PART ONE

"Yo, Schillinjah. Yo' bitch on the rag, or what?"
     Vern glanced up from the dog-eared copy of THE FOUNTAINHEAD some
bleeding heart cousin of Mom's had sent him, frowning; sure, the Jew
dyke who wrote it hated Commies as much as Vern ever had, but just
trying to work his way through two pages at a time left him feeling like
somebody'd been yelling in his ear for an hour. Down on the quad floor,
meanwhile, Kenny Wangler--that barely-legal five-foot pile of
high-yellow shit--was grinning wide and pointing at something he
apparently found funnier'n a toothless man at a watermelon-eating
contest: The sight of Tobias Beecher, Vern's wayward property, weaving
back from the shower room with a thin white dusting of junk all over his
snub nose, red-rimmed eyes and what Vern had come to recognize as the
former lawyer's "normal" post-drug-deal smirk.
     Hearing a rising chorus of snickers greet Wangler's comment; the
mongrel horde-- nigger, Spic, Wop, take your fuckin' pick--all ditching
their various traditional beefs to share the same quick joke at *Vern*'s
expense. And feeling that rush of rage, increasingly familiar, as
Beecher came swaying up the steps towards him, stupid-ass half-smile
firmly in place: Not getting it, or PRETENDING not to. Or not giving
much of a shit about playing by the--fairly fucking *easy to
UNDERSTAND*--rules of he and Vern's basic submission-for-protection
agreement, either way.
     (No-brains, no-spine,
no-even-halfway-sense-of-self-*discipline*-havin' little
law-boy...BRAT.)
     Vern shoved himself upright, letting the book fall wherever it took
a fancy, and pulled Beecher bodily back into their pod before a passing
hack could notice his tits-infected stupor. Snarling: "What'd I *tell*
you, TOby?"
     Beecher paused, pretending to think about it. "Hmmm, what *did*
you...oh yeah, I 'member now: Jesus was WHITE."
     "*You* are high."
     A cat-sneeze half-laugh, snorting white flakes, as Vern swiped
roughly at his upper lip with one well-starched shirt-cuff: Thanks,
Daddy. "An' you're per-*cep*-tive."
     Adding, coldly, as Vern drew breath to snap back a proper
response--
     "Look, I broke our 'deal'--so what? Jus' get it over with."
     And: Okey-dokey, Vern told himself, grimly. Whatever you want--
     (sweetpea)
     Slipping to block the watch-station's view, he hooked Beecher fast
and hard in the pit of stomach, feeling soft gut part over that
surprisingly hard bed of sturdy muscle; watched Beecher fold up with the
force of it and sit back heavily onto the bottom bunk, gasp-retching,
hugging himself. And thought: Now, THERE's somethin' we've all seen
before  --just like the rest of him, every night after lock-down. That
smart shyster mouth and those deskjob hands and that still-tight *ass*,
oh MY...
     (HrrrRRRrrr.)
     "Like that?" Vern demanded. "You *must*."
     (Make me DO it often enough.)
     Beecher coughed a bit of blood into his palm, then studied it for a
careful moment before wiping it away, like it might hold the answer to
all his problems. Before replying, with a bit of a liquid edge:
     "Yuh, well...'t does keep me *busy*."
     Vern crossed his arms and glared down at him, a solid wall of
stolid disapproval: How the hell old was he, anyway--32?
Harvard-educated, all that crap. And actin' like Vern's youngest, half
the damn time...
     Not that Andy was all that YOUNG anymore, in actual fact. These
days.
     (Christ.)
     "Thought your folks already cut off that allowance of yours, 'cause
you were spendin' it on *this* shit--or what, O'Reilly givin' it out for
free, all of a sudden? You tell that slimy Mick cocksucker to sell to
his own, or I'll hang him by his Lucky fuckin' Charms."
     "Uh huh? Make sure to pass that 'long, next time I see him." A
beat. "SIR."
     Pale blue to paler, narrowed glare to resentful stare under
similarly sketchy brows, Vern's sandy blond vs. Beecher's dull gold.
With the younger man's rebellious scowl puffing headlong into a childish
pout, same way it always did when you wouldn't let the pissy little
bitch do *exactly* what he thought he wanted to--just like night follows
day, like count follows free time follows mess hall follows count
follows work follows count...
     Just like year follows year, and so on: Five years' worth of seven,
with parole finally starting to shine off in the distance like some
vague, reflected signal--the lost portal back into a whole 'nother
world, one so long gone it sometimes seems more like a dream. And not a
moment too soon, in Vern's fervent opinion.
     'Cause it wouldn't do to get TOO attached to Oz, one way or
another--either the place, or anything *in* it. Not even--
     (Beecher)
     Yeah. 'Specially not him.
     Huffing through his nose, arms tightening, and feeling his own
lightning-bolted flab bulge in response: Puffy, and seemingly doomed to
get steadily puffier, no matter how hard he pushed himself in the gym's
weights area. An Aryan alpha lion deprived of his pride, swollen big as
a bear with carbohydrates and lack of room to roam, this middle-aged
shell hardening around him like the ultimate mask of benign,
non-threatening paternalism--may LOOK dumb and clumsy, but the fucker
can sprint when it wants to and its claws are pretty damn sharp, too.
     Though that doesn't preclude it from being, uh...*playful*, when it
wants. As you can testify--right, cupcake?
     "You tryin' for anything in particular here, Bitch-er?" Vern
rumbled. "Trying to make me--"
     (DO something?)
     Beecher coughed again, and looked up over the rim of his glasses,
pout thinning: Who, l'il ol' *me*, boss?
     "No, sir."
     ('Course not.)
     Because, really: Beecher manipulating him, for any reason, however
obscure--manipulating HIM? *Beecher*, bent double and scuttling around
like a morally outraged crab, forever wavering between those
all-too-brief--if interesting--spurts of toddler rage, like the morning
after they'd first..."got to know" one another:
     *Hey, Bitch-er, you comin' to breakfast?*
     *NO!*
     Shrug: *Suit yourself.*
     ...and his usual painful too-politeness, all strain and subtext:
Pleeease don't hurt me, or I might have to SUE, or something. Then,
modifying as time went on--well, okay, you can hurt me, but not too
much. A little more, maybe. Okay, maybe just a *little* more...
     (I mean, I do DESERVE it, after all.)
     Vern shook his head, snorting; never happen. Not in *my* lifetime.
     (Or anybody else's, either.)
     Fixing Beecher again, and ordering: "You stay here 'till you're
sober, don't care how long it takes--you got that?"
     "Sir."
     "Do you good to miss a meal or two, way that roll of yours is
sittin'."
     "Yes. Sir."
     "...okay, then."
