Since Perdurabo has stepped us outside the usual boundaries a bit, I thought I would share one of mine as well..
This has M/M, bad language, adult situations; tho not copious amounts of any i don't think. I'll try to get it all up in one sitting. May it serve you well..
In the Direction of Flame and Ice
------------------------------------
Time to go yet?
Donno. 'Time is it?
Early. Maybe not.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Can't stay here, though. So maybe.
*******
Grabbing a well-worn long black raincoat - not leather. Maybe someday - right, along with all those other maybes. Admit it, Steve - probably never. But what the hell, eh?
So. Coat, sunglasses, engineer boots. Keys. Wallet. Into the van, and away.
I-90 rolls out of the city soon enough, and I shift up to 5th. This van's got a few miles on it, but it still hums when there's a stretch of open road waiting. Keep it below 80, you'll get there.
Nerves relax a little as the buildings drop away. It's different out here. Not really the boonies, exactly, but far enough to escape the miasma that hangs over town. Far enough for me? We'll see.
Down 534 - somehow I don't think I'm coming back tonight, so I roll into the park and rent a space to camp. Pull a dome out of the back, even though I don't plan on using it. But it makes me seem more like a guy camping for the weekend. Less like what I am. A good guy, doing bad things, trying to outrun his conscience.
Once things look nice and domestic for the rangers, I pull back out, and head for my real objective. The strip. It's Thursday, so it isn't too crazy. Some families doing the long weekend thing. Kids using up the summer. Guys who don't care about work in the morning, or, like me, don't have any to care about.
I cruise slowly down the street, all the way to the end of main drag and a little past. Turn by the city park and swing back, ready for another pass. When I'm almost down to Annie's, I find a space and pull over.
It's not so early as it was, but still light. Which is fine - it's the dark that worries me. What waits there. What I drove all the way out here to outrun.
So I go in, get the first vodka of the night. Nod to a few faces, but don't spot anyone looking for me, not yet. Back out on the street, then - what the hell, maybe I'll find someone to chase the darkness with.
It's getting along about sunset, and there's that electric vibe that hits when the neon comes on. Everyone laughs a little louder, seems a little higher. The boys up their swagger, the girls lower their standards (maybe). Getting to be my time. I relax a little more.
Cross the street at Woody's World - not much below this point worth paying attention to. Back up the other side. You can hear the live outdoor karaoke battling it out with the DJs and bands. Me - I just keep walking. No one's flagged me down yet, and maybe I'm glad for that. Even if it does mean the vodkas will be farther apart.
Eventually I wind up at the Cove. It's not a weekend, so there's no cover. Get another vodka - yeah, nerves definitely better now - and swivel around against the bar to survey the room.
Next thing I know, there's an earnest young waif materialized at my elbow. Next to no hair like they wear it now. T-shirt hanging over a bony frame. Ridiculously big pants. Not knowing he's two years behind the city, less than an hour down the road.
Doesn't seem like a customer, though. I can always tell them, because they can always tell me. I swear, for all the evil that drug does, it heightens that one psychic sense - where to find more.
But this one's not looking for that, not yet. Maybe this time next year, though I'd hate to see it happen. I try not to deal with the babies like that - I deal junk, but I've got a conscience, too.
Which brings me back to why I'm out here in the first place. And when I think about chasing the darkness, my young friend suddenly makes all the sense in the world. So I turn his direction, pushing the shades up on top of my (alright: dyed) black hair.
" 'Zzup?" The casual. A lift of the chin, nothing more.
"Hey." He seems relieved I've noticed him. "I mean, you know, nothing."
" 'S'what I thought." You'd never know I had a degree in English Lit. Fat lot of good it did me. "You need a beer or anything?"
I turned back and lifted a finger, signaling the bartender. I wasn't convinced my young friend was old enough for beer, but the fuck, they let him in here. On their heads be it.
