A Dish Best Served Cold

BY:  GERRY YOUNG

© 2011 anno Domini

With appreciation for assistance from Tickie and Dark Shadow

Author's Note:  This prescribed incident took place in the late 1970s,

just prior to Atlanta's Center for Disease Control's first official announcement of the acronym, A.I.D.S., in 1981.

************

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent.

Part 1
2

1

[AUTHOR'S NOTE:  Whether for reason number ONE — a repeated grade or class (or 'form', for you Brits who might be reading this) — or number TWO — being held back from first grade by his parents — or number THREE — the lad whose birthday forced the child to begin school at the age of seven rather than the usual six — the several students mentioned herein were eighteen-year-old high school Seniors at the time of the tale's occurrence.  Yet, they were considered to be adults by the State of California, irrespective of their prankish behavior.  Because of being older than most of their classmates, AND due to the fact that their families happened to be more affluent than most, the boys had cliqued together since earliest years in damp and smelly diapers and playpens, supervised by their over-permissive and 'progressive' Nannies, and who had grown up thinking the school and the world were their oysters, fresh for the harvesting and plucking.  Or perhaps the last word's first two letters could … excuse me … SHOULD … be simplified to only one.  And now … as Paul Harvey would say, "Here's the rest of the story."]

CHARLIE was a brawny weightlifter who — there was no doubt whatsoever, used enhancement drugs, steroids, in other words — towered at nearly six-and-a-half feet, and weighed in at close to three hundred naked pounds.  As is common with many longtime bodybuilders, his manhood was miniscule in relation to the rest of his physique — nearly disappearing in the 'black forest' when flaccid, and no more than three-and-a-half slender linear inches when fully aroused.  But those nads!  He must have used separators and stretchers with ten-pound weights hanging from them for hours upon hours and for years upon years.  Or else, he brought forth those bovine genes from a previous incarnation.

CHARLIE flipped his man-tool from the humid, sticky bag of goodies below, and then leaned forward and guided the juicy prepuce of that stiff little penis to the hole in the ball-gag in DICKINSON's mouth.  With only the tips of his beefy thumb and index finger, CHARLIE delicately stroked the diminutive appendage until the bead of pre-cum slid down its spidery seminal thread into the opening of the gag and onward into DICKINSON's mouth.  His steamy, sweaty nad-pack rested where the metallic 'coins' had been until they'd fallen away so recently.

DICKINSON was repulsed by the strong repugnant chemical flavor of that single oily drop of drug-infused germinal fluid as if it were from the very wastes of the depths on the floor of the Mexican Gulf.

Time and again during the past few high-school years — in fact, too many times to remember the exact number — DICKINSON had remanded CHARLIE to detention for his foul mouth and his roughing-up of underclassmen.  He was a true bully to the 'little people' — the younger Freshmen and Sophomores — and a nuisance to many of the Juniors and to some of the Seniors as well.  He'd coerced a 'cute-as-the-dickens' frosh-boy to orally copulate his pitiful Senior cock (in the Boys' Room of the woodworking shop, no less). 

DICKINSON had put CHARLIE on two-week suspension, even after hearing the sobbing, apologizing plea from the adoring and noble kid, himself, that he hadn't minded and didn't want to press charges.  (Note:  No doubt, within a few months, the kid would become the Managing Ball-Boy and fuck-toy of the baseball, basketball, football, and men's gymnastics, swimming, and wrestling varsities;  he seemed so hungry for the intimate attention of the larger guys!)

It was the principle of the thing.  'To Hell with Dr. Spock and his damned unconventional advice to parents and teachers never to discipline their spoiled and perverted, over-privileged little darlings,' DICKINSON had voiced at the time, in regarding CHARLIE's abuse of the kid.

"Well, well, well," CHARLIE growled as he smirked a self-satisfied smile, moving back a step.  "Now this is where 'MISS ELLIE' belongs…" he parodied ELLIS DICKINSON's name, "… on her back, and with her mouth- and ass-cunts available to ALL her up-an'-cummin' … betters!"  A wicked chuckle resounded from his monstrously muscled neck.

Unseen by DICKINSON, another boy laughed at CHARLIE's new nickname for the second-in-command at school.  The short little chuckled-laugh sounded somewhat familiar to DICKINSON, but he couldn't quite recognize to whom the timbre belonged.

As seen from his spread-eagled but hammock-like position at CHARLIE's steaming crotch — oozing pheromones — DICKINSON had never realized just how big the boy really was — his body, not his genitalia — what there was of it, that is.  Nor that voice!  Not boyish at all, but manly and deep, in a lustful, heart-stopping baritone — to anyone thus affected by such a masculine quality. 

"Umph!"  Sensing a personally-familiar movement, DICKINSON groaned in disapproval as he raised his head, gazed down his restrained body, and viewed his own dreaded, rising erection.  Then, with eyes closed for the moment, blood contrarily rushed even faster to DICKINSON's average six- or six-and-a-half-inch cut cock, causing it to jerk, but only once, and was joined by the sound of a strong suctioning of air through the hole in the ball-gag.  He just couldn't help it;  it … they — the jerk and the suctioning — both happened spontaneously.  He couldn't stop it or cause IT to return again to its flaccid state if his life had depended upon it.  Truth be known, he didn't want to stop it or alter its arousing course.  But then … he was torn between exposing his hidden desires toward certain male students and the 'immorality' of being attracted to sexual encounters with ANY high school student —no matter at WHAT age — particularly of his own sex.  On the other hand … he was well aware that ANY man, aroused or excited by some outside stimulus — whether, i.e., it be a woman, another man, or even an animal, by visual, auditory, olfactory, or tactile means — will, with no forethought at all, automatically become 'stirred up' or 'invigorated', shall we say?  Impossible to negate or reject even under the right circumstances — whatever the right circumstances might be … for that individual.

Carefully lowering DICKINSON's head again to its dangling position, CHARLIE stepped back a bit, leaned forward, and ran his moist, serpentine tongue back and forth from one nipple to the other.  "Lick my balls, MISS ELLIE," he ordered.  "Oh!  That's right;  you can't," he said with foreboding disillusion, suddenly remembering the ball-gag.  "Oh, well … next time, for sure," he promised with the subtle forecast of a threatened repeat.

Another pulse.  Another jerk — uncontrolled but also unwanted for the moment — 'a world of contradictions,' he thought.

