Date: Sat, 28 Oct 2006 23:54:02 -0500
From: Brian Dixon <Dudealias@msn.com>
Subject: The Quantum Mechanic: Part 2

Author's Note:

It doesn't need to be said, but this isn't by any means politically
correct.  At all.  If you have any delicate sensibilities involving a
somewhat misplaced faith in Christianity or anything likewise similar (up
to and including Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, Hinduism, new age things, etc.)
then I'm afraid you'll be much turned off.

As far as sexual things go there's nothing particularly out-there; The main
thrust of the story (so to speak) is an establishment of a relationship
between two entirely unhappy teens stuck in crappy lives and even crappier
situations, chronicling how they deal with the fact that they know each
other without having dated before.  This is it.  Asides from people their
own age, there is no horny gym teacher, or manipulative, disgustingly
lecherous old person masquerading as a crappy attempt at a bad guy.

These boys are not happy-go-lucky.  These boys DO NOT get together fairly
quickly.  And this is not primarily a relationship based on sex, just as
the story is not primarily based on sex.  just like a good relationship,
though, there will be a healthy portion here and there.

If you haven't been scared away yet, then ENJOY.  And if you enjoy it (or
even hate it) then feel free to e-mail me your opinions.

----------------------------------------------------------------
The Quantum Mechanic:
Part 2


The majority of this tale takes place in and around the area of a small
town known as Mannford.  Lying somewhere non-specific in the North-eastern
Oklahoma region, somewhere to the west of Tulsa County, this town does,
indeed, exist, irrespective of your own beliefs, a lot like certain urban
legends and Fred Phelps.

It is a somewhat smallish city, its only attractions being the nearby lake
and what is believed to be a Szechuan carry-out restaurant, which is in
actuality a Thai carryout restaurant.  (This happens a lot, by the way.)
There is only one High School in all of Mannford; It's main draw is its
baseball team, called the Pirates, and unique amongst them is that, in all
of the surrounding cities, they have possibly THE gayest uniform ever
created, being colored an awful gold and purple color and consisting of
clingy cotton that makes the ass look more round and the pouch bigger.
They also have vests, which match their shirts.  I believe enough has been
said about that.

Mannford is, like many small towns in Oklahoma, quite conservative, and
approximately seventy-nine percent of its population attends the Mannford
Church of Christ.  Being the kind of small town where jobs of importance
tend to be held by folks with the same last name, the head Preacher of
their denomination was also the Mayor's brother, which, I can assure you,
was not an unrelated incident.

Yearly, festivals and fairs are held around the Keystone Lake, which appear
to be a big deal, as people from many towns around travel to see it, as it
is quite a big lake and, after all, it's not like you can just take a drive
to the ocean if you want to swim.  Oklahoma and all; Middle of the country,
and all that.

All in all Mannford was, and remains to be, unique in its own semi-modern,
small suburb-type town way.  Internet was a regular thing, as well as
computers, and nary a speck of farmland was to be seen inside the town
itself.  The town library was located on Main Street, I believe, across
from town hall and sitting a few streets over from the police station.

A small, kind of enjoyable, quiet town.

But you know what they say.

It's always the quiet ones.

Always.











3 o'clock in the afternoon in East Central's main office, located smack-dab
in the east-central area of Tulsa, Oklahoma.  A row of chairs sit outside
the councilor's door, more than half of them filled with various errant
students waiting for their punishment.  A half-dead plant sits on an
end-table, wilting slightly.  The air is stale, and Charlie Jackson is
sitting here with a more than annoyed expression plastered across his face,
the likes of which everyone in his immediate social circle has associated
with his 'unpleasant sarcastic bastard' mood.