He took the Rolling Rock gratefully. Not for what it was, but for what it could mean. A place to sleep tonight, maybe money, maybe food. We'd spend a few hours dancing around it, but the deal was done then. He knew it on some level; I knew it outright.
I picked up my drink and headed for a table, one away from anybody in particular. I didn't need to beckon. He followed, beer in hand. Time to talk some business.
"You party much?" He didn't have the look, but if he'd been working this strip, or anywhere around here, he'd know. So I asked. And he shrugged.
"A little. You know. When it's around." Meaning, if that's part of the deal, he'll go along; but otherwise, no.
"I'm kinda looking for people who do. Who party hard, know what I mean?" I doubted he did, really, but he played along. "Coz they might want to talk to me, you see. Know anybody like that?"
I didn't worry about sharing my dirty little secret, not with a guttersnipe like this. He was one down on me, one down on the world, probably. He wasn't going to pull anything slick, not and lose the chance that beer had bought him.
As it happened, he did know somebody just like that. Somebody who worked upstairs. Normally a punk kid like him wouldn't get the time of day from the boys upstairs, but it seems the same somebody liked to get his knob polished on occasion. Which helped explain why my young friend was allowed in the door.
So I laid it out. He could get upstairs, I'd send a sample with him. If the deal went through, he'd pocket ten percent. (Yeah, I know. But I was feeling generous).
I didn't much feel like getting on first-name terms with anybody, even though I knew half the club could ID me to the guy: 'Oh yeah, him? Looked like he was in a band or something - spiky black hair, black trenchcoat, mirror shades. Short, kind've Italian-looking, sorta. Yeah sure, I'd know if I saw him again.'
My boy knew his trade. A word to the bartender and he was off; and soon enough back for the rest of the package. My nerves liked the cash, too, so I had another vodka while he was gone, and a fresh one when he got back. Noticed the beer was still largely untouched. Must mean he didn't have to get drunk first, I figured.
When it was all over, I fished out the lime and announced I wanted some food.
"You coming, kid?" I asked. "I'm buying." I lied - I didn't want food. I had a supply of little white pills I kept next to the little bags of powder, took care of that problem. Set off the vodka real nice, too.
"Name's Jamie," he replied, getting up to puppydog out the door after me.
"Steve," I said, and stuck out a hand as I walked. He scurried to shake it and keep up.
I got stuff from the gyro kiosk. He would've settled for a slice of pizza, I knew, but there wasn't enough meat on that scrawny frame. Yeah, I know, look who's talking, huh? But I still got arms and shoulders from when I - well, when I wasn't living like this.
"Here, I'm not that hungry," I said, when his gyro disappeared. "Try some of this." I pushed the rest of my falafel at him. He took it, grateful, but a little nervously, too. I kicked a foot up onto the picnic bench and fished a clove cigaret from my coat pocket.
"So why am I being so nice to you, huh?" He gave me a deer in the headlights look - shit, and I hadn't even pulled out my wizard moves yet. I lit the smoke and leaned an elbow onto the table.
"Well. There's the chance that I'm not nice at all," I said, blowing smoke out the side of my mouth, "and you just don't know it yet." Not entirely true, but he could use the warning.
"Or there's the chance that I've been there too, and I know what it's like." Not strictly true either, though I did know what it was like. "So you take your pick."
He didn't answer me then, but when I got up to head to the van, he was at my heels. I suppose I know which one he chose.
We got in and I pushed in the tape. The opening chords of Bush's "Machinehead" rushed up at us from the back. I couldn't afford many frills, but decent speakers didn't fall in the frill category. Not in my book.
I cruised to the end of the strip, then turned around by the gypsy palm-reading joint. I'd stopped in one of those places once, just to see how they did it. Found out they didn't bother, usually - but with my dark hair and olive skin, they weren't certain I wasn't one of them, so I got a few crumbs tossed my way.
Made her regret she hadn't done more, when I grabbed her hand at the end and read it cold back to her. I didn't know much Romany, but I didn't need to, to know what they were saying as I strode out into the night.
