AUGUSTUS HILL
"Things ain't what they seem--not always, not *most* times. Take bullets,
right? Your normal shit, if you ain't wearin' Kevlar, nothin' in your body
gonna stop that motherfucker 'till it come straight out the other side
of your narrow ass. Might hit a bone and ric-o-chet around in there a while,
do some extra damage--or maybe you got a jacket big enough you AIN'T about
to go to no hospital, so you get all infected. But that's about it: One
punch, straight through. Find it in your wall later on, can't even figure
out where it came from, yo. Just in and out, and all's you got left is
the scar.
"But *some* bullets, they bring a little somethin'
extra to the party. Back in the day, them hardcore IRA snipers use'ta rub
theirs in garlic, so even a nick'd be enough to give them Limeys blood-poisoning.
Or maybe dum-dum it: Cut a cross in the head, so it mushrooms on impact--comes
open like a motherfuckin' piece'a popcorn, blows a chunk of flesh out your
back. Things like THAT go in easy, come out hard, and the M.E., he calls
the damage shit like that leaves behind...
"...exit wounds."
CHRIS KELLER
So it's Wednesday and we're down in the gym, Toby still goin' through
his *therapy* paces even after the crutches been gone for, what? Six months?
At least. And me, pretending to spot, to help. Like he really needs any--or
wants any...
('specially from ME)
Back against the wall, close enough to grab
for the bar if he runs out of steam; workin', but not *too* hard, 'cause
hard work of any kind can pretty much suck my fuckin' dick, most days.
Oh, I'll strike the pose, sure--even back it up, I have to. But most'a
the time, all I want's someplace to stake out, curl up and watch the world
go by from. See what's doin', who's doin' who. Scope out where I'd look,
if I was still lookin'.
Quick 360, then let my eyes drop down to the
floor, and find myself thinkin' 'bout the last time I saw Toby down there,
with blood on his face instead of sweat and Vern's shank in his side. Last
time, when I took one, and gave one, all for his cushy lawyer ass. To prove
myself. "Redeem" myself. Wipe the slate, everything free 'n' clear, so
I could get back next to it, INSIDE it--
(--inside *him*.)
And now it's half a year later, and I know
I did the one just last night, like I'll probably do it again, tonight.
Get in, bust, make HIM bust; ain't so hard, you have a little practice
under your belt. But the other?
Well, that's a whooole different kettle of...
...whatever.
Want, get, have, get rid of. Repeat. Way it
always goes, for me.
'Till now.
I look down at the floor again, 'n' see Toby's
already up to his top end--five sets, twelve reps each. Shelfing the bar
again, and lookin' over himself at Schillinger and that Kobold kid workin'
out in the corner--kickboxing hand-pads, Aryan jujitsu at work, stand BACK.
The kid, slappin' at him as Vern blocks every pass with a new punch, *hard*.
Growling--
"Okay, come at me. Come AT me. *Come* at me,
fuck. Fuckin' come AT me, Kobold! Move your dead hacker ass, and--"
Then E-gon finally cracks him one right across
the jaw, more by accident than anything else, and freezes, horrified: Oh
*shit*. Dumb fuck don't know--yet--that's how Big Daddy Vern like it best.
(Ooh, yeah. GOOD boy.)
Just makes him spit blood, grin a little.
And say:
"'Kay, that works. Now..."
--the kid waiting, breathless, like he thinks
he's up for some kinda award. But all he gets is--
"...c'mon at me again."
I lean over Toby, who's all red, breathin'
hard. And still lookin'.
"You done?"
"Yeah." Quieter: "Hey. Vern and Kobold--you,
uh...I mean...you don't think he could actually be..."
(...*fuckin'* him?)
OH yeah.
I sit back on my heels. "He's fuckin' him,
all right."
Toby looks at me, looks back, squints. Does
that "Shit, where'd I leave my glasses?" *thing* with his eyebrows, that
little wrinkle--mmm. Gold brows, gold fuzz, peachy-smooth Yuppie skin;
makes me wanna pin him down and kiss it off, right here.
