Altmann had left for him was for a site called Star in Your Own
Porn Video. It seemed to be The Carma Klown's preferred venue for posting
his videos. The controls on the police computer network tracked visits to
X-rated sites; even though Michael's job often required him to do that, he
wanted to avoid the paperwork he would have to file to acknowledge and
justify such a visit. He quickly searched the Internet for a copy of the
latest Carma Klown video. The difficulty was not finding a copy but
choosing which one to watch. In the day since the video was first posted on
the Star in Your Own Porno Video website, it had been reposted dozens of
times on many different sites. He selected one of the versions on YouTube
that didn't as yet require a viewer to log in to attest that he was an
adult. As he began watching the video, he noted the time and the case
number so that, if necessary, his activities could be documented in court.

Michael was alone in his cubicle and was sitting so that the computer
screen faced the wall behind his desk. Even so, he positioned the cursor
over the minimize screen button in the upper right-hand corner so that he
could hide the display quickly if anyone came over to check on what he was
watching. His posting as one of the resident computer crimes specialists at
Midtown Major Crimes required him to view a great variety of websites, but
as far as his colleagues were concerned, he spent his day watching only one
thing—porn. Last Friday Sergeant Ryan had shouted at him as the daily
briefing broke up, "Hey, Chang, the wife's going to be gone for two weeks
to visit her mother. Ya seen any good porn lately, something with big
boobs? I'm gonna need something to keep me occupied while the wife's away."
It hadn't helped that some beat cop Michael had never seen before had
shouted back, "Why are you asking him? The only reason he gets to watch
dirty movies all day long is that he's gay. Chang don't get excited and
jerk off under his desk like you, Sarge." Her remarks were greeted with
whistles and catcalls that halted only when Captain Altmann told everyone
to knock it off and get back to work. So even the beat cops thought he
spent his days watching porn. His record in solving so many computer crimes
in the four-plus years that he had been at Midtown and in aiding the other
detectives to use the resources opened up by computers and the Internet to
solve theirs were lost in the joking. At least she hadn't said that he was
good only for recommendations for gay porn—although there were days when
he wished that gay porn was all he had to watch. He had seen enough
pictures of the female body.

He had time to look at the Carma Klown video only once before he had to
join Altmann and the other two men. The latest comments on the video made
it clear that Rossiter had committed suicide the previous night. Baker and
Redding were both detective sergeants, and Michael assumed that they must
be leading the investigation. His job would be, he guessed, to advise them
about the possibility of using the Internet and computers to analyze the
videos and identify The Carma Klown.

As Michael scribbled a few notes on his laptop about points he might make
at the meeting, his thoughts were drawn in another, familiar direction. He
had to look at so much filth and junk in his work, and in so much of it sex
was used to humiliate one of the participants. It still disgusted him. He
hoped it always would. But what if it didn't? What if it ceased to disgust
him or, worse, he accepted it as normal and wanted to replicate it in his
own sex life? Sometimes he caught himself wondering how it would feel to
indulge in some of the activities that filled his screen daily. The day
when he moved from wondering to acting—thankfully—hadn't arrived
yet. At least, he hoped he didn't treat Jeff that way, even in the smallest
way. With vigilance on his part, he would never cross that line.

To judge from some of the remarks in the comments section, however, many
fans of the Klown's videos were already so far on the other side of that
line that they weren't even conscious there might be a line. Some
commentators expressed disappointment that the Klown hadn't gone
further—Raunch Dressing had complained: "Too vanilla. Check out this
site." Scatluver had advised: "The asswhole shld b durty."  Others even
celebrated Rossiter's death—"Another korporate kriminal offed, thousands
left to go. Good work, CK! Keep it up!"