This has M/M, bad language, adult situations; tho not copious amounts of any i don't think. I'll try to get it all up in one sitting. May it serve you well..
In the Direction of Flame and Ice
------------------------------------
Time to go yet?
Donno. 'Time is it?
Early. Maybe not.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Can't stay here, though. So maybe.
*******
Grabbing a well-worn long black raincoat - not leather. Maybe someday - right, along with all those other maybes. Admit it, Steve - probably never. But what the hell, eh?
So. Coat, sunglasses, engineer boots. Keys. Wallet. Into the van, and away.
I-90 rolls out of the city soon enough, and I shift up to 5th. This van's got a few miles on it, but it still hums when there's a stretch of open road waiting. Keep it below 80, you'll get there.
Nerves relax a little as the buildings drop away. It's different out here. Not really the boonies, exactly, but far enough to escape the miasma that hangs over town. Far enough for me? We'll see.
Down 534 - somehow I don't think I'm coming back tonight, so I roll into the park and rent a space to camp. Pull a dome out of the back, even though I don't plan on using it. But it makes me seem more like a guy camping for the weekend. Less like what I am. A good guy, doing bad things, trying to outrun his conscience.
Once things look nice and domestic for the rangers, I pull back out, and head for my real objective. The strip. It's Thursday, so it isn't too crazy. Some families doing the long weekend thing. Kids using up the summer. Guys who don't care about work in the morning, or, like me, don't have any to care about.
I cruise slowly down the street, all the way to the end of main drag and a little past. Turn by the city park and swing back, ready for another pass. When I'm almost down to Annie's, I find a space and pull over.
It's not so early as it was, but still light. Which is fine - it's the dark that worries me. What waits there. What I drove all the way out here to outrun.
So I go in, get the first vodka of the night. Nod to a few faces, but don't spot anyone looking for me, not yet. Back out on the street, then - what the hell, maybe I'll find someone to chase the darkness with.
It's getting along about sunset, and there's that electric vibe that hits when the neon comes on. Everyone laughs a little louder, seems a little higher. The boys up their swagger, the girls lower their standards (maybe). Getting to be my time. I relax a little more.
Cross the street at Woody's World - not much below this point worth paying attention to. Back up the other side. You can hear the live outdoor karaoke battling it out with the DJs and bands. Me - I just keep walking. No one's flagged me down yet, and maybe I'm glad for that. Even if it does mean the vodkas will be farther apart.
Eventually I wind up at the Cove. It's not a weekend, so there's no cover. Get another vodka - yeah, nerves definitely better now - and swivel around against the bar to survey the room.
Next thing I know, there's an earnest young waif materialized at my elbow. Next to no hair like they wear it now. T-shirt hanging over a bony frame. Ridiculously big pants. Not knowing he's two years behind the city, less than an hour down the road.
Doesn't seem like a customer, though. I can always tell them, because they can always tell me. I swear, for all the evil that drug does, it heightens that one psychic sense - where to find more.
But this one's not looking for that, not yet. Maybe this time next year, though I'd hate to see it happen. I try not to deal with the babies like that - I deal junk, but I've got a conscience, too.
Which brings me back to why I'm out here in the first place. And when I think about chasing the darkness, my young friend suddenly makes all the sense in the world. So I turn his direction, pushing the shades up on top of my (alright: dyed) black hair.
" 'Zzup?" The casual. A lift of the chin, nothing more.
"Hey." He seems relieved I've noticed him. "I mean, you know, nothing."
" 'S'what I thought." You'd never know I had a degree in English Lit. Fat lot of good it did me. "You need a beer or anything?"
I turned back and lifted a finger, signaling the bartender. I wasn't convinced my young friend was old enough for beer, but the fuck, they let him in here. On their heads be it.
He took the Rolling Rock gratefully. Not for what it was, but for what it could mean. A place to sleep tonight, maybe money, maybe food. We'd spend a few hours dancing around it, but the deal was done then. He knew it on some level; I knew it outright.