Toby. Buddy. BAby.
And thinkin', though I know it'd prob'ly be
the world's worst thing to say, right about now--
*Man, Beech, if you were a chick--*
(--I'd *marry* ya.)
"But--Kobold's a Brother."
"So?"
"Brothers don't DO that."
I shrug, feel my neck crack. Correcting him:
"Don't *admit* to it."
I mean, shit: *I* was an Aryan, at Lardner,
far's THAT went; close enough for jazz, anyway. Sure didn't stop Vern from
pluggin'--and *un*-pluggin'--my pipes, though, every Goddamn night.
But that ain't the point. He's still starin',
like I never said a Goddamn thing--and all I can think, lookin' at him
do it, is: Finally got him off your ass for good, looks like. But you just
can't let it go, can ya, babe? Always gotta stick it in, twist it, feel
around for something to take it deeper; scab'll never heal, you don't stop...
...*picking* at it.
First Vern's playing dump-ee, glaring over
at Beech like me at any of MY exes--you can't stand the bitch 'cause of
all the shit she's pulled, but you just can't stand to see her pulling
the same shit with anybody else, either. But then I look away for a minute,
and here's Beech starting to do the exact same fuckin' thing right *back*
at him--juttin' out the lip, spoiled toddler-pissed. 'Cause he'll do anything
to wash the stink of Vern off him, or so her says...right up 'til he gets
his panties in a bunch, all paranoid and shit, just 'cause he can't actually
*smell* it anymore.
Back and forth and back and fuckin' forth
again, like that charge between 'em's the only thing cranks the juice runs
Oz's rusty fuckin' wheel, or something. Like *somebody* always has to be
striking that pose--him, or Vern, or Vern, or him--
(or ME)
--or the whole fuckin' universe falls to shit.
Try to tell myself I got nothin' to be pissed
at, let alone jealous over: *I* got Beech, every night, and all Vern's
got is Mr Junior Nazi mop-boy over there--Scott Ross, the sawed-off version,
'cept nobody ever hadda TEACH Ross to go for the fuckin' nuts. Gettin'
head from some cyber-pussy with braces; yeah, like *that*'s a good idea.
Waaay too much wire involved to be anywhere near MY idea of fun.
"My idea of fun", lyin' there on the floor
next to me. Pullin' itself upright, moppin' its sweaty face and pullin'
its shirt back on. Toby, all mine since 2000 and none and still countin'
down to the next time we go head-to-head, spit and snarl and try and fuckin'
*stab* each other over some damn thing: Don't know what just yet, but I
got my eye out, all the same. ALL the time.
'Cause--it always does to be prepared.
Toby, my boy scout gone bad, with his cute
little nose and his strong square hands, golden fuzz on his arms and legs
and belly--with that sexy-sulky stare up from under his eyebrows, beard
off 'n' on like a fuckin' faucet, twisty little brain goin' at the world
a mindfuck a minute. That vein poppin' up on his forehead when you get
him really pissed, or horny, or pissed-off horny like a cat stroked backwards,
tail in the air and tongue stickin' out, like it don't even know if it
wants to purr or BITE. That nasty laugh and that evil fuckin' stare, sweet
and sour then sweet again, with nothin' in between; seen it all by now,
but he's still so *shocked* every damn time, like the last three years
never even happened...
And that thing, that THING you can't ever
get to, underneath it all: Break yourself wide open tryin' to get him to
go the way you want, but you'll never be sure where he's gonna end *up*,
will ya? Huh, Chris-to-pher?
That voice in my head, whispering: *I mean,
Toby ain't like you, Chris. Right? He ain't used to bein' used...*
But no. Thing is, TOBY, he's used--
(--to *using*.)
Like some gay-'till-graduation college bitch--motherfucker
could suck your cock for a year and never look at you twice on the street
after he gets out. Just takes what he's offered, 'cause he's a taker: Always
was. Always will be. Just like Vern. And just like--
(me)
'S what we all got in common, I guess.