With some unknown inner power, DICKINSON summoned his strength and yanked his hands toward CHARLIE's head in anger — mock or otherwise, it mattered not.  They rose merely an inch or two, but the only other thing that happened was that the struggle momentarily shortened the length of the arm-chains. In so doing, his face was pulled smack-dab into CHARLIE's pubic hair and erect, oozing little 'dickie', hard as a rock, which then slid across the tip of DICKINSON's nose, lips, and chin, leaving an acrid, slimy, snail-like trail behind.  Once more, DICKINSON began shaking his head from side to side trying to avoid the little pre-cum-dripping penis that smelled of Limburger-fragranced cock-cheese.

CHARLIE jerked upright from his bent-forward posture, surprised at the movement.  He spread his legs a little, and inched forward a half step.  DICKINSON's head slid between CHARLIE's upper thighs, and DICKINSON's nose was precisely pressing against CHARLIE's sweaty perineum — his 'taint'.

"Ohhh, 'MISS ELLIE', that feels sooooo goooood.  You keep movin' your whiskered cheeks like that, and I might just have to give ya whatcha really want."  Before losing his own balance, he stepped back the half step, and his meager cock rubbed DICKINSON's face a couple of times.  Again, he leaned over the older man and lightly nipped with his teeth, first, one of his nipples, then slid his tongue across the fur, and bit down on the other one, leaving reddish-purple bite marks.

DICKINSON moaned and squirmed.  He loved the sensations, but — as already stated — hated the thought of … publicly … receiving them from any teen, and refused to show any enjoyment, but his damned fuck-stick continued to betray his desires by growing closer to its absolute maximum seven-inch length and six-inch circumference with nearly two-inch diameter.  At the same time, he knew that whoever ELSE was in the Boiler Room … could see it!

"I see ya like that, bitch," CHARLIE remarked.  "You're a real grower, ya know that?  I'm surprised, 'cause ya don't got any balls worth shit.  Hmmmmm … maybe we should arrange a trade, ya know?  Your big cock over my sac of bull's balls, and my fuckin' little pricklet over your puny sac o' ol' withered peanuts."  CHARLIE and the unknown voice in the darkness roared hysterically at the proposition.  "And I know just the surgeon who could do it for us — a real good friend of mine who's taught me ever'thang I know 'bout all kinds o' different pussies — female AND male."  He was, surprisingly enough, referring to his own father, the well-known and highly acclaimed genital reconstruction specialist, Ollie Everhard Clittox Hayward, M.D.  (Some people have very strange names, indeed!)

DICKINSON's eyes bugged out of his skull in fright.  His hands, cuffed to the chains, started shaking in panic.  His labored breathing became erratic and jerky once more.  And his cock had rather quickly nearly succumbed to being flaccid again.

"Your dick seemed to have liked it a lot, too, but you're afraid to really let yourself show it, ain'tcha, Sweet-Cheeks?"  He then returned to his tantalizing torture by sucking slowly on one of DICKINSON's pert nips and bit down even harder;  he then slid his tongue over to DICKINSON's armpit, ready to soak the entire area with his tongue and spit. 

"Yuck!" he spluttered in disgust along with several other gross, vulgar, and profane out-pourings as he jumped back.  "Tastes like alum combined with Lava Soap^® … but at least it's a man's soap.  Right, MISS ELLIE?" CHARLIE asked with a sneer, stepping back a bit more before spitting the foul remnants in DICKINSON's face.  "You really are a cock-hungry cunt in a MAN's body, aren'tcha?" he asked, "…masking your desires with such manly — Oh, fuck!  What's the word? — ACCOUTREMENTS!  Yeah, that's it.  See, Mister Vice-Principal … I DO pay attention in English!"

Another muffled sarcastic chuckle from the dark, invisible sidelines.

"I still enjoy a good day's sweat of a man's hairy pit, though," CHARLIE mumbled.

DICKINSON glared at his tormentor, and CHARLIE slapped each side of his face again before he slithered past, letting his huge fingers course through the fur on DICKINSON's chest and abs, lightly tickling as they journeyed farther south.  Then, for just a wee fraction of a moment, CHARLIE withdrew his hand so that he could move around a leg-chain and stand between both raised and cuffed legs that exposed the puckered, flexing lips of the … apparently … horny asshole of his and his buddies' victim.  It looked like a miniature version of the snapping, pink beak of the giant squid in the movie, "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea".  Snap.  Snap.  Snap.

"Hungry for it, too, I see," CHARLIE jeered.  Then, mimicking Dorothy Gale's 'Wicked Witch of the West', he added, "In time, my pretty;  in time."  An evil, robust laugh followed, then he went on.  "Not so big and tough are ya, Mister Vice-Principal?  Not now, anyway, are you, 'MISS ELLIE'?  Gotta say, that's a perfect name for ya, pa'ticularly after we get through with ya tonight," the weightlifter hinted at the evening's planned activities.  "Not able to play the rough and tough Marine Drill Sergeant, all tied up and unable to do anything but lay there and suck cock and get fucked up the ass for being the sonuvabitchin', domineerin' whore you've been for the past three years, are ya, bitch?" his soft, friendly voice rose to an angry roar as he thrust a … somehow … greased middle finger fully into DICKINSON's ass-cunt in a single movement.  Thank God, the brawny weightlifter bit his nails 'way back to the cuticles.  It was as smooth an unwanted, unbloodied entrance as could be hoped for under the present conditions.

A gag-muffled scream, nevertheless, escaped through the breathing-hole, piss-hole, cum-dripping-hole, whatever-ya-wanna-call-it-hole in the ball-gag as DICKINSON flinched upright as much as possible at the forced intrusion.  The sling rocketed to and fro, side to side, forward and back, causing CHARLIE, again, almost to lose his balance.

Just then, another voice was heard.

"Hey, man!  No fair!" ROD SMITH, a freckle-faced, grayish-white-skinned boy called as he rushed into the new playroom.  "Already started havin' some fun 'afor we all git here, did ya?"  He carried a pharmacy's plastic checkout bag and set it on the unkempt desk of Quasimodo Frolo, the Maintenance Guy … at least that's the name some of the younger residents of the building used to ridicule the poor, unfortunate, hard-working, ill-shapened man.  Children can be so cruel.  And mommy and daddy let their little darlings do and say whatever the hell they want.  SHIT!