It has been seven days since his chance encounter with someone he'd never
met before, and since that time his face has grown, day by day, more sour
and bitter.  While before his life had been merely acceptable, with no
thoughts of his future save the liberation he'd get from his annoying
step-father and less-than-understanding mother, this past week's
introspection on the manner of things lost that had never been found had
changed him

No longer did he think in terms of merely breaking free from their
tyrannical oppression.  He began to wonder if perhaps, just supposing,
there was something out there for him.  It was as if a lightbulb had
suddenly switched on in his head, a pulling chain that told him that there
was a way to get himself into a position where he wouldn't have to struggle
endlessly, a way to get himself where he could help as many people as
possible.

Which was a major change- The previous Charlie had been, in the main,
concerned with himself.  Not to say that this was a character flaw by any
means, even though that point could be argued.  The fact was that the old
Charlie was an irritated teenager who hated the lot life had bestowed upon
him, and wished it would change.

He was angry with the fact that his father dribbled and played with
macaroni and paste at a mental institute.  He was upset that his father's
best friend (ironically the man his parents had named Charlie after)
married his Mom and was an annoying, egotistic, know-it-all prick.  He was
upset with the fact that his Mom never wanted to hear about anything in his
life, always assuming he was two-steps removed from a meth-crunching AIDS
victim, wasting away the rest of his life in a desperate bid to fill that
panic of oncoming death with the next ultimately futile orgasm.

Upset about many things, and all for himself.  The realization that perhaps
the world is bigger than it looks and the universe far more strange than
anyone could know had changed him in subtle ways.  He began to think about
how others felt, how others would feel, in a situation like his.  And that
opened the doors.

He began self-introspection, and seriously thought about things that
concerned him and others.  He began to think about the path his life was
on; The thought that his path was leading to a dead end hadn't occured to
him before this, but it seemed much apparent to him now.  And if you're
stuck in a situation like this, with no hope for yourself, then how can you
afford to offer others hope?

You can't, and so Charlie Jackson decided to do his damndest to re-rail his
own train.

He sat there between a dying plant and a nervous-looking Freshman girl and
stared at the wall in front of him, as if daring it to say something.
While not the most popular student at school by any means, Jackson was
well-known for two things: His utter icy exterior revealing a lack of
understanding for anyone showing weakness, and the fact that he had an aura
of indefinable sexuality about him.  There wasn't anything particularly
special about his looks- He had a naturally darker skin tone than some
people, making him look as if he had a summer tan, and short black hair
that he usually gelled forward in the way that many kids do, and a goatee
that he was particularly proud of (also black.)  He also had a pair of blue
eyes that looked more slate-gray than anything up close, sheltered by a
pair of bushy eyebrows.  He did not have a muscular build, nor even a
slender build.  He was husky, of solid build, and tall.

It was not that his looks, on anyone else's face, would have been drop-dead
gorgeous.  It was the fact that he carried himself in the manner of an
unsinkable ship.  He bowed to none, gave little respect to anyone, and had
an utter in-malleability that was tangible.

He was, in short, not bothered by anyone's opinions.  His were the only
ones that mattered, and, as they say, self-confidence is about the best
thing anyone can have.  Charlie had so much of it that he was unbothered by
anyone's opinions, and that was what gave him that special shine.

The way he'd smile through a crooked grin and waggle his eyebrows at anyone
he chose was a mark of how little he cared for other's opinions, for it was
a well-known fact that Charlie Jackson was a fucking faggot, and he would
flirt with you if given half the chance.

Not to say that he'd make sexual comments, because that wasn't Charlie's
style.  A sly grin or a wink in the right place at the right time was more
than enough for him, because in his opinion offering to suck some guy off
in the bathroom was ridiculously stupid, and if Charlie was anything, he
wasn't stupid, nor a very submissive kind of guy.

Not by far.

A girl with red hair and enough freckles to play connect the dots poked her
head out of the Councilor's office and, with a barely suppressed narrowing
of the eyes, called Charlie.

He unfolded himself from the chair, and made his way in.