Lookin' over at Vern, sidelong, while he barks
and cuffs at the kid and the kid just laps it up like true, true L-O-V-E
love; Jesus, what drugs they got the little jizzbag ON, anyway? And thinkin',
as I stand, Toby gimpin' to his feet right alongside--
(Ex-)fat fucker's been inside us both, but
*you*, baby...you're IN me, that's for fuckin' sure. Feel like you're all
that's holdin' me up, some days. Like I can't get enough of the way you
fit into me, the way I fit into you...
Know I don't know what you're capable of,
not really. But that's okay. Fact is, you don't know what *I*'m capable
of, either. Some stuff, sure. But...not all of it.
(Thank Christ.)
'Cause: We fuck, we fight. We make up, and
fuck some more, and wear ourselves out waitin' 'till the next good reason
to fight comes along. But no matter how well we get to "know" each other
in here, on ALL of it...just like on everything else 's got to do with
that other world we used to live in, once upon a time...
Before us. Before--
(--*Oz*.)
On all the rest'a THAT, baby--you 'n' me?
Well...
...we just ain't been properly *introduced*.
(Yet.)
***
TOBIAS BEECHER
"Tobias."
"Yes, Sis--?"
A pause on her way past, cut with a split
second's narrowed eye-flick, and I feel like whapping my own forehead,
classic Three Stooges-style. Like: Ooh, GEE. *Whoops*.
(MY bad.)
"I've got Victim/Offender sessions 'till three.
If anyone calls--"
"Take a message? Gotcha."
She nods, reaching for the door, then pauses
again. "By the way--you haven't seen my..."
"...copies of the O'Reilly brothers' files
anywhere?" I hand them over. "Here ya go. Oh, and Warden Glynn said to
say he needs your backup at the staff meeting, so if you have to cut it
short, do."
She shakes her head: "Therapy to schedule.
And they wonder why nobody ever gets any *better*."
I shrug, putting on my very best "You're SO
right, Sister Pete/Mrs. Reimondo/The Artist Formerly Known As Peter Marie"
face: Nine-tenths pleasant professionalism plus one-tenth rueful empathy.
The same one I slip out whenever McManus pulls me aside, these days, or
Murphy takes a notion to run his stick along our pod-window 'cause he thinks
Chris and I are getting just a tad too friendly...or being just a tad too
obvious about it, while the lights are still on instead of off.
It's cheap camouflage, so much so it skirts
the very ragged edge of outright mockery. And once upon a time, she'd have
turned back one more time again, just to call me on it. But there's not
much point to continuing *that* little debate anymore, even on our best
days--and (deep down, where she'll barely let herself think the subject
over, let alone actually voice it aloud) she knows it, too. Or, if she
doesn't--
--she REALLY fuckin' ought to.
(By now.)
And no, I don't envy her, never have. But
I do know her pattern well enough now to play it--and her, by extension--just
as hard as I need to. Forced to triage due to the sheer numbers of maladjusted
fucks she deals with daily, "Sister" Pete has always had to go on initial
appearances far more than she might like, or be likely to admit to. So,
fine--I don't act out anymore, don't bring my problems to the office, which
means her attention gets automatically drawn elsewhere; can't help but
be. Because I take care to make myself look all peachy-dandy, at least
on the outside, she can let herself forget what Chris did to her...or didn't
do, more like...
No earthly reason to be so darn *mean*, though,
To-BI-as. Is there? No reason to be, to be, such a--little--
(*bitch*)
--about it.
Wave to wave, smile to sicky-sweet smile as
the door shuts behind her, closing me back in with my cage of squirmy,
bile-choked worm-thoughts: Bye-bye, Toby! Bye-bye, "Sister"! 'Bye, 'bye,
'bye...
...BUH-bye.
Back when I first came through those Em City
gates, I was gambling on my my street-face to see me through--all those
inapplicable rules and regs of leftover civillian life, the business-suited,
mealy-mouthed mask that took me through Harvard, to the altar with Gen,
up the corporate ladder, in and out of every bar within range five times
plus a week. And now, at last, I've finally got myself an Oz-face that
fits well enough to wear, day in, day out; not *comfortable*, exactly,
but it'll do, prag, it'll do...