DICKINSON recognized ROD's higher-pitched voice as that student was another frequent visitor to after-hours detention.  'How many boys are there?' he wondered in silence.  'How many more are coming?'  He dared not hazard a guess.

"He started comin' to," CHARLIE answered, referring to the ether-drenched cloth that had been bound around DICKINSON's head, "so I figured I'd get'im all loosened up before ever'body got here.  Where's FRANK? We gotta hurry.  Don't have all night.  I gotta curfew since bitch, here, put me in detention again.  My ol' man'll kill me this time if I'm just one fuckin' minute late, even if it IS a Friday night!"

"He's getting the other stuff," the miscreant answered, smirking, as he sidled up to DICKINSON and tweaked the prominent adult nipples of both tits with his three-quarter-inch-long, pointy, black-painted fingernails.  Turning his head, ROD winked at CHARLIE, then turning again, he glared at DICKINSON, curled his lips back baring his teeth, and gave forth with a sharp hissing sound. 

It was then that DICKINSON realized that ROD had had his canines filed down to real fangs.  Each week recently, it seemed, ROD had done something else to add to the Gothic caricature he appeared to crave.

"Why not just use the fire hose over there?" CHARLIE asked of no one in particular as he jerked his shit-laced middle finger from DICKINSON's slimy hole and wiped it through the handy pubic hair to cleanse it … more or less.

DICKINSON squeezed his eyes shut in embarrassment and pain, sending a kaleidoscope of reds, blacks, golds, and silvers to his brain.  The loudest of his … as yet … painful moans rushed from his throat and out through the hole in the ball-gag.

In seconds, it seemed, ROD had shed his dark, floor-length topcoat, as well as the rest of his weird outfit and was as naked as the day he was born, except for his long, straight, coal-black hair (obviously dyed) hanging down his back and over his shoulders, and his bush of flaming reddish-orange pubes.  His finger then replaced CHARLIE's with the addition of a second.  And soon thereafter, a third.  DICKINSON responded with a flinch and a louder, prolonged groan.  'Those nails could puncture my insides,' he feared, as they twisted and turned, moved farther into and almost completely out of his violated, yet quivering, nether region.

To CHARLIE's last question, ROD answered, "The warm water'll make it a helluva lot easier at first, 'Dufus'.  B'sides … usin' the fire hose would set off alarms."

CHARLIE pulled a fuckin' eighteen-inch-long pair of scissors out of the bag on the desk and held'em up, asking, "Think this'll cut it off?"

"That's why I got'em," ROD answered, jerking his three widespread fingers from DICKINSON's ass.  He didn't even bother to wipe'em off;  one by one, he seductively sucked them clean of the ass juices.

Had he seen that, DICKINSON probably would have puked, but he didn't react to ROD's fingers' rough exit from his asshole at all.  His outrageously glaring eyes were glued in fear to the scissors CHARLIE was waving and clicking about. 

"Here.  You do it," he said, handing them to ROD.  DICKINSON tensed, groaned, and wriggled, fearing the worst.  Tears were dripping from his eyes.

"Oh, don't be such a big wuss, DICKSsss… uhhh … MISS ELLIE, I mean," ROD corrected himself.  "We ain't gonna cutchur cock off … we got other things planned for that!  SHOCKING things that'll ELECTRIFY you!"  He grinned as he flexed his eyebrows a few times.  "But what we're gonna do, startin' now, is cut all that purty golden fur off ya, from your delicious neck…" he bared his 'fangs' and hissed again, "… all the way down past your fuck-hole.  And these…" he fondled DICKINSON's uptight little ball-sac, "…may end up with two little holes in them."  Once more, he bared his teeth and hissed before saying in a well-articulated Transylvanian accent, "I vant … to suc … k'your blod."

DICKINSON went hysterical, wriggling, twisting, pulling, pushing, yanking, trying to loosen his bindings, trying to get away, sobbing between unintelligible profanities, and on and on and on.

"COOL IT, MAN! … or I should say … BITCH!" CHARLIE yelled.  "We don't wanna hurtcha permanently, and we damn-sure don't wanna cutcha or draw any blood (ROD scowled at his big friend), so if you wanna leave here in one piece tonight after we get through with ya … just behave yourself and take whatever you have to, like the man ya think ya are, and like we have to do … excuse me … HAD to do! … when you put us in fuckin' detention — there won't be any more of THAT, I guaran-damn-tee ya!  If ya can't do that …" he reached in the bag and brought out a Drop-Ether-Mask and a small bottle of Anesthetic Ether, "… we'll use these again."  He turned back and held them up so DICKINSON could see.  "Won't give ya enough to make ya lose total consciousness … again ... but it'll make it easier on ya, and who knows?  You might even get to love the rest of what we're gonna do to ya…" he said with a shit-eatin' grin, "…whether you're conscious of it or not!  And then we can ALL be friends … with you on your knees or on your back … at the bottom of our social totem-pole." 

Then, turning back to ROD, CHARLIE ordered, "Start shearin', butcha don't have to be too neat."

Like a 'mad Gothic scientist,' ROD clicked the blades of the scissors together a couple of times in the air so that DICKINSON could see them.  Unable to speak or wriggle his way out of the sling, he trembled at what was coming, again fearing the worst.  He was scared — really scared for the first time in his life.  He had never felt so threatened before.  His breathing was quick and shallow.  From his throat came sobbing moans;  from his eyes, tears flooded his face.

Stroking DICKINSON's crew-cut, ROD cooed, "Be still, my golden-fleeced little sheepy-poo.  This won't hurt … unless you move and I do an … OOPSie-daisy!" he taunted.  Then, once more, he bared his 'fangs', gave forth a raspy hiss, and lowered his opened mouth to DICKINSON's neck, washed it with his spit-wet tongue, and then … surprisingly enough … gently kissed it.  He purred like a kitten, and then, drawing back with an evil glare, he hungrily licked his lips.  A few droplets of spittle dribbled from the corners of his mouth onto the corner of DICKINSON's lips.

DICKINSON squeezed his eyes shut and shed more tears.

Minutes passed.  Returning the ether and mask to the desk, CHARLIE had pulled an electric hair clipper and an extension cord from the bag of goodies.  Looking around, he plugged the cord into a nearby outlet and was connecting the clipper-cord into the extension cord as ROD said, "Shit!  MISS ELLIE, here, is a fuckin' golden gorilla, ain't she, CHARLIE?"