It wasn't the rimming itself that revolted Michael. Jeff and he had done
that and enjoyed it. He hoped that they would do so again. No, it was the
way that the word "faggot" was used to mark Rossiter as sub-human and
immoral and deserving of punishment and the delight with which the Klown
had forced him (Michael noted to himself that he was already assuming that
Rossiter hadn't been acting freely when he made the video) to engage in
acts the Klown clearly expected viewers to find repulsive. The video struck
Michael as intentionally cruel and the humiliation as meant to be
understood as no more than just desserts for Rossiter. Michael was repelled
but not for the reasons that the Klown intended. But then, he thought, I'm
not the audience at which this is aimed.

Michael hadn't had to read far into the comments section to find widespread
approval of the Klown's efforts. There were almost no negative
reactions. Indeed there were many proposals of candidates for his next
victim. To judge from the obvious glee with which so many people nominated
their boss, the Klown was exploiting a popular desire for revenge. He'll
soon have imitators, thought Michael. We need to stop him so that we can
deter others. But as soon as that thought occurred to him, he knew it would
be futile. An arrest would stop the Klown, but his fans would learn from
his mistakes and be even more successful. There probably was even a reality
show in the offing—Real Korporate Kriminals of Wall Street competing to
see who could break the most laws in one hour, or Real Korrupt Politicians
of Washington, DC—that was a program that could run forever. He dragged
his mind away from these musings and back to the meeting with Altmann. It
was almost time. He grabbed his computer, picked up his coffee cup,
refilled it from the pot in the break room, and then headed for the
meeting.

Michael was the third person to arrive. Detective Sergeant Jerry Baker sat
at the table, hunched over a computer keyboard and peering into the
monitor. Captain Altmann was standing behind him and leaning forward to
squint at the screen over Baker's shoulder. A cable snaked across the table
from the computer to the AV control panel embedded in the table. Both men
looked up when Michael walked in. Baker's right hand was poised over the
wheel on the mouse, his index finger about to move the cursor.

"Great. Just the person we need," said Altmann. "Can you get this thing to
work?" He gestured at the wall screen. "We're trying to link to the video
so that we can view it on the big monitor. I couldn't activate the
link. Jerry's got the link going, but now we can't get it to run up there."

Baker quickly stood up and pushed the chair back, motioning Michael to take
over. "Be my guest." Altmann and Baker took a few steps away from the table
and began talking about the Yankees' win over the Blue Jays the previous
night as Michael sat down. It struck Michael that they weren't really
interested in the game. Typical, thought Michael. Rather than watch what I
do and learn how to do it themselves, they leave the technical details to
me and stand there chattering away, indulging in "men's talk" to pass the
time while they wait. He quickly typed in the commands that activated the
monitor and then linked it to the original video. "All set, Captain."
Altmann barely interrupted his conversation with Baker to nod his head in
acknowledgment. Michael thought about moving to another chair, but then
mentally sighed. He would undoubtedly be called back to do something else
with the computer; so he might as well stay put. Besides it was the best
seat at the table for seeing the monitor.

When Phil Redding walked in, the captain greeted him and then said, "Okay,
let's get started." Baker pulled a notebook and a pen out of the inside
pocket of his jacket and tossed them on the table before he sat down. The
pen skittered to the middle of the table, and Baker had to lean over to
retrieve it. As usual, Baker had pulled his tie loose and opened the top
two buttons of his shirt. As he bent over, the shirt puckered open and
Michael glimpsed a tuft of grizzled hair. Jeff has hair in the same place,
he thought. He wondered if it would grow gray and wiry looking like Baker's
when Jeff reached the sergeant's age. The reminder of Jeff instantly
brought to mind the image of Jeff kneeling in the shower this morning, his
curly brown hair plastered to his scalp by the shower spray, and the water
coursing down his back and between his buttocks. And his lips on Michael's
cock. His mental images were like a video of his cock being sucked in and
out of Jeff's mouth. Jesus, what had gotten into Jeff? He hadn't done
something that spontaneous in months. Michael's cock stirred, and he
suddenly became aware of where he was. He shut down the image stream and
forced his mind back to the meeting.