('Till the REAL thing comes along.)
Even with the politeness shields up and all
my baffles on, however, the one question Sister Pete can never quite get
around to asking me still flickers in her eyes each morning, noon and night:
*How can you stand to be with a man like him, Tobias? Especially after
what he did to--*
(me)
*--you?*
But: I guess that's your problem, Sister--so
deal with it, or don't. Because me, I've still got my own particular roster
of ever-spreading crap to deal with, and Chris--well, Chris solves...more...than
he creates.
(*These* days.)
Back-up. A click of two, ourselves to ourselves.
Protection, WITHOUT possession. A high to keep me sober, an anchor to keep
me sane--and no therapy necessary, thank you very much, beyond the minimum
drug counselling meetings necessary to keep me out of the Hole on a weekly
fucking basis.
(Most of the time.)
Ahhhh, yes.
("Most".)
And yeah, it's a little bit funny how the
grind (ha, ha) of post New Year's life with Chris has already started,
seemingly inevitably, to resonate with memories of Gen--how our happy honeymoon
blurred, step by step, into an endless parade of passive-aggressive strike
and counter-strike.
But then, that was different, right? Because
Gen, bless her dead heart, was always naturally complicit, a born enabler...not
a fellow addict who gets off on making *me* get off, laps up lying and
cheating like I used to lap up booze. And it's exactly this intersection
of two addictions that's enough to keep me coming back, to suck me in and
stick it to me again and again like human-sized flypaper: Key to my lock,
plug to my hole, magnet to my steel, tide to my shore, undertow to my exhausted
swimmer's deadweight. Ebb and flow and surging current like electrodes
in my brain, wires to my cock, shock treatment and torture session and
the best (non-heterosexual) sex EVER all wrapped up in one big walking
contradiction, one black magic mass of mess and sweat and heat and *oh*,
I can't even sit here letting myself THINK about this anymore...
Doesn't look too good if the psychiatrist's
secretary has a boner, after all.
Always different, always the same. Always
good--and bad--enough, almost, to drive a guy to--
(DRINK)
Oh, yeah, though: Already did *that*.
I glance down at the keyboard, sigh; click
save, close out one file, boot up the next. Remembering, at the same time--Keller
and me watching from the upper deck, two weeks back, as Egon Kobold files
down towards the gate with all his stuff in a box and his dreadlocked head
held high. Moron went ahead and acted out his not-exactly-logical assumption
that Vern minus Robeson would equal a brand-new open casting call for aspiring
Aryan prags everywhere, then actually *confessed* to it afterward to get
OUT of Em City, the best possible place to be in this four-walled slice
of hell. Which I probably should've figured he would, since I WAS the one
who half-jokingly/half-not "told" E-boy that the quickest way to Vern's
"heart" lay over Robeson's dead body, in the first place...
...but no, even when you put it that way,
it just doesn't sound any more plausible.
Kobold asks me for advice; I give it to him.
He follows it, and gets what he wants--saunters off, bound for Vern's tender
mercies, practically *whistling*. Dumb fuckin' kid.
And Robeson, the hammerhead I once tried to
give an impromptu circumcision...he ends up foreshortened for real; from
the neck up, this time. Happy endings, all 'round.
Another thought colliding in midstream of
consciousness, meanwhile, like a sort of mental sidebar: Jesus Christ Almighty,
can it possibly be *that* easy to get somebody killed? With just a careless
word, a blithe, flip suggestion?
But then, you knew that already. Didn't you,
TO-by?
Let your hate build. Let your nails grow.
Sharpen 'em up, and just--wait. For something, anything, that looks like
a good enough reason...
...to *use* them.
Robeson, or Metzger. Or Vern. Or--
(Chris)
Lay there in that hospital bed for three whole
months, dreaming it every waking--and non-waking--moment. Breathing it
in, breathing it out. Living off it, like food. And then Metzger just got
in the way, like Robeson got between me and Vern's memory, so Chris got
away scott-free; give or take a shank to the kidney, of course. But then,
who's counting?