"Yeah.  You jus' keep shearin' an' I'll start clippin'," CHARLIE said, attaching the #3 Guide Comb, which would clip the chest and pubic hair to no more than 1/8 inch (3 mm).

Soon, the buzzing noise began and as ROD continued down toward DICKINSON's abs, CHARLIE began clipping around the diminished nipples centered on the reddish-brown, dime-sized areolas.  "Awww.  Poor widdle t'ings," CHARLIE whined like a four-year-old.  "Dheir bot scared 'n' tryin' to hide or go bye-bye," he said in a babyish voice, finishing the upper chest.  Wiping the loose hairs to the side, he momentarily turned off the clippers and leaned over, swabbed the little nubbins with his tongue until they stood tall once again;  it didn't take long.  DICKINSON's face seemed to relax and a soft moan was heard.

"A moan up there, and a jerk down here," ROD said.  "Looks like he's enjoying it … or rather … looks like SHE's enjoying it."  He chuckled.

The clipper's buzzing returned.  The sheared and clipped hairs were brushed or wiped to DICKINSON's sides, falling between flesh and the rubbery, sweaty dampness of the sling.  His sides began to itch, but there wasn't a fuckin' thing he could do about it except squirm, hoping for some relief, only to experience more itching.

Glancing back to DICKINSON's face, CHARLIE said, "RODDIE, here, is the genius behind tonight's little gathering, ya know.  We've all been tryin' to think of how we could make you regret you ever sent us to detention.  And how to do it in a way you'd be too embarrassed to mention to anyone about tonight.  Truth is … you're not gonna want to remember this night at all.  Isn't that right, RODDIE, baby?"

The eighteen-inch shears immediately quit their cutting, and ROD pointed them at — not DICKINSON, but at …CHARLIE — with lips curled back as a bloodthirsty hiss poured forth.  "Don't call me 'baby'," he gruffly ordered after sucking in a breath.

"Awright, all right, already," the big guy responded with eyebrows arched and one hand raised in surrender as the other continued with the clipping.

"Wow!  You guys started without me," FRANK HARDY observed as he entered the play area.  He was carrying a galvanized bucket of comfortably hot water (95-110º F;  35-43º C) and a washcloth in one hand, with a can of Burma Shave^® Lather and a package of disposable razors in the other.

"What took ya so long?" CHARLIE inquired at the same time as ROD exclaimed, "Burma Shave^®!?  Where'd ya find that?"

Setting the pail of water and everything else he'd brought with him onto the already-crowded desk, FRANK avoided CHARLIE's question but answered ROD's. "Dad's got a case of it along with a lot of other memorabilia from the '60s, so I just sorta … borrowed … a can," he said, wriggling his eyebrows.

"Oh, yeah.  Didn't they go outta business?" ROD asked, and then added, “We weren't even born yet!"  Then, with a diabolical glare at DICKINSON's scaredy-cat eyes, he added, "…but I DO pay attention in American Social Studies class, too, bitch!"

"You weren't even a little spermie in your daddy's hot 'n' horny balls, then," CHARLIE joked with ROD, "but I remember going with MY dad to his Senior Prom, then an exciting little submarine ride and over a waterfall…"  (He hurriedly humped the air with his hips as his fist simulated the excitement.) "…and finally coming home with Mumsy.  That's what I remember."

"You asshole," ROD said, rolling his eyes at the impossible fantasy.  "Nobody can remember THAT far back."

"I can," CHARLIE replied as a matter of fact.

Giving him the 'finger', ROD shot back, "In your wet dreams, little-big-man.  In your sick, DRIPPY, dreams."

While he was jumping from one foot to the other, removing his laced-up shoes, then his holey, faded Levis, and his sleeveless muscle-tee, FRANK said, "All right, guys;  cut the fraternization…"

"Ooooo," both, CHARLIE and ROD exclaimed.  "Such a big word!"

FRANK grinned with pride, then added, "Yeah;  but getting back to what you asked me before … I think I heard Dad say Burma Shave^® sold out in '63."  Next, he stuck his thumbs inside the waistband of his pissy-yellow Joe Boxer's^® with the big smiley-face grinning at the growing erection it barely hid.  Down and off went the baggy underwear, and up popped his averaged-sized boner splattering a drop or two of pre-cum against his sparse but obvious, dark brown 'treasure trail';  he hefted his shaved ballsack with one hand and stroked his throbbing cock a couple of times with his other.  It was difficult to tell whether he'd been circumcised or not since most of his slimy, glistening glans was uncovered by the tiny bit of foreskin, which barely concealed the flange of his helmet.

DICKINSON couldn't believe just how humiliated he was;  never had he been so angry, yet so turned-on by high school students in all his life.  True, they'd each one earned every moment of detention he'd made them serve, particularly CHARLIE.  Oh, yeah, and they'd all come from the most affluent families in town — 'doctors, lawyers, Injun Chiefs', as the old saying goes.  But spoiled rotten is what they were, being given any- and everything they wanted.  What they truly lacked from their parents was love and discipline.  Cars, clothes, credit lines, plastic cards, and long-range cordless phones would never take the place of good, ol' fashioned hickory sticks and webbed belts to mark their asses in response to their misbehavings.

In short order, the shearing and clipping had finished. 

The somewhat familiar but unrecognized voice in the darkness gave a cough.

In response to the unspoken directive, FRANK reached for the can of shaving lather and began shaking it;  ROD started dipping the washcloth in the bucket of hot water, and then washing off DICKINSON's chest, abs, groin, and on down to his perineum and finally his asshole.  CHARLIE moved behind DICKINSON's head, retrieved the rag /slash/ blindfold, laid it back across DICKINSON's eyes, and once again tied it behind his head.  Then, he untied the leather cord and eased the ball-gag from behind DICKINSON's teeth.

In the darkness at the edge of the basement, the fourth young man stood, quickly and quietly stripped out of his clothes, and, with a huge, evil grin, began stroking his already firm and throbbing, pre-cum oozing, teen cock.

Wetting his lips and gulping great gobs of fresh air, DICKINSON sobbed, "What're ya gonna d…?" before CHARLIE jabbed three fingers of one hand and the thumb of his other into the mouth, pushing both ways against the teeth, opening the oral tunnel farther, making it almost impossible for DICKINSON to mumble more than a moan or a groan.

"Just relax … MISS ELLIE," CHARLIE said in a soft, seductive voice.  "We've got a warm, juicy present just for you."