     Life back in balance--a place for everything, and everything in its
place. Vern felt the hacks' attention begin to shift his way, sensed it
in the same instinctive, unmeasurable way some animals can sense a
coming earthquake, and swung himself neatly up onto the top bunk,
stretching lengthwise: Nothin' to see *here*, fellas. Just two good
roomies, doing their roomie stuff.
     On the bottom, Beecher stayed slumped forward, staring unfocussedly
past the lenses he'd probably once counted on--like every other
vision-challenged liberal chump--to keep him safely away from the rest
of the world. Gold brows knit, pout back in place; scanning the pod's
interior, through pupils tiny with drugs, for the one thing in his
so-called life left safe from Vern's interference. Which would be, at
this point...
     ...nothing.

And hours later, long after the bell had sounded for "Lights out,
ladies!"--
     --Beecher found himself checking out the delights of the top bunk,
for once, though once more in his usual nightly position: Pinned face-up
and naked under his "owner"'s not-inconsiderable bulk, the sticky mess
of his due marital service cooling between his spread legs, while a
further slug-trail dried the flaccid length of Vern's softened dick to
the top of Beecher's inner thigh. One arm and leg trapped, rapidly
losing sensation, as Vern pressed his sleeping profile into the side of
Beecher's neck and spanned Beecher's free wrist with a heavy right hand,
like he were taking his pulse. And hot breath in Beecher's ear, like the
break of waves; hot, mess hall meatloaf-flavored breath misting
Beecher's cheekbone again and again, while Vern mumbled a steady,
hissing, sleep-drunk string of consonants cut with maybe *one*
vowel--barely intelligible, even at the closest range possible...
      "Hrrrrmmm...'chrrr. Behhhh..."
      (Bee-?)
      "...chuhrrrrr..."
      (-cher.)
     Beecher felt his nose wrinkle like a forcibly bathed cat's, all
annoyed, reluctant acknowledgement: Sure, you made me DO it,
motherfucker--but that don't mean you made me *like* it...
     (even though you DID--sort of)
     ...as he nevertheless whispered back, automatically--
     "I'm here. Sir."
     "Huh."
     An absent half-pat to Beecher's hand, before Vern snuggled
comfortably into the next level of sleep: *Good* doggy. Right where I
left you.
     (Now, THERE's training.)
     And Beecher, gritting his teeth--now needing to pee so badly he
could not only taste it, but could probably describe each seperate
ingredient involved--thinking: So what's worse, Toby? That it's
happening at all? Or knowing everybody else is *watching* it happen?
     If they even WERE watching.
     (It being the middle of the night, and all.)
     One of the hardest things to get used to, in the midst of a whole
*barrel*-full of hard: How everything in Oswald Penitentiary, let alone
the Emerald City portion thereof, took on a certain public element. Here
amongst the rest of the glass-walled pod people, you were on constant
display, having to front hard every minute--put on what Augustus Hill
called your "game face" and shit and piss in public, suffer in public,
screw in public, DIE in public. Nothing was private, ever; nothing any
prisoner in Oz did seemed to *rate* what normal citizens took for
granted as simple human privacy. And if fucking somebody else was
reduced to just another bodily function, then who really CARED who was
watching?
      Well, Beecher realized, he'd gladly do it in the middle of the
quad itself with every faction he knew about hooting and hollering, if
could could only be assured of getting to urinate sometime soon--before
his bladder exploded, for example, and he got the rest of his fluids
kicked out for soiling Vern's nice clean mattress.
     Right on cue, the man in question grappled him closer, other arm
tightening possessively (and painfully) around the bruise he'd made on
Beecher's abdomen, earlier; he felt Beecher stir reflexively, somewhere
in the depths of his own unconscious, and seemed to smile. *Still too
scared of me to push me off, huh, sweetpea?*
     And: That's right, sir. But you know...it's not exactly *hard* to
make me scared, Never has been.
     (So--it's not all that much of an ACHIEVEMENT, really.)
     Just business as usual, in the Beecher/Schillinger pod: Proximity
while asleep equalling trust or intimacy, sort of, which made never
knowing what was going on while he was asleep--or what he'd wake up
to--all the more wearing. A sharp slap across the ass, a fingernail
tracing some intimate area, a barked order, a silky murmur. Assume the
position, open wide; got somethin' for you, babydoll--better than
breakfast.
     Or Vern, just...*there*. All the time.
     WATCHING him.
     Sleep deprivation was a mind control technique, as Beecher knew;
Vern must've read about it somewhere (he *could* read, after all)--in
some annotated Reader's Digest history of the Third Reich, maybe. So
he'd wait until Beecher was ALMOST finally asleep, then "accidentally"
kick the pod window. Belch or fart explosively, and grin when Beecher
jumped--real grade-school sleepaway camp crap like that. Once, he'd
woken up to find Vern's bicep pressing hard against his windpipe,
teasing him with tiny bursts of air. That VOICE, asking, almost
absently: So where you from, anyway? Cupcake?
     (Never did remember to ask, that first night.)
     And never a kind word, morning after morning after--never a softer
public gesture, here where ALL gestures were public, than a tug, a poke,
a bruising parody of a true caress. Beecher had done his homework, since
being rudely demoted to human Vac-u-Jac. Some owners in Oz had pet names
for their prags. Some treated their prags *like* pets.
     But if Vern treated his pets the way he treated Beecher, Beecher
would've expected some nosy neighbor to bust the older man's bulky butt
to the SPCA.
     Everybody watching everybody else, therefore, WITH everybody
else--hacks included. Because more and more, lately...now that Vern had
taken to turning him onto his back before--the inevitable...
     (and what was that about, anyway? Easier by far to pretend he was a
woman from behind, Beecher would have thought; no tell-tale lack of
breasts, for one thing, and most slightly over-fleshy hips looked the
same in the dark)
     Unless...maybe, these days, it was gradually becoming less about
*a* warm, tight hole than about--*Beecher*'s warm, tight hole, guy or
not. Less about the act itself, and more about watching HIM react to it.

     (Eeeeeuuuggggh.)
     ...but anyway:  Looking up over Vern's shoulder, mid-penetration,
and seeing the watch-station lights shimmer with repetitive motion,
ebbing and flowing and narrowing intermittently to a single
tear-deformed point. And supposing a routine conversation between the
guards who staffed it, who surely *must* be able to glance over and get
a fairly good view of Vern's big, un-swastika'ed butt laboring steadily
back and forth--
     Hack Number One (Lopresti, or whoever): Hey. You see Schillinger
from here?
     Hack Number Two (That Old Guy):  Yep.
     H.N.O.: He still fuckin' the lawyer?
     H.N.T.: Yep.
     H.N.O.: Wanna do anything about it?
     H.N.T.: ...nope.