Wound punctured, pus drained. Explosion averted--for
now. And the only thing I *didn't* figure on, one way or another, was just
how extraordinarily Goddamn easy it would be, afterwards...to forget it
ever had happened at all.
But anyway--
Kobold'll learn better, or not: Learn the
truth behind these pretty lies we all tell each other, late at night, to
get through the next day, next week, next three to twelve to eighty-eight
fucking YEARS. That, great sex aside--and eeeg, "great" sex with *Vern*?
(Not that *I* remember)
--in here, all relationships--ALL relationships--are
suspect. Strictly utilitarian, potentially predatory. That the person who
claims to love you probably just wants a closer look at your stash of contraband;
that the guy you stand beside every morning will kill you for your place
in line, if he spots even a moment's worth of weakness in your eyes.
Oh, I still ache for someone to love me, just
like I still long for someone to forgive me--especially after midnight,
when Kathy leans over me and trails her braids across my sleeping, sweating
face. Just like Chris *says* he wants someone to love him, to forgive him.
But I want the love more, and he...or is it the other way around? Do I
want TO love, or do I want to forgive? To be kind, and civil, and generous--to
be God and priest and judge and executioner all in one: Go now, sin no
more, kiss my ass and suck my dick while you're down there, stab me in
the back and say you *love* me when you do it...
Swear an oath. Take a vow.
Et-fucking-cetera.
So you cultivate a haughty entropic fatalism,
because that's your only possible defense, barring wrapping yourself in
phonebooks and carrying a blade up your butt 24/7; not that I think I'll
be giving Egon Kobold any more ADVICE, anytime soon. And you recognize
that to let yourself get stuck in the moment, any given moment--good, bad,
indifferent, orgasmic--is the truest source of pain, because that's what
I remember Vern forcing on me, time and time again. Those hands, holding
me down; that voice, growling: *You be here, now, Bitch-er. You don't go
ANYWHERE. You stay, stay, stay--*
--with *me*.
And me, crying out, silently: *No, God, Christ--take
me, take me anywhere but here, anywhere but where I am. Anywhere but ME.*
Even if I *was* out, some part of me would
still be stuck in here. Some part always will be.
And Chris? Chris is my escape tunnel. I dig
my way through him, searching for the light.
(Oh, NICE image. Prag.)
And here's that same, sly inner voice--long-dormant,
but never exactly absent. Commenting:
A judge, a God, some all-knowing, never-failing
Daddy--just like Vern, who wants to judge everybody, because it's his right
*and* his duty. Vern, who doesn't think he's ever done anything he needs
forgiving for. Vern, who wouldn't take love if it was offered to him on
a silver platter, because the whole concept of "love"'s an insult. A fag
thing, and HE's no fuckin' fag...cupcake.
In the gym, with Kobold, that jocular shark-grin
of his--man, haven't seen *that* in a while. Not that I really WANTED to.
(No.)
But to see it now, directed at--*someone else*,
for a change--well, that's still kind of offputtingly...offputting.
Okay: Basic logic, Counsellor. Two times two,
four by four. Egon's got Vern, so Vern's got Egon, which means--for once--he's
got something to think about besides how best to ream MY ass, lit or fig.
So Chris and I can just have each other, with no looming menace to shape
our semblance of life around. Can just be together, be at peace. Be...
...happy.
Because, after all--Chris--is *not* Vern.
(Supposedly.)
And: Arrrgh, just shut up, shut *up*, SHUT
UP--
Commotion at the door, yanking me forcibly
back out of my own navel--Kobold, with the mail cart: What, no Vern? Vern
trusts the likes of *Egon* with his cart, these days? Don't remember being
the designated take-it-up-the-ass-ee ever giving ME any particular special
privileges...
Whistling, yet again; the same damn tune,
as far as I can tell. Slapping a wad of letters down on my desk with a
happy metal grin, and telling me, perkily:
"Um, by the way...just wanted to say, uh,
thanks. For--um--the *good advice* you, uh...gave me..."