DICKINSON could sense CHARLIE moving somewhat to the side, as another body moved in closer, directly above and behind his dangling head.

"Just relax, now," CHARLIE repeated himself.  "I'm gonna take my fingers outta your mouth, but you keep it open … WIDE … and don't you DARE bite down … OR YOU'LL REGRET IT … IN THE WORST WAY POSSIBLE," he demanded.

As he grabbed DICKINSON's diminishing, but still firm, cock, ROD picked up and clicked the long shears several times as he pressed the outside edge of one of the blades to the shriveling, fleshy 'dip-stick'.  Boy!  It sure was getting its exercise!  Growing up nice and thick and tall, then shrinking to almost nothing, again and again, up and down and up and down.

And suddenly, a soft, yet hard, spongy penile tube slid ever-so-gently into DICKINSON's mouth as CHARLIE's fingers were withdrawn.  His mouth closed a bit, and his teeth pressed against the warm flesh.  Immediately, both cheeks were slapped, and CHARLIE barked, "OPEN UP, BITCH!  DON'T BITE!"  The mouth obeyed;  the teeth could not be felt;  and a moan of pleasure was heard from above and behind DICKINSON's head.

Something there, was familiar, the older man blindly thought.  Inch after comfortable-but-becoming-UNcomfortable inch of the thick seven-plus-inch circumcised cock slid rather pleasingly across DICKINSON's tongue until if began to enter his throat.  'Why fight it?  I hate it, but I want it — it's been a couple months since the Cable Guy was where I am now — and besides … boys being boys — they're gonna do whatever they damn well please, anyway,' he silently convinced himself to go along with the course of events;  it'd be easier in the scheme of things.  'But I've still gotta make them think I don't want to do it,' he reasoned.  It was then that his nostrils sank into the forest of pubic hair and he suddenly recognized the odor — Brut^® aftershave.  It wasn't like he hadn't deep-throated a cock this size before — it had just been quite a while!  But that fragrance, that aroma … it was so familiar.  In his mind's eye, he could dimly see the easily recognizable dark green bottle sitting on a vanity … somewhere … but where?  The faculty lounge at school?  A hotel room down in La Jolla?  Or up in gay ol' San Francisco?  A suite during Mardi Gras in New Orleans when he'd snuck away from his wife for a couple hours?  Or at the Hilton in Dallas when he'd gone to a high school administrators' conference with Principle Gerald A. Young?  Or …???

Again and again, the pre-cum dripping cock withdrew almost completely, and then slid forward a quarter of an inch, a half an inch, three-quarters of an inch farther and farther each time.  DICKINSON loved it, apparently, because he willingly gave himself over to the pleasure he was receiving.  He started using his tongue to stimulate the (at the very least) eight-inch — or so he thought — shaft, the frenulum, the glans, and the cum-slit.  Deeper and deeper it was thrust, causing a bit of gagging, which was soon over-come by past experience, and both, giver and receiver were groaning in pleasure.  DICKINSON was no longer fighting his restraints.

Suddenly, something was squirting on his chest and his abdomen.  Something cold.  Then a slimy hand was holding … no! … stroking … his already hard and dripping cock.  Two … three … four hands were rubbing the stuff everywhere on the front and sides of his torso as another hand seductively stroked and manipulated his prong up, down, left, right, every direction, as another covered his scrotum, his taint, and around his clenching asshole with the silky-smooth … whatever it was!  And then DICKINSON remembered hearing something … 'Burma Shave^®'.  Good God!  It still foamed and lathered after all those years!

The slow, deliberate, deep thrusting continued … not with malice or intended hurt, but with a gentleness that was unexpected.  The pre-cum was the sweetest he could ever remember pleasing his taste buds.

The sound of a plastic package being ripped open was heard.

"Here ya go, guys," FRANK said, handing disposable razors to CHARLIE and to ROD, and taking one out of the package for himself.  "Let's make him as smooth as a girl's hairless pussy."

DICKINSON jerked his head up, at FRANK's suggestion, not meaning to, but forcing himself to deep-throat the ever-hardening cock in his mouth.   He choked, he gagged, he coughed, and a bit of sour vomit escaped his lips as the intruder was expelled.

CHARLIE, ROD, and FRANK quickly went to work shaving all the golden fur from DICKINSON's front.  A little nick here, a little nick there, and a muffled "Ow!" or two from DICKINSON.  No serious damage, though.  The quick swipe of a warm washcloth, and the sting of what must have been a styptic pencil was all it took to stop the little droplets of blood.

His oral assailant grabbed his coughing, twisting, turning, jerking head by the ears, pulled it back and down, and with a bit of anger — or was it frustrated sexual need? — jabbed his leaking fuck-stick back into the tight, warm, moist throat he had so thoroughly been enjoying only a moment earlier.  "Hold fuckin' still, DAD, and take it like the man ya THINK ya are!" he blurted out, in his deep, masculine voice, not immediately realizing what he had just said.

The other three suddenly froze and jerked their heads toward…

"Huhhhhhh?" DICKINSON managed to moan as he, too, froze from any movement, any fighting at all.

You could have heard a pin drop in the sudden, motionless, silence, except for the white noise of the soft hum in the background.

"Ya might as well remove the blindfold now, BIG DICK, an' let your ol' man get the full impact," CHARLIE said.

RICHARD "BIG DICK" DICKINSON was the son of Vice-Principle ELLIS PETROVITCH DICKINSON, and had been offered full scholarships to UCLA and USC because of his achievements in football as one of the high school's star "Tight Ends", and, quite incidentally, because of his academic records.  At six-foot-four, and 225 pounds (102 Kg., or 16 stones), he withdrew his larger-than-normal dick from his father's throat until only the flared-mushroom-like head remained in his mouth.  Carefully, he reached under his sperm-donor's head and untied the blindfold and then let it drop to the floor.  The blindfold, that is;  not the head.  Duh.

DICKINSON glared at his son, opened his mouth and tried to exclaim, "DICKIE???", but the childish nickname was abruptly garbled and terminated as DICK rammed his fucker deeper into his sire's open mouth and throat.

"We'll have no more that that name-callin'!  It'll be 'DICK' or 'RICHARD' from now on, ol' man!  Ya hear?"

DICKINSON was near shock;  with a good-sized cock thrust in his mouth, all he could barely do to answer was nod his head only enough for the front of his crew-cut to titillate the bottom of his son's well-hung, smooth, nearly hairless scrotum.