I picked up my drink and headed for a table, one away from anybody in particular. I didn't need to beckon. He followed, beer in hand. Time to talk some business.
"You party much?" He didn't have the look, but if he'd been working this strip, or anywhere around here, he'd know. So I asked. And he shrugged.
"A little. You know. When it's around." Meaning, if that's part of the deal, he'll go along; but otherwise, no.
"I'm kinda looking for people who do. Who party hard, know what I mean?" I doubted he did, really, but he played along. "Coz they might want to talk to me, you see. Know anybody like that?"
I didn't worry about sharing my dirty little secret, not with a guttersnipe like this. He was one down on me, one down on the world, probably. He wasn't going to pull anything slick, not and lose the chance that beer had bought him.
As it happened, he did know somebody just like that. Somebody who worked upstairs. Normally a punk kid like him wouldn't get the time of day from the boys upstairs, but it seems the same somebody liked to get his knob polished on occasion. Which helped explain why my young friend was allowed in the door.
So I laid it out. He could get upstairs, I'd send a sample with him. If the deal went through, he'd pocket ten percent. (Yeah, I know. But I was feeling generous).
I didn't much feel like getting on first-name terms with anybody, even though I knew half the club could ID me to the guy: 'Oh yeah, him? Looked like he was in a band or something - spiky black hair, black trenchcoat, mirror shades. Short, kind've Italian-looking, sorta. Yeah sure, I'd know if I saw him again.'
My boy knew his trade. A word to the bartender and he was off; and soon enough back for the rest of the package. My nerves liked the cash, too, so I had another vodka while he was gone, and a fresh one when he got back. Noticed the beer was still largely untouched. Must mean he didn't have to get drunk first, I figured.
When it was all over, I fished out the lime and announced I wanted some food.
"You coming, kid?" I asked. "I'm buying." I lied - I didn't want food. I had a supply of little white pills I kept next to the little bags of powder, took care of that problem. Set off the vodka real nice, too.
"Name's Jamie," he replied, getting up to puppydog out the door after me.
"Steve," I said, and stuck out a hand as I walked. He scurried to shake it and keep up.
I got stuff from the gyro kiosk. He would've settled for a slice of pizza, I knew, but there wasn't enough meat on that scrawny frame. Yeah, I know, look who's talking, huh? But I still got arms and shoulders from when I - well, when I wasn't living like this.
"Here, I'm not that hungry," I said, when his gyro disappeared. "Try some of this." I pushed the rest of my falafel at him. He took it, grateful, but a little nervously, too. I kicked a foot up onto the picnic bench and fished a clove cigaret from my coat pocket.
"So why am I being so nice to you, huh?" He gave me a deer in the headlights look - shit, and I hadn't even pulled out my wizard moves yet. I lit the smoke and leaned an elbow onto the table.
"Well. There's the chance that I'm not nice at all," I said, blowing smoke out the side of my mouth, "and you just don't know it yet." Not entirely true, but he could use the warning.
"Or there's the chance that I've been there too, and I know what it's like." Not strictly true either, though I did know what it was like. "So you take your pick."
He didn't answer me then, but when I got up to head to the van, he was at my heels. I suppose I know which one he chose.
We got in and I pushed in the tape. The opening chords of Bush's "Machinehead" rushed up at us from the back. I couldn't afford many frills, but decent speakers didn't fall in the frill category. Not in my book.
I cruised to the end of the strip, then turned around by the gypsy palm-reading joint. I'd stopped in one of those places once, just to see how they did it. Found out they didn't bother, usually - but with my dark hair and olive skin, they weren't certain I wasn't one of them, so I got a few crumbs tossed my way.
Made her regret she hadn't done more, when I grabbed her hand at the end and read it cold back to her. I didn't know much Romany, but I didn't need to, to know what they were saying as I strode out into the night.