(Ohhh, you too-happy Gen-X motherFUCKER.)
I look up, eyes half-lidded, like his braces
are dazzling me. And spit back, almost before I can stop myself--
"Sooo...you feeling all morning-after,
E-gon? Was it everything you've ever dreamed of? Or did you already learn
to put on that game-face 'cause it's easier than just lying there thinking
it must get better, somehow, because--"
--it HAS to?
(Surely.)
*Please*.
Kobold gives his dreads a flippant little
toss; I can see a blotchy blush spreading across his face, making his zits
flare up like headlights. And I know I'm right, like I *know* I know (and
how I wish I didn't) how Vernon Schillinger's sliding scale of bird in
the hand vs. bird in the bush happens to work. How he'd rather rape than
fuck, any damn day, because if somebody's givin' it away, must mean it
wasn't *worth* all that much to begin with. Seeing how the only things
WORTH anything are the ones--you *take*.
But: "Hey," Kobold says, forcing a truly unimpressive
"bad-ass" sneer. "Just 'cause, um, *you* couldn't handle him..."
I cut the rest of his sentence off with a
narrow glare, feeling my face split wide in a feral grin, becoming a mask
of (almost-) aimless spite. Egon blanches, jizz dissolving. Mumbles--
"Well, anyway, um--there's your mail on top,
gotta go."
--and whips back out, cart-wheels squeaking
behind him.
I sit back, thinking: Spoilsport me, yeah--but
I'm doing you a favor, kid. Can't BE happy in Oz, even if you let yourself
think otherwise. Just ask Vern, if you don't believe me, you lovesick,
lovestruck teenaged fool: Love's for people who take it, and suck it up,
and spit it out--or *swallow*. Love's for people too weak to stand alone.
Love's a lie. A lie we tell each other, in
the dark...
(said that already, ToBIas)
...and I like the lie, so much I want to hear
it again. And again. Because--I like *to* lie, too. Don't I?
'Cause even after all this, ALL of all of
this, I'm still--
--a fucking lawyer.
***
By dinnertime, meanwhile:
In the mess hall, Beecher absent; Keller tries
to distract himself by watching Vern and Egon interact, Kobold "super-prag",
all grinny and attentive: *Here's your food, sir. Oh, what a GREAT idea.
Can I just sit next to you? No? ...okay.*
(Didn't *really* want that seat I threw Robeson
down a *fuckin' flight of stairs* to get, anyways.)
And across the way, Keller sits there guzzling
fruit-juice, thinking: Ooh, *ow*. NOT the way to play it, kid.
(Man, talk about *pathetic*.)
Beecher slouches in at last, past Vern--Egon
visibly bristles; Vern's ears go up, though his chewing doesn't even slow.
Keller sees McManus watching from his office, tracing Beecher's bent back--silent,
unresponsive, as he limps his way through the mess hall's chaos--with an
absent kind of interest. Chattin' with Murphy, like always, or pretending
to: Half-bald son-of-a-bitch's already gone through every woman in Oz but
ex-Sister Pete, so a dance with one of his fellow hacks 's probably just
what the doctor ordered...
(Howell count as a woman? Or just as a hack?)
Hum.
But: Beecher. McManus...
(...later.)
And, later--
"So...what was all THAT about?"
Muffled, through a mouthful of toothpaste:
"All what?"
"You and McManus. Think I didn't see you,
baby?"
Beecher spits, steps back. "Nothing to see."
Keller stretches his legs out from the bottom
bunk, blocking Beecher's way--Beecher stops, trapped, but doesn't look
up. Just stands there, head bent, with that annoying sleepwalker's look:
What, who, li'l old *me*?
*O-kay, baby, that's the way you wanna play
it...*
"Wouldn't be 'bout your parole comin' up,
would it?" He suggests, idly.