"Yeah, that's right … DAD!  It's me … your one and only!  But we're all damned sick and tired of you not letting us be the ruling upperclassmen that Seniors are supposed to be!"  He looked across his dad's naked and restrained body to his three friends and ordered, "Hurry up over there!  Finish up!  I'm getting' close, an' I wanna fuck that ass good an' hard, an' while I'm rippin' him a new one, all three of ya can do the same thing to this cunt-hole that I'm doin' right now!"

"Yeah."  "Right on!"  "Let's have some fun!" they said simultaneously and with the biggest shit-eatin' grins anyone could imagine.

"In four more months, the four of us will be graduating, and you WILL see to it that each of us graduates with honors, won't you, DADDY?" DICK informed and asked, but not waiting for an answer, he went on to say:  "Just so that you know, and so that you won't make it more difficult for yourself, I'll tell you what we're going to do.  Or rather, what YOU are going to do.  ONE:  You will NOT be giving us any more detention — those days are over, forever, for reasons I'll tell you in a little bit.  TWO:  Any time any of us four wants a blowjob or an asshole to fuck — you'll immediately stop what you're doing and make yourself available — and you'll keep yourself cleaned out at all times.  Remember to carry some one-time-use enemas in your briefcase.  And THREE:  You won't refuse us anything we ask until we go to university in September.  Maybe longer.  We'll see."

All the time DICK was making his demands, he was ever-so-slowly thrusting-holding-withdrawing-thrusting-holding-withdrawing.  He didn't want to rush his climax because he had the OTHER depository / sperm bank in mind.  In and out.  In and out.  Again.  And again.  Building.  Building … closer to the edge.

CHARLIE was licking and chewing on his lips as he watched what was happening at the other end of the sling.  ROD's leaking 'hot rod' was leaving an erratic, shining trail on DICKINSON's left hip and his black, pointy nails were tormenting his own protruding already-bruised-and scarred nipples.  And horny ol' FRANK … well HE had already dropped a load all across DICKINSON's baby-ass-smooth belly, leaving a quivering lake of thick whipped cream in the man's belly-button.   

"Now then … how do we know that you're going to agree to do all this?" Dicked asked;  not expecting an answer, he continued.  "Because you don't want to be embarrassed by any of this becoming public knowledge, now, do you, Daddy-o?  No!  Of course you don't want to.  And just HOW might any of this become public knowledge?  Well … if we'll all be quiet for just a moment…" he suggested with an all-knowing smile to his friends, and holding up both hands, silently signifying, 'Stop everything!  No breathing, even!'  He also stopped thrusting, but withdrew until nothing but his throbbing glans was still in the warm, moist, darkness of his dad's mouth. 

After a few … ALMOST … silent seconds, DICK took a deep breath before continuing … speaking AND slowly thrusting.  "…you may hear a very soft little hum somewhere up above your … reclining … naked … body with an … erection … the likes of which, I've never seen on you before.  That's quite a daddy-cock you've got on you … for the submissive that you're gonna become … denying us nothing … because that soft little hum you hear is coming from one of those new camcorders that everyone's so excited about — the one you and Mumsy got me for Christmas, actually — RECORDING EVERYTHING THAT'S GOING ON HERE.  And … your on-again, off-again hardon is certainly showing a throbbing interest … the kind that you certainly wouldn't want the School Board to learn about."

He shoved his cock in, balls deep, and to the hilt … and didn't move a muscle.  After an agonizing moment, DICKINSON moaned again and again, his arms and legs shaking against the chains, trying to get loose.  DICK's dick kept still, except for an exciting blood-thrusting surge now and then.  "You sorry FUCK!" he said to the man in the sling, who had suddenly gone limp, no longer struggling.  It became apparent that there was no more fight or stress in him.

"PULL OUT, DICK!  PULL OUT!" yelled FRANK.

"We're finished with the shaving down here, BIG GUY.  Come on.  Fuck'im like you really want ta," CHARLIE encouraged.

"YOU'VE CHOKED HIM!  YOU'VE CUT OFF HIS AIR!" echoed ROD.

All the while, DICK had been pummeling his victim's mouth, and then, at his friends' concerned excitement, he realized that something was wrong.  Quickly he pulled out, perhaps fearing that he'd … no;  not that! … that he'd cut off his father's oxygen.  Holding DICKINSON's head up with his left hand, DICK used his right hand to slap the older man's face … first the right side, then the left, then right again, and once more, the left.  He even leaned over, smothered his dad's lips with his own, and exhaled as hard as he could into his dad's mouth and lungs.

'This can't be happening!' he thought to himself.'  "Come on, breathe, damn you;" he yelled, not in a loud voice, but in a harsh whisper.  "BREATHE!  Take your punishment like a man!"  DICK was scared. 

Slap.  Slap.  Slap.  Slap.  Again and again, just as the dilapidated sign (mentioned earlier) had foretold.  Then a rapid, deep breath was gasped before ELLIS DICKINSON coughed.

With confirmed realization that the life had not slipped away, DICK released his hold of the unsupported head.  Still coughing, it dropped to its previous dangling position.

DICK moved away and toward the outstretched legs, cuffed high on their separate chains.  "One of you … use his mouth … I don't care which one of ya starts," he ordered, flipping his wrist and shaking his hand at his friends.  "Just keep the fucker quiet … the others … start jackin' off on his chest and stomach.  Take turns with his mouth.  I'm gonna be a while … enjoying myself;  I've wanted to do this for years."

DICKINSON was restrained, but he wasn't deaf;  he heard his son saying things he never thought he'd hear.  He closed his tearing eyes and prayed, "Lord … just let me die."  He was beaten.  Maybe he HAD been too severe with the foursome.

CHARLIE's massive hulk pushed FRANK aside as he rushed to take DICK's place.

DICKINSON tried once more to move his arms, his legs, his hips, but most of his strength had disappeared.  Yes, he was on the verge of totally giving up.