The captain closed the door and pulled down the shade to cover the window
in the door. "I don't think we want anyone to see what were about to
watch. Do you two know Mike Chang? He's joining the team as our computer
guy."

That was the first indication Michael had that he had been assigned to the
investigation. His joy at finding that out was tempered by Altmann's
mispronunciation of his name. The captain still pronounced "Chang" as
"chayng." Michael was always careful to pronounce it as his ancestors in
China had—"Jahng" with a j sound at the beginning and broad ah in the
middle. He always introduced himself as "Michael Jahng" and answered his
work phone with "Detective Jahng," but trying to get his colleagues to
pronounce his name correctly was, he had concluded within a few days of
arriving at Midtown Major Crimes, a hopeless effort. The first time he had
met Altmann, the captain had said "Good to have you on the team, Mike," and
then turned around and shouted to the crowded squad room, "Hey, guys, this
is our new guy in computer crimes, Mike Chayng." And Mike Chayng he had
been ever since.

Phil Redding took the chair next to him and smiled, "Hey, how's it going,
Michael?" Baker and the captain sat further up the table, nearer the
screen. Altmann motioned to Michael, who clicked on the triangle to begin
playing the video.

Altmann and the other detectives watched the video carefully until Rossiter
begin rimming the second man. Then they begin twisting uneasily in their
chairs, and their eyes darted away for seconds at a time. When the video
ended, no one wanted to be the first to speak. Nor did they want to catch
one another's eyes. They stared at the table, trying not to look at the
image of the clown frozen on the screen.

"Turn that off, Mike." Altmann stood up, opened the shade on the door, and
looked out at the squad room as he spoke. "This video was uploaded to a
website called Star in Your Own Porn Video Sunday morning by this creep who
calls himself The Carma Klown. He also emailed copies of the video, along
with a videotaped confession purporting to be from Rossiter admitting to
various financial crimes, to all TV and radio stations in the metro area as
well as all newspapers, even local shoppers' guides. Friends, family,
neighbors, colleagues—anyone who might know Rossiter was sent a copy
too. This is the sixth video this Carma Klown nut has posted. The others
are similar to this one. A prominent businessman is humiliated and taken
through a series of admissions and actions like the ones in this
video. Then he gives his name and address and invites anyone who wants to,
to show up on his doorstep. The men in the first five videos have all gone
into seclusion. All of them deny involvement in the videos and claim that
their bodies and faces were inserted into the videos by computer
manipulation. None of them is willing to press charges or cooperate in the
investigation. That hasn't prevented them or their lawyers from calling the
mayor and demanding that he do something. Which is why we are here. We're
the something the mayor's promising them."

"Why are we handling this?" Michael asked. "Isn't this a job for Vice or
the FBI?"

"I'd like to say that it's because we're the best," said Altmann, "and the
brass have confidence in us, but it's because yesterday evening John
Rossiter was found dead at his home and now it's our case. The coroner is
99 percent positive that Rossiter committed suicide, but we'll have to wait
for her report. Even if it's ruled a suicide, if we can find The Carma
Klown, the District Attorney's Office thinks we might be able to charge him
as an accessory because he precipitated Rossiter's death. If Rossiter's tox
screens come back positive for drugs, we may be able to charge this nut
with possession and use of controlled substances if we can prove that he
and not his victims administered the drugs, not to mention kidnapping,
false imprisonment, coercion, and extortion. We don't have an exact count,
but Rossiter's neighbors said that there was a constant stream of visitors
to his house beginning in the afternoon yesterday—just a few hours after
the video became available. Several of the neighbors called the police when
they heard the sound of a gunshot around 9:30. When the police arrived, the
front door was open, and a man who had shown up for his free rim job was
taking pictures with his cell phone and posting them online. Rossiter was
found dead in his living room. Our job is to identify the Klown and put a
stop to his activities."