     (Nah. Me neither.)
     Possibly he was fooling himself, but Beecher had a hard time
imagining Whittlesey being quite so blithe about the whole affair. Which
might explain why he so seldom noticed her filling in on night duty, in
the first place.
     Vern shifted again, making Beecher's aching groin cry out in fresh
pain: Oh, *God*. GOD, what did I *do* to--
     (YOU know, Toby.)
     Yes.
     (I do.)
     Beecher shut his eyes, screwed them tight as Vern had just finished
screwing him, not all so very, very long ago. And thought, teeth
gritting:
     This is gonna be a long, long night.

PART TWO

And, at almost the same time--
     Vern felt Beecher stir beneath him, restlessly, and hugged him even
closer, smiling to himself in his "sleep"--enjoying the younger man's
vain attempts to mask his growing discomfort far too much to let slip
any hint that he was awake enough to acknowledge it. Nothing tickled him
quite so much, these days, as watching Beecher sweat; always reminded
him of that first lock-down together, right after Beecher'd moved his
things over from Adebisi's pod. Grateful chatter gradually fading to
shocked silence with Vern's casual mention of "livestock"...those myopic
blue eyes goggling up at him, so surprised they lost their normal slant
completely: Surely you, uh--you can't actually *mean*--
     While Vern, chuckling fake-warmly, let his own pale gaze go cold
enough to burn: Oh, NO? Think again, Harvard boy.
     (And don't call me Shirley.)
     Gave him something to hug himself over, all right; that long, slow
process of branding, making his mark with every ounce of deliberate care
such a powerful symbol deserved. Then sitting back on his heels to
admire his own work, along with the high-held, sweet-cheeked, lightly
gold-furred canvas he'd chosen--
     "That sting, cupcake?"
     And Beecher, looking back, his glasses already gone the way of the
Dodo--unprotected eyes shiny with the perfect combination of hate and
hurt, lower lip bloody where he'd bitten it almost through.
Half-snarling, liquid: "YES."
     (Yeah, well--)
     "--so'll this," Vern had told him, moving into position. Thinking:
     So bear back, hike up, spread 'em wide...
     (...and GO with it.)
     All he'd every asked, really. His simple due: Complicity without
coercion, services rendered in return for same. You put out, and I keep
you safe. Keep you--
     (mine)
     And Christ, was this a good deal for some panty-waist little idiot
deskjob like Beecher, or what? Got no skills, no jizz, no *hope* of
either, even if you could turn on a dime and shuck that street-dumb
wrapper you came in. So here I am, volunteering to take care of you, do
anything and everything it takes to keep your ass off the cellblock
block--and WILL, without question, 'long as you just...
     (...*mind* me, you contrary little bitch.)
     Other prags Vern'd had, over the (*years*, Jesus) he'd spent
inside--slut supreme Chris Keller, for example--had all made an initial
show of defiance, then figured out their place and filled it: Only
practical choice, really, given the situation. But with Beecher, nothing
ever came that easy.
     (Ever.)
     The hitch in the package, the flaw in the plan. And, in some freaky
way...the lure.
     (Something--different.)
     Vern snorted, nuzzling the freak in question's stubbly neck, and
feeling him shift in his arms: Yeah, Beecher was THAT, all right.
     Kinda funny, more he thought about it. At first, this weak little
lamb he'd scoped out and cut from the herd like the expert predator he'd
become had reacted just the way Vern had figured he would--gone belly-up
(or *down*, more like), flopped over with his legs in the air and just
let Vern do what he pleased, over and over.
     (And...over.)
     But what Vern was only now coming to realize--slowly, surely,
uncomfortably--was that merely getting to stake his nightly claim on
Beecher, while fun, just wasn't *enough* anymore. That the former lawyer
kept the best part of himself hidden away, even now; the real meat of
his secretive Yuppie nut. Those intriguingly hard and nasty things
barely visible under his soft-gut shell, except for when climax cracked
him wide--gulping, yowling, spurting, soaking their mutual mash of
stomach and pubes. Then trying to hide from the result, cringing away as
though sickened by by the feel of his own sicky slickness; stiffening as
Vern's orgasm lit him from within, as the overspill glued them even
tighter together, his thin mouth a square, silent sob of horrified
disgust...
     (*Hhhahhhhrrrr*)
     And sure, you say you don't want to, never did--but nobody's THAT
good an actor. Here I was thinkin' I was bustin' some scared little
blond bunny, with you slinking around with your nose down, callin' me
sir...'cause I *told* you to, sure, but that's not the point.
     Turns out, though, this bitch has TEETH. And I guess...I like that.

     Want you to show 'em to me, more often than not. To feel 'em on me,
biting in. Your teeth on me, my hands on you--my...
     (...cock. IN you.)
     Hitch up your legs and slip a finger in, knuckle-deep and
more--two, three, four, probing and stroking. That *routine*, takin'
over again. Every time you go no, no, no...then blush deep, to your
ears, and start to churn your hips. That RESPONSE--embarassing, huh? And
nobody else ever did it for you but me, oh no--I know you better'n
*that*.
     (Better'n you know yourself, for damn sure.)
     Just like you probably never thought--never let yourself even
*suspect*--you actually might have...
     (WANTED someone to)
     Just for me, only me. First, and last, and always.
     Know what you want, much as you SAY you don't--and you, you know it
too. Just won't let yourself admit it.
     I own you, Bitch-er, Vern thought, fiercely. Inside and out. And
I'm gonna keep you, too. Never gonna let you go, unless--
     (--you *make* me.)

Meanwhile--
     Okay, Beecher forced himself to think, with deliberate care: Let's
just take a minute, here. Consider this--situation--logically...
     (hard as that may be)
     If you pee the bed, Vern'll wake up angry and beat the crap out of
you. But if you fake the kind of nightmare you're usually *having*
'round about this time of night, only too far away from Vern for it to
matter--thrash and shriek, say, even "accidentally" hit him awake...
     ...well, he'll still be angry, but you can't avoid that no matter
WHAT you do. And he might even think twice before falling asleep on you,
next time.
     And: Jesus CHRIST, I cannot *believe* I'm even having this
conversation with myself...
     Nietzche said it best--or maybe it'd been Augustus Hill, once more
repeating the tale of how those pig cops had thrown him off the roof,
broke his fuckin' spine, left him unable to give his wife more than a
tongue-lashing and a big, wide smile: Nothing is intolerable, as long as
it doesn't kill you. People adapt; they can't help themselves. *You* can
adapt--
     (already HAVE, in actual fact)
     Settle in. Allow this terrifying new parody of life to become
"familiar". Get to know Vern so well he could predict him, cater to him,
set his no-longer-existent watch by him without thinking twice.