The guidance councilor peered down his nose at the files before him, a
skeptical look on his face.  He was a balding man with a pot belly and a
tobacco-stained mustache, possessing an extraordinary smell of rank cheese.
Charlie Jackson sat across from him, hands clutched like iron grips against
the wooden chair, an expression of extreme annoyance on his face.

"Well, I hate to break this to ya, Charlie," the Councilor said,
"But... you don't have the best qualifications towards getting into your
school of choice."

"I knew *that*," Jackson said, glaring.  "What can I do to change it?"

The skeptical councilor leafed through two or three pages and frowned.

"Well, at this point in time?" the Councilor asked, almost hypothetically
"I'd say you'd have to suddenly switch schools, somehow ask the grade fairy
to keep your GPA at a 4.0 for the rest of your Junior and throughout your
Senior year, and then start playing some kind of sport, of which you'd have
to be so amazingly good at that you manage to get a scholarship for it."

Jackson's lip curled in a sort of disgust, which, after a short but furious
struggle with his usual inner anger, fizzled out and turned into a sort of
forced politeness.

"Why would I have to switch schools?" he asked after a moment.

The councilor shook his head.

"Your reputation here," he said.  "D'you really think you could get any
teacher reccommendations?"

Jackson considered this for a moment.

"Well, there's always-" he said, and then drew a blank.  He blinked, and
then looked at the Councilor.  "I see.  What about you?"

"Me?" the Councilor asked, laughing.  "Yeah right."

Jackson nodded his head in defeat.

"So I'm basically fu- screwed?" he editted.

"Nope," said his Councilor.  "You are, in all actuality, self-fucked.  Then
again, if you really tried hard, and aced every single asignment and every
single test of every single class you took, as well as suddenly changed
your entire personality so you would be accepted onto a sports team, said
sport being something you particularly excel in, then you have a chance.  A
slim one, perhaps the size of a toothpick in relation to the gargantuan elm
tree of a shitty future you have now, but still a slim one.  And all that
if, and only if, you switched schools."

"I see," Jackson said in a polite voice.  There was no emotion on his face
at all.  "Thank you for your time.  Do you happen to have your own bathroom
facility here?"

"In the back," he said.  "Don't stink it up."

"I'll try not to," Jackson said with a wan grin, and then dissappeared
inside.

After a few moments, there was a loud, horrendous muffled scream of
self-hatred forced into one four-letter word that started with F and ended
with uck, which then turned into a series of sloppy, wet rasping sobs.

Charlie Jackson was not, and had not been, a very happy boy for quite some
time.





On the drive home from school he considered veering into the opposite lane
of rush-hour traffic accidentally-on-purpose three times, but then started
thinking about all the hundreds of people he would wind up hurting and/or
slowing down in the process (his brain mysteriously produced the number
1,567, which meant absolutely nothing to him at all) and so he decided
against it.  He thought of slitting his wrists and then writing on the wall
a cruel message in blood about how he hated his life and it was all his
family's fault, but then had an oddly vivid daydream about it, that maybe
it would cause his little half-sister some kind of deep emotional trauma
that would end up with her becoming a crackwhore and married to a man named
Freddy with a tattoo of a dolphin in three colors on his right-upper back
and having six kids, three from the neighbors in the next trailer park
across the road, and then dying by, of all things, a fork in the toaster.

So deep in his depression was he that his thoughts had a sort of searing,
viscous thickness to them that permeated the air around him.

"I wish my situation could change," he said to himself, half-out loud, not
expecting anything but this continuous hollow sadness.  "I wish I could go
and be a success, no matter what I have to do."

There was no boom; There was no loud, staticky crackle.  No sound of a
mysterious portal opening or closing.  No buzz of realities converging.
There was no noise at all but perhaps the astral equivalent of a pin
hitting a marble floor, distant and vague at the back of your mind, heard
but dismissed as a random case of tinnitus.

Little did he know that at that exact moment, a phone rang at his house.

It was good news, and it was bad news.

But most of all, it was News.