Altmann paused to let the three men chosen to head the investigation
consider his remarks before continuing: "The mayor's been hearing from a
lot of corporate executives, not just those featured—make that allegedly
featured—in the videos. Evidently many of them are worried they might be
next—guilty consciences maybe. The comments sections on the videos are
full of suggestions of other men who deserve to become members of what
people have started calling `The Carma Klown's Asshole Lovers Club.'
There's even an abbreviation now so that you don't have to waste so many
characters typing the full name—CKALC. Several million people have
viewed the videos. The mainstream media aren't showing the videos, but
they've been posting the links on their websites. So there's going to be a
lot of pressure on us to get results. The mayor and Chief Branson are
holding a press conference downtown," Altmann paused to look at his watch,
"in just about an hour—in time for the mid-day news broadcasts—to
announce the formation of a task force. I have to be there and make the
usual `we're pursuing several active leads, but have nothing to report at
the present time' statement. Jerry, Rossiter's widow and son are returning
from a trip to California to visit her brother. Meet her at the airport and
escort her to wherever she's staying. Try to find out if she knows anything
that will help us. Phil, you get back to Rossiter's house and supervise
that investigation. Tomorrow, I want the two of you to begin contacting the
previous victims and trying to persuade them to talk to us. Chang, you get
the `enviable' job of watching all the videos for clues where they were
made and trying to trace them. Any questions?"

"This can't be voluntary, right? Nobody in their right mind would willingly
take part in a video like this, especially if they knew it was going to be
made public. But what's happening? Are they drugged? What sort of drug
would make someone do this? Can Rohypnol make people do things like that?
Or is this some kind of sex club stunt gone wrong? Jesus, you should have
seen the crowd at Rossiter's home last night, Captain. Some of those guys
were disappointed that they couldn't get a rim job. Others started cheering
when they heard Rossiter's dead." Baker's body language betrayed his
disgust. "Is this something that gay guys do?" The last question was
addressed to Michael and to Phil Redding. Both of them shook their heads to
indicate that they had no answers to Baker's first series of
questions. Both chose to ignore his final question.

"Those are things we need to find out," said Altmann. "Rossiter's blood is
being analyzed right now for drugs, but we won't have preliminary results
until tomorrow at the earliest."

Chang looked up from his laptop, where he had been keying in notes. "Who
was in charge of the investigations of the earlier videos? Have we got the
files yet?"

"There was no earlier investigation. As I said, none of the other victims
would press charges. And rimming's not a crime. Nor is posting a video of a
rim job. The only reason we can get involved now is because Rossiter is
dead. So we have to start from scratch."

"Steve, is there some significance to the fact that Michael and I are part
of this team? Is there some evidence The Carma Klown is gay? Is that why we
were picked for the team?" Redding gestured with his hand to include
Michael in his remarks. He spoke aggressively. His beef with the department
about his frequent assignments to crimes involving gays was of
long-standing.

"No, Phil. It's just a failure of imagination. One man licking another
man's ass—it's gotta be gay, right? That's the way they think
downtown. And who better to investigate a gay crime than gay cops? They'd
really like to pretend this is some sort of underground gay club getting
out of hand. That way they can forget about it."

Redding shook his head. "I don't see this as a gay crime. It's more like
The Carma Klown thinks punishing someone by making him rim another man is a
way of humiliating him or maybe that . . ."

Altmann held up a hand to stop Redding. "Let's not get ahead of
ourselves. We need more information before we can start reaching
conclusions."

"But . . ."

"I'm not saying you're wrong, Phil." The hint of impatience in the
Captain's voice made it clear that he was restraining himself from saying
more. "In fact, I hope you're right. But we've got work to do. And I have
to get downtown to the press conference. We'll talk later. Let's get the
investigation started."

Altmann signaled the end of the meeting by opening the door and speaking
over his shoulder as he left. "Mike, would you shut that thing off for
me?"The other two men stood up and filed out of the room. They hadn't
stepped two feet from the door before they began calling to members of
their teams and organizing their part of the investigation. Michael sighed
and clicked on the buttons that initiated the computer's shut-down
sequence—once again, he was part of the computer clean-up crew.