Because...that'd be *smart*, right? Make it more like...
     (death)
     ...marriage.
     But: I'm not his Goddamn WIFE, the sanest section of Beecher's
fevered brain protested. I'm not even--anything to him. I'm just this
thing that gives him blowjobs and does his laundry, runs his errands and
bends over when he tells me to. The thing he he fucks. He *fucks* me.
     (You LET him.)
     Well, yes. But--
     --not much longer, Beecher could almost *hear* some other,
as-yet-dormant part of himself whisper. Not...forever.
     He closed his eyes again, riding the crest of pain in his too-full
bladder, listening to his own heartbeat--and felt things already
beginning to shift and slide beneath the surface. Felt himself splitting
and reforming, morphing into something new--or peeling away the layers,
maybe, to reveal something that'd always been there?
     (Always. Even when you were too damn--DRUNK--to see it.)
     ...drunk...
     Oh, *please* don't make me think about drinking.
     At which point, Beecher lifted his lids far enough to cast a sullen
glare in Vern's direction--and saw that the older man's eyes already
WERE open.
     Suffused with a sudden, outsized jolt of rage: "*You*--"
     --reining back, improvising--
     "--sleep well, sir?"
     Vern's gaze was level, unreadable. Like always.
     "Yup." Adding, benignly: "Could use a little more..."
     Beecher couldn't keep himself from squirming. "I--I, uhm--"
     "Need to pee."
     (Oh. You can *tell*, huh?)
     And Vern, raising his non-brows in silent retort: 'Course I can,
cupcake; read your mind, just like I can read a--tract, or a copy of
MEIN KAMPF (the translated version). Nothin' I don't know about YOU.
     (Fat, forty-something, fucking Nazi *bastard*.)
     Then rolling away in invitation, freeing the crushed half of
Beecher's body. Rumbling: "So what're you waiting for, TOby? A fuckin'
hand-engraved bedpan?"
     Beecher clawed himself upright, trying to ignore the
pins-and-needles agony all up and down his side. Replying, crisply: "No
*sir"."
     Limping to the toilet, only vaguely realizing he was still naked;
an automatic, "civilized" glance towards the watch-station's light,
where he could just make out a shaky outline of the C.O.s on duty's
bent, oblivious heads. Beecher sat, stiffly, and emptied himself in a
painful series of bursts. Then flushed and rose again, just as
stiffly--turned towards the pod's metal sink, bending to twist both taps
at once--
      --only to find Vern already up against him from behind,
incongruously swift and silent, his approach masked by the sound of
running water: One hand on Beecher's waist, the other slipping
possessively between the younger man's half-spread ass-cheeks; two
curved fingers already digging inside, aided by last session's lingering
lube, automatic as a key slipping into a well-oiled lock. Feeling for
that *thing*, that particular spot--the one which, if stroked, would
make Beecher arch and groan helplessly, hiking his hips like a cat in
heat.
     (Yeah, JUST like that.)
     Works every time--don't it, Toby? Baby?
     And Beecher, turning in his arms and hissing, eyes sparking
excitingly: That spoiled brat's grimace, hackles rising over "liberties"
taken. Like he still couldn't see how every part of him belonged to Vern
now--everything he could reach, along with everything he couldn't.
     (Including whatever you got stuffed into that uncharted territory
between your ears, ToBIas.)
     Half-snarl, almost-snap: How *dare* you, you...YOU...
     How? 'Cause I'm a *man*, sweetpea. THE man.
     (*your*)
     But: Stepping down hard on THAT thought, before it got the chance
to breed. Just leaning in instead, stroking the flat cheekbone nearest
to him, and rumbling--
     "Weren't thinkin' of *biting* me, were you? Bitch--"
     (-er?)
     Beecher let out a long breath through his nose, visibly willing
himself calm; felt Vern's hand move deeper, and gasped in response.
"NuhhhohSIR."
     Voice deepening, darkening: "'Cause it seems to me, you been doin'
quite a bit of thinking on your own, one way or another. Thinking you
can break our deal, get high, like I won't know it? Please." He caught
Beecher's chin in one palm, leaning him further over the sink. "And shut
those damn taps off, while you're at it--can't even hear myself *talk*,
for Christ's sweet sake."
     The water ceased. Beecher felt Vern snort against his shoulder,
pausing as though to collect himself. Felt the fingers ease back out,
and thanked what few lucky stars he still had for sparing him the extra
humiliation of being steered around like a puppet--*literally*, with a
frigging HAND up his butt.
     "Turn around." As he did: "You *know* you make me look bad when you
act like I'd ever let you get away with pullin' that kind of shit,
right?"
     "Yes, sir."
     "But I guess that's the point, huh? Make me look bad...make me lose
my jizz..." Another pause. "You listenin' to me, Beecher?"
     "Yes. Sir."
     Resentment in those eyes again, those lowered brows, that growing
pout. As Beecher thought: *Point*? Be fucking serious. You think I plan
this shit out ahead of time, it just proves you really DON'T pay
attention--except for whenever you're looking for a convenient place to
stick your dick.
     I'm a drunk, *sir*. A drug addict, these days. It's how I DEAL.
With everything.
     (Even you.)
     And, by the by--*your* impulse control is not exactly as good as
you seem to think it is, either. Witness how frustrated you're getting
now, just trying to choose the best words to cover a lose-lose
situation; can't really beat--OR fuck--what you want out of me, and you
know it. But...you've gotta try, don't you?
     Always, no matter what. Or risk revealing yourself as yet another
faliable human being who doesn't know everything, who *isn't* on the top
of his game at every given second...just like everybody else in the
world, let alone Oz. Even...
     (ME)
     "Look," Vern said, finally. "I told you once, told you twice--I
can't go on lettin' you off with a punch in the gut anymore, you get me?
But...if you could just accept that shit is the way it IS, for once in
your fuckin' life...just--let yourself *go*..." Vern let the words trail
away into frustrated silence, snorting at his own idiocy. "Aw, screw
it."
     (Like tryin' to teach a fuckin' cat to fetch.)
     He stared at Beecher, annoyance ripening to edge-of-rage, easy as a
drawn breath. While Beecher stared back, stomach fluttering--transfixed,
and telling himself, over and over--
     Game face. Keep your game face on. Don't ever let him know, let him
see just how--*tempted* you are. By this.
     (If you'd just--let--GO.)
     These freakily seductive moments between beatings and beratings,
when Vern's needs seemed to outweigh his wants far enough to make him
almost...well, not *desperate*, exactly. But softened, somehow; under
stress and wanting soothing, ready to give Beecher more attention than
he'd had for years in exchange for sex and comfort, some basic
placating, for a gentle voice to tell him "there, there" or ask him
whether it'd been a "hard day at the post office, dear?" All the stuff
that qualified as the--*good* times, Beecher supposed, queasily...