And he never noticed because his reflection had...

Changed.


***





Ben Tanaka lived in Mannford, where for the last week he had lived in a
kind of miserable agony.  Not so much for the fact that he was frustrated
because of the Boy he had met that he had never met, but because of the
fact that he hadn't been able to get one wink of sleep.

It was that goddamned cow.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" he screamed in agony, shoving a pillow over his ears.

The cow moaned on in the droning, incessant tones of something so in-bred
it will eat until its stomachs burst.  It whined, and wailed, and generally
made loud, less than pleasant cow noises, none of which remotely resembled
a Moo.  Ben wondered about that- He always assumed a cow did go Moo.
Instead, it made more of a Muuur noise.  Very loudly.  And it wouldn't
STOP.

His mother had been passing in the hallway when Ben decided to scream, and
wasn't very happy at all.  As she narrowed her eyes at his door and made a
mental note to speak to him about language later, she walked past the cow
on the second-floor landing and completely failed to register either it or
its horrible moans of scared-stiff agony.  This was completely normal, and
expected, as the cow was a ghost and had been long since sliced, diced,
skillet-fried, powdered into gelatin, char-broiled, barbecued, baked, and
made into hot dogs and the occasional McNugget.

Ben's ability to percieve things others couldn't see was not a skill forced
upon him at birth.  It was, like a majority of people, a skill he'd had
when younger that, through years of conditioning in a spiritually-dead
society, had withered and rotted like a vestigial tail.  The start of his
path towards true spiritual enlightenment had happened years ago after he'd
had the sudden realization that Satan was, on the whole, rather more
genteel and nice towards human beings than generally accepted by the
mainstream media.

This he had decided for himself through perusal of the Bible, where, when
read appropriately, an interpretation of certain scriptures scared the
absolute shit out of him.  Among those were one of the Psalms, wherein it
states that all people are like sheep and that the Lord is like their
shephard.

'And so he taketh us into his house, and anointeth us with oil' seemed to
Ben like something you'd do to a sheep right before you barbecued and ate
the poor son of a bitch.  Marinating, et. al.

In any case, he decided he liked his free will, thank you very much, as
well as knowledge and intelligence, and he couldn't really see how people
could convince themselves differently.  After all, the Serpent was just
trying to equal out the equation.

Also interesting to him was the concept of the supposed Satanic 'Animal
Sacrifice' bit.  A bit ripe when it came down to it, as God was the
originator of THAT whole can of worms.

In any case Ben had done some research, and found some things, and got with
a group of like-minded individuals, becoming a member of a well-known
Satanic group specializing in advancement of the mind to become like a God,
involving no blood sacrifice or death of any kind, only grueling,
consistent mental work and a healthy relationship between the member and
the demons themselves, who were, in actuality, just pissed off Old Gods
harassed from years of spiritual abuse from nearly every human around.  He
read some of the meditations, did them half-assed, and now...

Well, the only truely lasting things Ben had done were to inadvertently pry
his third eye wide open and get an Incubus, mostly because he got lonely
sometimes and, well, talk about a masturbation aid.  There were times when
Ben had stayed up all night feeling the pulsing rush of energy from his
demon-boyfriend vibrating in and out of him.

Unluckily for him, he hadn't been able to feel any of that lately, because
of no rest.

That GODDAMNED COW!

The problem was that a cow is a cow, even when it's a ghost cow.  Cows do
not like to walk backwards, because they cannot see backwards, and as far
as their bovine brain-waves figure, whatever they cannot see does not
exist.  Thus, a cow stuck ass-backwards in a stair well, ghost cow or not,
will not step back to get down the stairs.  Being a cow, it also does not
have the ability to realize it is dead.

