Authors: Chuck Stepanek
“We’re done.” He took one last hard look at the sick tub-o-guts across from him and bailed out of the booth. As he exited the restaurant Ronald McDonald vowed that he would do everything he could to erase from his mind the experience with the pedophile. Coming to terms with contributing to the bastards fetish; now that would take longer, much, much longer.
Later that night, a bellyful of prime rib and baked potato, walking from the allure of Firethorn back to the bleakness of his room at the PM, Gus felt like a new man. He had entered his sabbatical without the slightest sense of what he would do with himself for the next eight weeks (other than worry about the threat of discovery). Now, through the guidance of Ronald McDonald, he had plenty to look forward to. For the seventh or eighth time during the walk home he retrieved the cherished paper from his breast pocket, held it in the glow of a street light, and re-read the words.
Extreme
Exotica
Exchange
223 Pershing Drive
.
Ask for the boys room(behind the counter)
A handwritten ticket to pedophile
paradise; he
re-tucked the note and resumed his stroll. And as the zoning laws relaxed and the destitution increased, Gus lightened his step and began to whistle.
5
Ultimately, Gus was able to endure his sabbatical thanks in large part to the inspirational reading material he purchased at the triple X.
Upon his return to St. Mark’s he found his room untouched, his mailbox absent of anything legal, and his answering machine nothing more than well wishes from the women’s guild that he took pleasure in deleting without a full listen.
His parishioners remarked at his appearance and disposition. Truly they said, whatever he had done for the last two months (multiple whack off sessions daily) had done him wonders. He resumed his interests with passion.
He also resumed his duties as a priest.
And now he was back on the Expressway, trusting the sedans cruise control to keep him in compliance with any radar-enhanced speed traps; a safe 73 miles per hour.
When he first laid eyes on the kiddy porn, some five years ago, he really believed it would be enough to satisfy his longing for bare-butted boys. The full color pictures lay still, they didn’t protest or cry. He could imagine and enact any and all fantasies without the drudgery of conditioning and reinforcement. He sincerely believed that he would no longer lust for trysts with the altar boys.
But the magazines didn’t replace his urges for the living; they had fueled them. Whether just starting a new prospect with friendly whisker rubs, or advancing to simulated sex with a ripe one, his needs became insatiable. The magazines gave him new ideas, ideas which he ached to carry out in the flesh.
He saw a green reflective sign, Rest Area –
Right Lane
– 1 Mile, tapped the brake to disengage the cruise control, and signaled his way into the deceleration lane.
The turnout was a winner. Expansive, ample parking for cars and big rigs alike. The few vehicles that now populated it were clustered near the restrooms. Gus rolled by the dump-and-drain station and nearly reached the onramp before pulling off to the side.
He ignored the yellow lines intended for diagonal parking and pulled up parallel to the curb. A deliberate act to broaden his vision of the world around him. That, plus a straight shot onto the onramp should he happen to be caught in any compromising position.
He checked his mirrors, killed the engine, and reached across the seat.
Ch
apter 2
1
“Dirty! Dirty like a dog! Such ungodliness! And in this house! Saint Peter buried in the yard! It won’t fix! It won’t fix! It won’t fix!”
Demon awoke, but not fully. Five hours of comatose bliss had been suddenly jolted by his mother, shrieking in the bathroom. There was confusion. What was his mother doing up so early? He was always up first watching the test pattern. And there was another thing, he felt different. Something had happened last night, but for the moment, he wasn’t sure.
“You dirty Georgie
Porgie
girl! Aaaaiiiieee!” A screaming banshee was flying toward him.
“You!” His mother now filled his bedroom door frame. “You dirty mutt! Not flushing the toilet! Leaving your sin in the bowl! But deliver us from evil! And not lifting the ring! The communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins! And these!” she held out the washrag and comb accusingly. “In the sink!” Certainly not the worst of oversights but she was on a roll. Then she saw his pants on floor.
“Aaaaiiieee! What have you done! It’s going to take me forever to pluck out those weeds. Eoli Eoli lema sabantani! She uttered the Latin crucifixion phrase of ‘my god, my god, why have you forsaken me.’
Demon prepared his explanation: He had been out the night before with the Bird. They smoked cigarettes and pot. He got
covered in weeds while trying to take a piss on hill 14. He had wasted perfectly good money on munchies. He got home and was still too stoned to piss standing up, so he sat like a girl. He felt conspicuous and didn’t flush, he then spaced out for the next 20 minutes combing his hair and wiping little dots of toothpaste off the mirror. He dropped the comb and rag in the sink and left the toilet unflushed.