With no lubrication to his much-fisted, glorious rod of hot, pulsing flesh, other than the slippery lather that could sting the delicate mucosal membranes, DICK's hard-as-a-rock glans hammered and attacked his dad's anal sphincter with a mighty steam-engine-like rush.  His sweat-slippery feet were moving and sliding so fast that his hips were going nowhere, again and again, until finally, he slipped and fell face to neck on top of his father.  His thick nine-inch manhood was completely buried as his baby-makers slapped his father's ass cheeks.  The elder DICKINSON screamed in pain as the insertion pushed not only him, but the sling, too, back into CHARLIE's hips.  It happened so quickly, CHARLIE lost his balance and fell forward with his chest on top of DICKINSON's head and face and on top of DICK's head and body that were on top of DICKINSON's chest.  In shock, Rod and Frank shot their loads zigzagging across the three bodies on the sling, and while they were still shooting, CHARLIE and DICK jumped upright, cursing like drunken sailors.

DICK entered again but with a vengeance … and found no resistance at all.  CHARLIE entered again and felt no suction, no stimulation, no movement whatsoever.

DICKINSON had lost consciousness. 

It was after 2300 hours, that Friday night.  After CHARLIE had spunked in DICKINSON's mouth, he left, not because he wanted to, but because he had to make HIS father's imposed curfew.  There would be time to satisfy his many fantasies, later on, he was sure. 

DICK pounded his dad's asshole until he shot his first load of the evening into the unconscious man.  Then FRANK added his cum to the mixture of fluids and solids.  DICK fucked a second load into his dad, after which ROD released HIS batter into the mixture, and DICK finished off the evening's ejaculations for a third time.

The three boys got dressed, uncuffed the still passed-out DICKINSON from his restraints, and attempted a shit-ass job of cleaning the man with the then-grown-cold water in the galvanized bucket.

DICK pulled the eight-foot A-frame ladder over to the sling, climbed it, and retrieved the camcorder with the damning and incontrovertible evidence of his father's homoerotic reactions to what had transpired.

The plastic pharmacy bag, electric razor, extension cord, disposable razors, and can of shaving lather were all tossed in the emptied bucket.  They then dressed DICKINSON none too carefully, and with the mixture oozing from his anus, filling his tighty-whities, and dripping down his legs.  They wrapped his arms around DICK's and FRANK's shoulders and basically carried him to the elevator and up to the second-floor apartment, his head hanging and his feet scuffing the tiled hallways;  at that time of the evening there would be few if any tenants coming or going, and if any were met, the high school Seniors would treat their helpless 'buddy' as one who'd had a bit too much to drink. 

Tiptoeing inside the DICKINSON apartment, they took him into the Guest Bedroom [which had become his own since he and his wife had stopped sleeping together several years earlier] and quietly plopped him on the bed, then turned off the light, exited the room, and closed the door.  ROD had taken all the paraphernalia out to his black customized casket dragster [like this gold "Dragula" that was Herman Munster's in the 1960s TV show], and left for home, only some few blocks away.

After saying their g'nights, FRANK left, and 'innocent' little 'Dickie', big though he was, retired to his own bedroom, pleased with what he and his buds had done.  He showered the sweat and other liquids off, in the two-doored bathroom he shared with his dad, not hesitating to whack another one off to the 'exciting', dominant memories of the evening.  After drying off, and with his not quite flaccid joy stick bouncing from one thigh to the other and back while he walked about, the camcorder was put away on the shelf in his closet, and the VHS tape was hidden … where else? … under a loose floor-board beneath the throw-rug at the far side of his bed.  A vindicated grin crossed his lips as he crawled into bed knowing there would be no more detention after school—the hallways, classrooms, and grounds of the school had just returned to the whims of his authoritative 'group or four'.

<><><> 

At about 0345 hours Saturday morning, sore and embarrassed DICKINSON awoke, aching in every joint and sphincter of his body.  His briefs and the seat of his trousers were damp and cold.  He rolled off the bed, turned on the bedside lamp, and then noticed the large damp spot on the cream-colored chenille bedspread on which he had been lying;  at least it would dry invisibly during the next few hours before anyone could see it.  He shook his head as he toed off his shoes.  He knew he could never face his wife or son again, not after what had transpired just a few hours earlier.  And he knew…

But suddenly there came a scene from the subterranean basement where the building's maintenance man, Mister Frolo, had his desk, and where he and Frolo had had many an equally satisfying romp.  He, DICKINSON, knew, then, as if a flash of inspiration had suddenly exploded within his head, exactly what he had to do.

Quietly, he smoothed the spread and fluffed the pillows, as if he'd not mussed them up, and, making as little noise as possible, he completely undressed.  After wiping his ass and derrière with his removed tee shirt — not bothering to run the water in the adjoining bath — he painstakingly stuffed a clean sock up his puffy, sore asshole, to absorb and prevent any of the spermy offerings from escaping. Then, he re-dressed in an A-shirt ('vest', for you ABCs — that's used affectionately for Aussies, Brits, and Canucks), a long-sleeved plaid flannel shirt, a pair of clean tighty-whities, worn and faded jeans, clean white socks, and the reddish-brown work-boots he used when occasionally hiking through the desert or mountains with his son.  He grabbed the cap that kinda-sorta matched his shirt, threw it on top of his high-and-tight cut, with the bill covering his eyes, not the back of his neck.  Next, he grabbed his checkbook and shoved it into the breast pocket of his shirt.  Then … wallet with all of his I.D. went in his left rear pants pocket, and handkerchief in the right.

He retrieved his keys from the trousers he'd worn that day … well … the day before, actually … and then dug out the backpack he used when hiking, and emptied it on the floor of his closet.  In went his portable typewriter and the new 'toy' he'd bought not more than a week before.  In, too, went — let's see — four, five, six — yes, six — no, SEVEN — yes, seven blank VHS tapes and SEVEN cardboard envelopes specifically made for mailing them.  And finally, the bundled-up, dirtied, soiled clothes he'd been wearing were also stuffed in.

Heaving the backpack over one shoulder, DICKINSON turned off the light in his room, stepped through the doorway, and then closed it.  He slowly walked through the apartment with only the filtered light casting eerie shadows about from the street lamps below, and quietly left his home and his family.  There would be no looking back.  His life, as he knew it, had come to a screeching halt;  it would be too embarrassing to try to continue — to try to right his hidden desires … his hidden passions.  Better to…

He didn't want to think about it, not yet anyway … better, he reasoned, just to react to the impulses of the moment.

Seldom had he ever heard the drumming sound of his heartbeat, but as he neared the elevator, entered, and descended to the parking level, the pounding in his ears grew louder and louder.  Forlorn because of his inner urgings and his unfulfilled yearnings … fragments of visions of possible actions over the next day or two began to meld and adhere together.