     The same stuff that made Beecher want to run screaming, more and
more, whenever he caught himself recognizing it. Made him want to run
straight to Ryan O'Reilly and get too high on the skinny Mick's
"charity" hand-outs to even pretend--
     (but WAS it pretending, really? Anymore?)
     --that he gave a shit *what* kind of stress Vern was under, let
alone what he might be personally able to DO about it.
     Fear edging into rage of his own--more subdued, but just as
vicious. As Beecher repeated, slowly:
     "Let--myself--go. And do what, *sir*, exactly? LOVE you?" Now it
was Beecher's turn to snort--drier, and far more detached. "Skipped a
step or two, I think, *that* was what you wanted. What's the
phrase...'you gotta kiss me BEFORE you fuck me?'"
     "Like I'd ever kiss you."
     "Like you'd ever have the *balls*."
     Vern frowned, bristling. "You sayin' I'm scared to?"
     "Wellll...it WOULD be a pretty faggy thing to do, all told.
Pretty--pussy-boy."
     "I *kiss* you, cupcake, you'll know you've been kissed."
     Beecher hissed, voice narrowing further--scarily feral, even to
himself.
     "Big--fucking--WORDS."
     A flush went boiling up across Vern's face, from puffy jaw to
almost-nonexistant hairline. "All right, you cunt. All right."
     Lips met lips: Dry, weirdly tentative, more a peck than a kiss. But
it gave Beecher a slight but definite shiver--one which he hastened to
cover up, by snapping: "Oh, yeah. That's REALLY im--"
     --only to have Vern swoop down on him again, crushing the mocking
words back inside his mouth with a fat slab of tongue: Hot, hard,
possessive.
     (-pressive.)
     Oh. My.
     (GOD)
     Vern's meaty breath in his mouth, crooked White Trash teeth on his
stubble-scraped lips--biting first the upper, then the lower, then both;
weirdly gentle nips, cut with just a teasing hint of incipient
mutilation. Then the tongue again, thrusting deep, curling against
Beecher's soft palate, making him spasm--gag reflex? Suffocation, as
Vern's weight pinned and pressed him down? Or was that, actually...
     (...a--*response*?)
     Enough of one, apparently, to make Vern wrench himself away and
step back. Snapping himself, as he did: "'Kay, enough of *that* shit."
     Adding, as he pointed to his more-than-half-hard cock--
     "Down, boy."
     And: Well, doesn't THIS look Biblical, Beecher found himself
thinking--dully--as he assumed the indicated position. On my knees like
Indiana Jones in THE LAST CRUSADE, or something--the penitent man, the
*penitent*...
     While Vern loomed above, striking his typical Old Testament
patriarch pose: God himself, or his nearest local equivalent, watching
from on high as Beecher meekly bowed his head to the task at, um--HAND--

     *My son, thou hast eaten the fruit of the Unclean Tree; my dick
shalt thou suck for the next three to twelve. So swallow, don't spit,
then go thou and sin no more...*
     (...not 'till the *next* time I tell you to, at least.)
     "Get it wet," Vern ordered. "ALL over."
     And you know why. Don'tcha, baby?
     Well...yes.
     Mainly through his nose, for obvious reasons: "Shhrrr."
     Vern dug his fingers into Beecher's hair, gripping painfully, and
gave himself over to momentary pleasure. Then disengaged, with obvious
reluctance--settled heavily back onto Beecher's bunk and sat there
stroking himself, patting the mattress next to him: Crawl up, sweetpea.
     (...alright.)
     And now--
     Settling back further, swinging his legs up onto the bunk.
"Now...climb on. *You* do all the work, for fuckin' once."
     (Born-lazy little law-boy brat.)
     Gingerly, Beecher settled himself over the one-eyed monster and
slid downwards, ass-first. A shared gasp of reaction greeted the
movement--the usual intrusive pain, on Beecher's part; a fresh rush of
slick, tight sensation, on Vern's. Eyes rolling back, teeth gritting:
Urrrr.
     (*Shit*, that's good. Like a damn--virgin, or something.)
     Huh. No thanks to ME, I guess.
     Vern felt Beecher's thighs against his hips--that sturdy warmth,
long muscles clenching. Looked up as Beecher stared down, arched his
back to seat himself more deeply and met Beecher's fingers with his own,
linking tight. Fisting his hands, fucking up as Beecher fucked back with
unexpected aggression, *riding* him in all the best senses of the
word...
     Asking, quietly: "You *like* this?" Bucking again, drawing a groan
as Vern's spine bowed still further. And adding: "SIR?"
     Yeahhhh...
     (A little too *much*, in actual fact.)
     Vern growled, and used Beecher's matching double hand-hold to flip
them both over, nose to nose. Hearing Beecher gasp, this time--and
thinking, with satisfaction: You like *that*, Toby-baby? Knew you would.

     (Always DO.)
     And now it was Beecher's turn to squirm and flush, as Vern regained
his "natural" position--dicking him at first from above, deep and slow,
then rearing up 'till they were both sitting upright and rotating him in
mid-thrust, Beecher's back sealing fast to Vern's sweaty chest. He
plucked at Beecher's nipples, twisting like he was adjusting the focus
on some old-style TV set, and revelled in the way it made the younger
man squeal. With heat mounting steadily between them, and Vern's
all-pervasive *smell*--the musky reek of a middle-aged man in rut,
sweating out his passion against polyester-blend sheets in a tiny glass
box full of recycled air--erasing Beecher's scent everywhere they
touched, reducing him to a ghost in his own skin...
     Hitching and gasping for air, Beecher found himself pushed suddenly
prone with Vern's full weight boring in on him from behind--slick palms
grabbing at his hipbones, stroking at his belly as though Vern were
trying to trace the shadow of his own cock under layers of muscle and
flab With Vern shoving his face into Beecher's sweat-sleeked scruff,
ruffling the damp hair back and forth; Beecher bracing his hands on the
pillow, face turned sideways, while Vern pile-drove into him like he was
breaking rocks: A rising chorus of sigh and grunt and moan, intermittent
wet squelch and pop, the steady creak of mattress-springs going back and
forth and back. Sobbing for breath as Vern teased him, punished him,
*disciplined* him with an implaccable, unstoppable flood of pain and
pleasure admixed, 'till Beecher was barely able to tell which was which
anymore--
     Hearing the words in his head, then, at long last--filtering slowly
through almost at the very moment of climax, from waaay down at the
bottom of the medulla oblongata where all those dinosaur reflexes still
nest: Guard Whittlesey's voice, as heard oh-so-long ago...four or five
whole months, at the *very* least...