Sitting forward, long thighs scissoring shut
around Beech's knees so they're slowly forced to bend, pulling him steadily
down to Chris's own level. And continuing: "'Cause if it WAS, I mean--you
don't really think you're gonna get out this time 'round, do ya, baby?
After all YOU done?"
And all you *ain't* told me 'bout, I bet,
just to string me along and keep me on my toes--just like all I ain't told
YOU about, and never will, whether I wanna make a point or not...
(if I can help it, that is)
Beecher takes a long, slow breath. Flutters
those gold lashes, like a snake flicking its lids in and out, back and
forth--back and waist and ass all tight and bunching with muscle under
Chris's possessive touch, pale eyes gone bright and cold as a snake's,
like some close-up from the fuckin' Discovery channel--
Oh, and why'd you always feel like you gotta
TEASE him, Chris? The little voice asks, so Goddamn calm and reasonable.
'Cause it makes the sex better, or hotter, or *harder*? 'Cause it makes
you feel like you're so damn...
(...BIG?)
"Yeah, well," Beecher replies, voice dry.
"This time, next time, whenever...I'm still getting out a *fuck* of a lot
faster than YOU ever will."
Keller feels his brows lower, blue eyes darkening
to almost-black. Thinking--then *saying*, why the fuck not?--
"--wanna take a bet on that?"
'Cause: Think I won't tell on you for Metzger,
baby, if I think the time feels right for it? Think I won't tell on you
for--*me*?
If it'll get me the full twelve with you,
'stead'a a couple more months and a peck goodbye...
...you're motherfuckin' straight, I will.
Blue to blue, pale to dark. Seeing something
shift and spark in Beecher's eyes as the synapses kick in, puzzle-pieces
clicking together without either of them having to say one Goddamn thing
aloud, and hvings a sudden panicked second of oh, shit--did I just wreck
it? Is this the END?
But: *No. I can get it back. I can ALWAYS
get it back. Because...*
(...he *loves* me.)
Laying aside the fact, well-proven thus far,
that anyone who says they *love* Chris much be misinformed, mistaken or
plain ol' LYING to get what they want...
Already looking forward to making it up to
him, too, with a sampler of all the best ways Chris knows how: Licking
a long, wet trail down the furry groove of Beech's spine with his snake's
forked tongue, pushing the swastika aside so he can lap and browse where
the musk first flowers, 'till Beech starts to babble and beg and whine.
'Till he's too damn *distracted* to do anything at all besides arch himself
up, thrust himself back so Chris can dig inside, hit that nut, twist it--and
HIM--into willing complicity, utter submission.
Thinking: Ooooh, yeah. Gonna do it *my* way,
shyster. Or--
(--not at all.)
But it ain't exactly like there's ever a lotta
danger of THAT.
That hot, tight sheath, taking his sword to
the hilt. Those low-slung balls cradling his own, so softly. Pushing Beech's
head down and biting in at the nape, marking him; biting in again and again
as Beech snarls into his fingers, sharpening kitten-teeth on the meat of
his palm as he strains back against the sheer, complicated, undignified
pleasure-pain of being made to give it up, *made* to like it, yet one more
time after time after time. 'Till they groan and huff and shriek in helpless
unison, hosing the sheets that hold them together down with sweat, cum,
heart's fuckin' blood...
THIS, Keller understands. And Beech'll know,
from now on, just who's--
--on top.
Already on his knees, Beecher drops his head
again--then looks up, sultry, through that spiky fringe of gold. Murmuring,
like he's sharing the same vision--for better, or for worse--
"All right..."
...*Sir.*
AUGUSTUS HILL
"'God Is A Bullet', baby--remember that song? But ol' Johnette, she
never did say which *kind* of bullet she was thinkin' 'bout: The kind goes
in hard, comes out easy, with nothin' left behind but the scar where it
used to be? Or the kind goes in easy, comes out hard--blows your ass in
half, cripples you, and leaves you good for nothin' but more'a the God-damn
same?
"Love, that shit's a bullet too--for real,
yo. And you don't NEVER know which kind 'till it's waaaay too late...
"...to do one motherfuckin' thing about it."
THE END