Much to Ben's dismay, the cow also did not realize it could walk through
walls.  And the corridor pinched itself inwards in front of the cow, and
thus the Cow became stuck with a capital S.  Unable to turn around in its
own mind due to the narrowness of the corridor, unable to step down the
stairs backwards, unable to move forward for fear of its getting further
caught, the only thing the cow reasoned it could do was moo in a
particularly loud, annoyingly sad fashion, perhaps waiting for a passing
farmer to rescue it.

After a few more minutes of the incessant bovine static Ben got up, with
shaky, red eyes, bloodshot from half-a-fortnight with nary a wink of
undisturbed sleep, and then slung some clothes on, firmly deciding to find
a park bench and then sleep for three days unmolested.

He stalked through the cow (which mooed in an alarmed fashion) and down the
steps, grunting to his mother and nearly ripping the door off its frame,
then broke into a run until he hit the woods.  Then he found the first
comfortable bit of grass he'd seen, and fell asleep immediately.

When he awoke the moon was high in the sky, he felt someone he couldn't see
on his lap, and the noise of fall insect life echoed in his ears in a
soothing way.  He was relaxed, felt well-rested, and was positive that his
mother wondered where he'd gone.  He didn't care, though.  All he cared
about right now was the cool breeze around him, the comfortable grass under
his back, and the feelings of someone sucking him off as he relaxed.

Getting an Incubus was something he, at times, regretted.  Other times he
enjoyed it.  Often he'd be sitting in class, trancing out when it came time
to do some actual school-work, or watch a video, when he'd suddenly spring
a boner and feel like he was getting fucked in class.  It was ridiculous,
sometimes.  One time he had been on the couch watching Simpsons and he was
suddenly mauled, in a good, but embarassing way.  He'd had to excuse
himself to the bathroom, where he furiously beat off and blew a wad all
over a newly washed set of towels.

As of yet his Incubus had not yet made him cum, unless he came through a
wet dream, and that had only happened once that he remembered.  But talk
about a turn-on.  Ben could have astral sex for hours sometimes, only
finishing himself off because he had school in the morning.

He'd been unable to discover his Incubus' name yet, but he knew when he was
present.  Like now, when he could feel the Incubus' mouth over his cock
like a fucking vacuum cleaner.

Ben's eyes rolled into the back of his head, his hands gripped the grass,
and his pants tented out.  He felt hands against his torso, and his balls,
and his all-over everywhere, and because it had been a long time since he
stroked one off (seeing as a wailing cow doesn't really engender feelings
of lust) he ripped open his pants and jacked himself fastly, furiously,
heart pounding and breath staggeringly quick, panting like a dog.

He did not know he was being watched from the woods.  He would not ever
find out.  Regardless of his ignorance of it, someone was, however,
watching his fevered meat-slapping.  This person watched, fascinated, as
Ben writhed in a sort of lusty agony where he lay, his palms slick from
where he spat in them for some makeshift lube.  They watched as Ben moaned,
and ran his hands over his own body, and twisted, his hips thrusting
upwards as he jerked off with one hand.  Watched as Ben's whole body acted
as if he was getting the best fucking blowjob in his life, as he sank
upwards into something only he could perceive.

And then, like a jackhammer, Ben thrust upwards three times through his
slick fist, purple mushroom head swollen and engorged atop a veiny shaft,
sticking from his fingers like a flagpole prize, his hips paused in mid-air
as his orgasm swept through him and around his body and down and out his
dick, cum splattering upwards, arcing, fountaining into the air, spattering
onto his face , into his hair, and all over his shirt.

Ben slumps backwards, too wiped out to do much but mutter 'fuck' and wonder
how he's going to get home with cum stains on his black t-shirt.  Then he
smiles, and rolls over, nuzzling backwards into something only he can feel,
content and safe in the knowledge that he is not, momentarily, alone.

He does not see the person in the woods.  But the person in the woods had
seen him.

And the person in the woods dissappears as silently as he came, his hand in
his mouth, bleeding from where he bit it, his own hands hatefully rubbing
against the sizable pouch of his jeans.


-EOC-