     *'Cause if you actually HAD any self-discipline, any of you--*
     (--then you wouldn't be in here, in the first place.)
     Would you?
     ...probably not.
     Falling headlong, the world reduced to a single burning cord, a
single shower of sparks; a single hot spurt, inside and out, with barely
enough breath left to manage one last gasp. And pinned, yet again, with
Vern's heart hammering hard against his shoulderblades--a fresh mess and
an extra ache between his outflung legs. Only the position changed, to
protect no one: Not even each other, *from* each other.
     (Nighty-'night, sir.)
     Yeah. 'Nighty...
     ...-night.

PART THREE

A moment's release, brief comfortless no-dream of nothing. Pure, black
blank. And then...
     ...Beecher came back to himself with a groan, part by part, dimly
aware that *everything* hurt: Ass, groin, spine, EYEbrows. His bitten
lips pulsing, balls bruise-swollen, nipples raw--wrenched back and
strained thighs, stiff wrists cracking as he let his fists uncurl, knees
pads of pain. Burning on the inside. Rubbed the wrong way all over on
the -out.
     Lying there, curled in on himself--still, tranced, shivering
slightly. His head felt hot and swollen, brain slug-slow and pulsing
like it was full of snot; synapses sparking, fizzling as he tunnelled
steadily in on himself, sheer concentrated *weight* forcing him deeper
and deeper. Weight of Vern, of shock. Of...
     (memory)
     A year ago, back out in the REAL world beyond this glass-walled
little box of hell. Watching TV with Gen and his kids--PBS, natch. A
good liberal family night in; exciting, educational, no commercials...
     ...'side from all those beggin' talking heads, every hour on the
half-hour: Oh please, the government's not taking enough of a cut from
normal citizens' paychecks to cover our pansy-ass, fake-Commie
expenses...
     And: God, Christ, will you just get out of my head, please, SIR--
     (considering it's basically the only place inside me you *haven't*
been, thus far)
     Words on the screen--INCREDIBLE SUCKERS (Jesus, that title), a
documentary on cephalopods: Octopi, squid, cuttlefish. In season, these
half-pint calamari clones pass packets of sperm back and forth through a
weird process which seems to involve the male half-swallowing the
female's head and shaking her violently, then spitting her out again.
But if another male wants to compete for the same female, he'll beat his
rival fiercely away, then engulf her himself and flush her gills with
what amounts to a forcible seawater enema.
     Gary's voice in Beecher's mental ear, quizzically curious: *Daddy,
what's that white stuff coming out of the fishy's head?*
     Um, well...
     (...never mind.)
     Afterward, the male floats suavely by, stroking his
traumatized-looking "mate" with a soothing tentacle: There, there,
darlin'. No need to worry--you're with ME now.
     (And I'll take care of *everything*.)
     Mrs Cuttlefish, meanwhile, doesn't look exactly reassured. Looks,
instead, shell-shocked--as shell-shocked as seafood CAN look, anyway.
     And...what does this all remind me of, exactly? Beecher found
himself wondering. Right about now?
     Oh, yeah.
     (Myself.)
     Lying face-down with this fat fucker glued to my back, feeling him
snort in my ear and slick his hands down my sides like he's calming a
hard-ridden horse; waiting for him to tell me one more time how fucking
lucky I am to be here. Lucky to share his pod, to suck his dick on
command, to find his fucking *cum* in my CRAP every morning...
     (God. Oh my God. God, damn, Almighty--)
     Still softening, even now, inside him. Tied ass to groin, like two
post-coital dogs, by a swollen, seven-inch umbilical cord--the Viking
Punishment Rod, impressive even in its (partially) deflated state--
     And the same thought playing over and over like a busted mnemonic
record, yet again, again, again: This can't be me. Not like THIS, not
*me*. I went to Harvard. Made partner, made money. Got married. Had
kids...
     --have. Still.
     (Somewhere.)
     And now...
     ...nothing but Vern, awake once more and growl-snuffling in
momentary contentment; rubbing his face between Beecher's sweaty
shoulderblades, like he's wiping himself clean of what--they've--just
done...
     (together)
     Then easing himself up, pulling out and away. Hands gentle on the
hips beneath, as he separates himself from the clench of Beecher's
slackened ass..."gentle", in his proprietorial ownership--his
unwillingness to tear the butt that serves him--as a male cuttlefish's
possessive stroke.
     There, there, darlin'. Honey.
     *Sweet*--
     (Jesus, I'm gonna be)

Beecher spasmed, hands over mouth. At the all-too-familiar sound, Vern
sprang back with almost comical speed, automatically on point, just like
any other father who'd spent two kids' first years becoming intimate
with the symptoms of Suddenly-about-to-puke Syndrome--
     (Beecher himself, for example)
     But: *Not* an observation Vern wanted to take the time to consider,
right about now...
     (if ever)
     Instead, he cast about for a handy container--found none--then
wrenched Beecher up by his biceps into a makeshift fireman's carry,
without even enough time to curse. Spun him towards the toilet and held
on with grim determination as the little bastard retched, jerked,
retched again, SPEWED long and loud. Some of the result made it in, but
most didn't.
     (Gah, *uck*)
     Vern blinked down, wrinkling his nose: Shit, was that the same
dinner I had? Doesn't even LOOK like meatloaf.
     (Man, that is gonna *stink*.)
     "JEE-zus," he rumbled in disgust, hackles already risen--that good
Aryan's fear of contagion, as crossbred with a messy pet-owner's
semi-compassionate contempt. "You done?"
     "...uhhh..."
     Nodding, shuddering, sagging in Vern's arms, fever-hot and heavy.
Drooling bile. And the submissive bend of his gasping, red-flushed back,
sweaty against Vern's chest--the whole weak-kneed, supple line of him--
     Hahrrr.
     And: Shit, Vernon! Man just threw *up* right in front'a you--all
OVER you, practically. Not to mention--
     (*because* of you)
     Yeah, right. Which must mean...he's really NOT enjoyin' himself.
     Vern felt his lips twitch, and swallowed the smile that hovered
there--*hard*--before it could be fully born. But heard that unwelcome
little voice inside him whisper, slyly, all the same--
      No, guess not.
      And what's it say in the manual, Vern-o? Gotta play NICE, you want
your toys to last, 'cause...
     (...you broke 'im, you bought 'im.)
     Whatever *that* was supposed to mean.
     Eyeing Beecher sidelong, then, and noticing how the former lawyer
already struggled to stand on his own, to get as much "polite" distance
as possible between himself and Vern's embrace; flushing himself at the
sight, vaguely insulted, and just as vaguely annoyed with himself for
feeling--*anything*--about it, at all.
     Vern flicked the whole line of thought away with a single impatient
headshake, and demanded, of his shell-shocked prag--
     "You 'KAY, yet?"