But that didn’t sound right. So instead he said: “I forgot.”
He would have been better off with his initial explanation. ‘Forgetting’ is the worst excuse you could ever give to a carrier of manic OCD.
“
Forgot
!” His mother screamed. “Do you see me forgetting! “The day of reckoning draws nigh!” She darted from the room and a moment later came the sound of a flush along with a victorious cry. Over the next two weeks, Demon’s mom would make hundreds of circuits to the bathroom, checking the sink, peering into the bowl, and touching the talismanic flush handle.
The outburst didn’t have as much effect on him as it would have under ordinary circumstances. No, Demon wasn’t in the practice of forgetting, and the times he had displeased his mother in the past he had been able to (brush it off? Deal with it? Hide it away in an internal black cage of pain?). It didn’t matter. And now, that he had discovered pot, it mattered less.
He crawled from bed warily. His brain fuzzy, his tongue coated with a film of ‘extract ala ash.’ Stepping over yesterdays clothes he went to the bureau and tugged out one of this three pairs of new jeans. JC Penney Plain Pockets, $10 a pair. He didn’t like the stiff feel of the jeans compared to his old pants, but it was a fashion sacrifice that needed to be made. He added a pullover and finished with holey socks and his battered tennis shoes.
As he headed to the bathroom, he puzzled over having slept so late, something he had never done before, and lamented the loss of the test pattern, weathervane and morning “N” “E” “W” “S”.
It was only as he turned into the bathroom that he felt the first waves of unease.
It was true, he
had
forgot. Yes, the pot had muted his mothers sting, but wasn’t it the pot that caused him to forget in the first place? He ducked his head in the sink and began washing his hair.
“You flush you dirty dog! You lift the ring you Georgie
Porgie
girl!” His
mother’s
voice from beyond the door. “I’ll be in to check! And all the firstborn shall perish!”
Demon scrubbed at his hair and mulled it over. Was it so bad? So he had forgotten a few things. Next time he would remember. But the pot! (Bob his mind corrected) Bob had been incredible. He hurried along with his washing, then attacked his teeth. For a few moments he stared in the mirror, hoping to experience that same floating feeling as last night, but the world had returned to single-dimensional.
The moment he was out of the bathroom his mother flew in. “I didn’t hear a flush!” She screamed triumphantly. Demon hadn’t the need to use the toilet; still his mother looked warily at the clear water, hoping for even a glimpse of yellow. With no current evidence to rely upon she reverted to the past. “But you forgot last night!” And foretold of the future “And you will forget again!”
Solemnly, as he unchained his bike and pedaled to the last week of his sophomore year, Demon realized that he didn’t care. All of his old torments, from his mother, classmates, coworkers, and yes sometimes even figures of authority, just didn’t matter.
It wasn’t a happy feeling, a feeling of ‘good for me, I’ve overcome my insecurities!’ It was a lethargic, don’t give-a-shit, fuck you for even asking feeling. He just didn’t care, it just didn’t matter. And it had all been resolved by the magic of bob.
Unfortunately for Demon, the squirming tangle of evil tentacles that churned inside him wasn’t resolved by the pot, it just masked his feelings toward them. They saw their opportunity, sending tendrils and creepers out from drug-induced pinpricks that had compromised their cage. The tendrils laced their way into Demon’s brain, latching onto receptors that could put up no resistance after their date last night with bob. There the tendrils pulsed, sending messages to their big brothers back home. ‘We have a foothold, we will put out the call for the drug, begging for more and more. Over time, we will be the ones in control, and once strong enough, we will crush the walls that contain you.’
The nightmarish thing inside the cage roared, crashing itself against the barriers, willing itself to be felt, heard, freed.
Demon turned off
Valley Street
and onto pavement. Argyle road would take him to Jefferson,
Jefferson
to school. And at school, well, he might just run into the Bird. It was an appealing prospect and he began to pedal faster.
Part
5
Bob
Chapter 1
1
“Hey look, it’s bob!” a random voice. The boy of a dozen slanderous nicknames, took no notice. Undaunted, the voice added a body, which stood directly in front of the youth. “So, what did you do last night…bob?” The question – rhetorical, came with a knowing smile.
“uhmm, nothing.” Bob didn’t even know the kid who had approached him. Was he a junior? He must have me confused with---
Recognition.
“Oh yeah.” Just the slightest smile, but a whole lot of unease.