     "Uh--hhmmp."
     (I'll take that as a "yes".)
     Leaning for the toilet paper, tearing a handful free; wiping
Beecher's face clean, with brisk strokes. Ordering: "Blow." Then
watching as Beecher did, expelling a sloppy mess of snot and
heroin-snorting lesion-bred blood; straightening back up, letting go,
pointing--and ordering again, just as firmly--
     "Now...snap to it and and clean that shit UP, Goddamnit."
     Half-hoping to break the spell by provoking Beecher out of this
fugue-state he'd slipped into, make him hiss or spit so he could slap
him down again (and have fun doing it). But Beecher, predictably
unpredictable, simply nodded once more--dazed beyond protest,
apparently--and sank down, fumbling clumsily for the nearest handy
cleaning implements: His own towel and washcloth, sacrificed without a
murmur.
     As Vern--tweaked beyond normal measure by this numb parody of calm,
cheated as some old tom who'd just batted his chosen mouse too
broken-backed to run--found himself thinking, perversely:
     Well, fight *back*, already, you contrary slut...
     (like I KNOW you want to)
     Because proximity, that best of schools, had taught him this much:
For all his professed meekness, Beecher--the real Beecher, peeking out
here and there, when riled or teased far enough--came with a pre-Oz
lifetime's worth of effortless privilege behind him, used to getting his
own way on everything from office wallpaper to corporate
takeovers...which was why, the more Vern saw Beecher going through the
motions of respectful pragdom, the less he trusted them.
     Creeping and skulking and striking his favorite pose--poor little
Beecher, abused and confused. Same hoity suit probably spent his whole
day fucking normal workin' guys like me over for coin, screwing widows
and orphans out of the family farm, then putting away half his favorite
bar before sloshing his way home. Same guy ran over a kid barely old
enough to be both *his* kids' ages put together; just bounced her off
his windshield like a piece of rotten fruit and burnt rubber in the
opposite direction, hopin' the stain wouldn't show TOO much the morning
after.
     (Too bad I forget where I put my violin.)
     A strong person acting weak just to "get along", that's what it
was; Beecher's cunning lawyer-mind, plotting beneath the counter to make
his own miserable life easier by tricking Vern into doing all the work
for both of them. Like, for all his pussy *education*, nobody'd ever
told him how you've gotta step up and take responsibility for what you
do, for the signals you put out. How--in the REAL world--no one feels
*sorry* for you just because you make yourself look pathetic, and if you
act like a bitch, you get treated like a bitch.
     (Know what I mean...bitch?)
     I mean, say what you want--but it ain't like *I* ever killed
anybody--
     (they ever CAUGHT me for, that is)
     Not for no good reason, anyway. Not who--didn't deserve it, one way
or another.
     For honor. For PRIDE. To keep what was his, protect what God had
given him, just like Vern'd told the slimy Jew FBI son-of-a-bitch who'd
come sniffin' around just after Dino Ortolani went up in smoke...
     And yet: That intrusive little voice, chiming in yet again--same as
always, regular enough to set--
     (Beecher's)
     --watch by.
     Inquiring, idly: How much you think God ever really *gave* you,
Vernon? How much time you think the Creator of Heaven, earth and
everything in between really puts aside every day for making sure YOU,
Vern SchillinGER, don't get stuck having to do your own laundry or choke
your own chicken?
     (...pretty good point, there)
     Wasn't like it was part of Vern's *job* to help Beecher feel like
he was the one being hard done by, after all. Or like he had some
mandate to waste his precious hard time thinking up new ways to help the
little fucker punish himself, much as TOby-baby might--
     (did)
     --deserve it.
     He poked Beecher in the back, hard, with one bare foot. "Missed a
spot."
     Into the floor, almost too quiet to hear: "...'sir."
     Waking up a bit now, obviously; Vern could see a fresh shiver
already rocking Beecher's pale body, hear that familiar hitch growing
beneath his breath. He leaned closer, rumbling--
     "Hey. You gonna cry, cupcake? 'Cause you go right on ahead and CRY,
you want to--"
     Beecher paused, mid-scrub, like he was making himself wait it out.
Then repeated, carefully--
     "I'm...okay. Sir."
     And: Good CHRIST but you are--somethin', you fuck, and I don't even
know what, Vern thought--usual annoyance tinged, as increasingly ever,
with a weird sort of admiration. But you just keep telling yourself that
story; do it for long enough...
     (...you might even get to believe it.)
     Bet you even think I'm just about done with you, right, sweet
cheeks? Think you already *proved* yourself to me just 'cause you kept
your head down and your ass up, this far along; just 'cause you did what
I told you, mostly, and acted--mostly--like it didn't keep you up at
night. Even when it DID.
     (Well, think again.)
     Anybody can take what I dish out, they just try hard enough.
Difference here is, though, that...I want *you*...
     ...to LIKE it.
     Pleading, panting: Please. *Please*, sir, sir, don't DO that,
PLEASE--
     (Yeah. *Just* like that.)
     That spreading flush, again and again. That access, proximity,
everpresent possibility. It's my right, 'cause you're MINE--so I can,
and I will, 'cause I *can*...
     Keep doin' it 'till you're raw. 'Till *I*'m raw. 'Till it's not
even--
     (FUN)
     --anymore.
     (Arrrrr.)
     But stopping himself once more, firmly, in mid-urge. Because there
it was again, worrying away at the edges of his established, comfortable
pattern of prag-ownership; this crazy outright lust for Beecher hiding
beneath the mask of strict, stress-relieving necessity, pushing him far
beyond what he'd come to accept as a--*mature* man's--normal limits:
Two, three, sometimes four times a night, with a few added sessions
snatched here and there during the days, too--whenever he could catch
the little bastard alone, in actual fact, between the strictures of both
their seldom-intersecting work schedules. Need become want, want become
need again--
     --a weakness, either way.
     Which really did beg the question already floating uncomfortably
near the *front* of Vern's mind even as he monitored Beecher's progress,
his own well-practiced game face a perfect parody of calm: So what was
the story with you KISSING him, back there, exactly? Breaking your own
first rule of Man-vs.-prag behavior, just 'cause ToBIas fuckin'
*Beecher*--
     (dared)
     --you to?
     Not that you ever could back down when challenged, mind
you--'specially when you've just been challenged by your own damn
bitch...
     (But--still.)
     Though nice enough at the time, it translated--more and more--as a
potential crack in Vern's shield, a shift in the balance of power so
slow, so subtle, he might yet end up with half his jizz pissed away
before he even knew he'd sprung a leak. Something to be readjusted.
Fixed. Something that called for *something* to be done about it, if
only to make sure Beecher didn't end up thinking he'd gotten away with--

     (what?)
     --something.
     (Like WHAT?)
     It was a condundrum, all right. And one, quite frankly, that Vern
was sick and tired of even thinking about...let alone *over*.
     He snorted, and leaned back against the pod wall, crossing his
arms. Beecher'd been good fun, once upon a time--cute, obedient, easy to
torment--but these days, the bitch seemed well on his way to becoming
just more trouble than his mouth, ass or nasty little brain could
possibly make him worth. Which was weird, considering how damn simple
he'd looked, back in the beginning; another volunteer for Vern to
practice his patented shrink impression on, easily categorizable by
breaking point and usefulness. A trapped blond rat, trapped like a rat
in a trap--just flip him over, watch him struggle, poke him with a stick
and hear him...
     (...*squeal*.)
     But from almost their first dance on, every time Vern had tried to
act on his observations, he'd found Beecher--*changed* somehow. Slipped
away, squirted out between Vern's grasping fingers, like soap in a--
     (prison)
     --shower.
     Son of a bitch could look up precedent on Death Row appeals, type
sixty words a minute in Lotus, snort anything ground fine enough to fit
up his snub little nose. But he couldn't learn the rules, or keep to
'em, or at least PRETEND to for more'n five minutes straight--kiss Vern
goodnight, accord him the proper respect, do what he told him with a
grateful heart and then shut the fuck up about it, 'less Vern told him
any different.
     No, he just cringed and sulked and sat there like a lump, or
skittered off to beg scraps from that Mick fuck Ryan O'Reilly and came
back high as a kite, giggling in Vern's face over his own mealy-mouthed
junkie freakery: Look, Daddy, I been *bad*. Oh please don't punish me,
puhleeeze...
     Yeah, well.
     Warnings didn't work, obviously. Pain didn't work. Sex worked, a
little--
     (too Goddamn well, actually)
     But: All those hoops he'd already run Beecher through, just to see
how high--or low--he could make him jump...making him beg for a
conjugal, tear up his family's pictures; making him lick Vern's boots,
dress in drag, sing a love song...
     It'd all worked a *little*, but a little just wasn't good enough,
to Vern's mind. Not anymore.
     (Time to wave bye-bye, sweetpea. Time...to let you go.)
     'Cause--that's what you want, right?
     (Right?)
     One last test, then, to really separate the men from the prags: You
wanna leave me, then *leave* me, and see how you like it--how far you
get, with my mark on your ass and nothing to back it up. See how long
you like being the latest fresh cut in Oz's cafeteria, 'fore you come
crawling back to me, whining *Please, sir, I'll do ANYTHING...*
     Spirits lifting, mouth quirking in an almost jolly way, as Beecher
rose, stiffly. And remembering that thing the Old Man used to say--only
thing he *did* say ever made a damn bit of sense--
     *God? I'll tell ya 'bout GOD, you fuckin' faggot. *God* says...*
     ...God says, you take what you want. And then--
     (--you pay for it.)
     Words to live by, Toby.
     (Or maybe not.)
     "Nice scrub-job, cupcake."
     Colorless: "I try."
     "Yup." A pause. "Now say goodnight, like a good boy."
     Adding, sweetly, as Beecher fairly goggled over at him--blue eyes
extra-slant with fatigue and strain, a tic jumping at the corner of
those cat-crimped lips--
     "--hey, you're the one wanted a KISS."
     Beecher's shoulders drooped. He leaned in, trying for a peck, and
stiffened as Vern took more than his due: A bruising tonsil-polish, hot
and hard, with Beecher's reluctant hesitance sweeter than the taste of
his tongue in Vern's mouth.
     "Now, what do you say?"
     "I...love you."
     "*Sir*," Vern prompted.
     "...right."
     Well. Might as well let THAT one slide--for now.
     Vern gave his prag's dull gold mop a last rough tussle, and heaved
himself back up onto the upper bunk. Crooning, mockingly, as he went:
     "Awww, Bitcher. You're just the best li'l woman any *man* ever
had."

And: Hours later, a mere half-hour before count, Beecher came awake
sobbing silently-- shaking and sweaty, with Vern's parting shot echoing
in his overheated brain. Above, Vern slept the righteous sleep of the
just-got-laid; below, Beecher could still see the bloodstained
dream-face of Kathy Rockwell peering calmly down into his, braids
falling around him as she asked--the same way she always did--
     *You want me to leave you alone now, Mr Beecher? Think you've had
enough?*
     (Oh, Christ--I KNOW it.)
     Thinking: I just, I can't--
     *Can't what, Mr B?*
     --live like this. Anymore.
     Kathy nods, "sympathetically". *So--you want to die?*
     (...no.)
     Knowing he deserved to suffer. Knowing he always did. But knowing,
even so--that he can always go back to making himSELF suffer, anytime
he's sick of letting ol' Vern do the lion's share. And that bad as this
tar-pit he's in right now is, almost *anything* must be better...by
simple process of elimination.
     (Anything?)
     Beecher gulped painfully, as though trying to swallow the
word--with all its myriad implications--whole, and forced Kathy's face
to fade the only way he knew how. He ran himself step by step through a
simulation of the day to come, from count to mess to Sister Pete's and
back again. Saw himself avoiding Vern for as long as possible after they
both emerged from their mutual "home", game faces intact, to sidle out
into Em City and go their separate ways: Vern straight to the post
office,  Beecher straight to O'Reilly for a quick hit of heroin, a cheap
jolt of comfort--the incalculably intimate gift of touch, as delivered
by someone who may *want* to fuck him, somewhere down deep in his
slippery subconscious, but never, ever would...
     ...'cause *he*'s not a fag, man. Not HIM.
     (Oh, mmm-hmm.)
     Feeling Ryan's skinny arm close 'round his shoulder as he bends to
lick white joy from the web between thumb and forefinger, right over the
Mick's bleeding shamrock tattoo. And hearing him bestow his favorite
profane benediction, like it was some kind of half-stoned psalm--
     *May the road rise with you...and may God hold you in the hollow of
his hand...and may he make sure you wake up sober an hour before
Schillinger even finds out you got high.*
     (Amen to that, "brother".)
     Alone in this glass-walled box with the man he hated most in the
world--but would that be Vern, really? Or would it, maybe, be--
     (himself?)
     --alone, and lonely, and aching all over, Tobias Beecher clenched
his teeth, pressed his bitten lips flat, and shut his eyes tight against
everything his waste of a life had become--tight, tighter, ever tighter.
He lay there in darkness, *willing* himself second by second through
what always seemed like the longest part of each long, dark Oz-bound
night, and found himself once more praying "harder than [he]'d ever
prayed in his life"...
     ...for one more morning bell to ring.
THE END