He approached his car, a four-wheel-drive, coppery-brown and white 1969 Jeepster Commando, and tossed the backpack onto the front passenger seat;  then, with a heavy sigh, he took the stairway back down to the subterranean maintenance and boiler room.  His gluteal muscles still ached from the abuse of only a few hours previous;  he seemed to wobble left and then right as he descended the stairway.  The flick of a switch brought a solitary bare light bulb to life — the same light that had shown himself, his son, and three other teens in all their tumescent, fucking glory!  Well, considering CHARLIE's  … 'lack of pride', shall we call it … 'glory' is a gradient degree of self-esteem, which the bodybuilder surely did not seem to lack!  He must have felt that 'it didn't matter how MUCH you had, as it did with HOW you used it!'

The A-frame ladder was still where DICK had put it when he climbed to retrieve the camcorder.  "That kid'll never learn to put things back to where he got'em from," DICKINSON mumbled aloud, believing full well that no one else was around — and he was correct in his assumption.

He went to one of Frolo's filing cabinets, opened the bottom of four drawers, withdrew a rectangular package 7½" X 4¼" X 1", and ripped off the cellophane wrapping.  Then DICKINSON moved the ladder to a spot just beyond the 'head' of the sling, climbed up, and removed a grate from the ceiling.  He lowered another camcorder, turned it off, unplugged, and removed the VHS tape from it.  Inserting the new, un-used tape, he replaced the camcorder, plugged it back in, made sure the positioning was correct so that any movement in the room below would activate it to automatically turn on the videoing of the camera!  He had climbed the ladder and changed many a tape, which had recorded the antics of Mister Frolo and himself.  Of everyone in the building, only they knew of the new 'security' measure that the building's owners had purchased, which also had provided them with hours of eroticism and stroking material … watching themselves … after the fact.

Once more, with feet firmly on the floor, DICKINSON moved the ladder to its usual spot against the unpainted concrete-block wall.  One last look-around, the flick of the switch to turn off the light, and he was trudging back up the stairs to the parking area.

Settling himself into the driver's seat of his Jeepster, hands placed at the two-o'clock and ten-o'clock on the steering wheel, head drooped as though he were either praying or narcissistically looking at his own crotch, his thoughts grew more erratic by the minute.  He looked at his Marine wristwatch … 0445 hours.  Shit!  Only one hour had passed since he had awakened.

Not wanting to be seen by early-risers who might recognize his Commando, DICKINSON drove out of the subterranean garage and  headed toward downtown Los Angeles.  He parked beneath the tropical park-like setting of Pershing Square, walked up to ground level and across South Hill Street to a little hot dog stand with covered seating for four at the counter-bar.  Open 24/7, it was known for the best Orange Julius drinks and foot-long Chili-Cheese-Dogs in all of L.A.  He ordered two of each, and of course, with onions on the dogs.  Payment was made upon receipt of the order.

At that time of the morning, the greater majority of the passersby were vagrants, transients, and what were coming to be known as 'street-people'.  Few 'Suits' were to be seen anywhere near the Financial District's popular quick-lunch spot, and that seemed to calm DICKINSON's nerves, even though hands were held out as pathetic, often soused, voices pleaded or begged … "A dime for a cup of coffee, please, Sir?" or  "Spare some change, mister?"

He gave what he could, between bites … between sips.

"Thank you, young Sir," replied an unshaven, uncombed, elderly gentleman in filthy, tattered clothes.

"God bless ya, kind sir," a rotund woman exclaimed with a couple of teeth missing in front.  "Ya be a right kindly man, ya are."  She could have been one of the Cockney street vendors right out of My Fair Lady, but Liza Doolittle, she was not;  God bless her soul!

Word must have spread among the indigents;  more and more were asking for his handouts.  And soon, after leaving a generous tip for the hot dog merchant, there was no more to give.  At least, not yet.  Again, he looked at his watch.  It was 0655 hours and the blazing arms of the sun were dancing over and between the towering buildings.  Almost immediately, public busses were unloading their weekend hordes — not as many as during the weekdays, but 'many', nonetheless — of suited and properly dressed passengers who found it more convenient to use public transportation than drive their own vehicles, curse at the idiots ahead or in the lanes on either side, and pay the exorbitant parking fares.  Even though it was Saturday morning!  Indeed.

With the 'Walk' signal light, DICKINSON crossed back to the subterranean garage and, retrieving the backpack from the Jeepster, headed to one of the public restrooms.  The sock was irritating to his abused rectum and the chili was beginning to have an effect on his insides, too.

<><><> 

Sorry, Chief, but to make this long report short, I'll cut to the chase, so to speak…

After walking around a bit, DICKINSON went to a downtown bank and cleared out an account that his wife knew nothing about.  It totaled close to thirty thousand dollars … and he took it all in cash.  He told his friend at the bank that he was driving cross-country, but when he finally hit the freeways again, he headed north up US Highway 5, and didn't stop until he got to Gorman.  He checked into one of the three motels there.  While making copies of the video of his rape, he used his portable typewriter to write notes to the following people:  #1) CHARLIE's father, Dr. O. E. C. Hayward;  #2) ROD's father,  Joshua A. Smith, LLD;  #3)  FRANK's father, Peter B. Hardy, PhD, noted author and lecturer on the studies of abnormal behavior;  #4)  Gerald A. Young, Principal of the high school to which the boys attended, and of which DICKINSON, himself, was the Vice-Principal;  #5)  Dr. Raj Kumar Zoros, Los Angeles County Superintendent of Schools;  and to  #6)  Mrs. Angelina Dickinson, his wife and the mother of his one and only son.

Oh, yes, of course … and the original tape to you, my boss, the Chief of Police of the Handcock Precinct, where my B.O. is located.  NO!  NOT 'BODY ODOR'!  Base of Operations!!!  Duh!

DICKINSON's individual notes were basically the same, explaining time, date, and place of the rape, the names and addresses of all four boys, including his own son, and their families.  He denied any homosexual proclivities, explaining that his erections during the rape were because of the stimulation to his healthy prostate, and that such response could be verified by any medical student, proctologist, or from the genital reconstruction specialist, himself, Dr. Hayward, CHARLIE's own father, who, in CHARLIE's own recorded words, stated, "… a real good friend of mine who's taught me ever'thang I know 'bout all kinds o' different pussies — female AND male."

"I simply cannot face ANYONE after what has been done to me.  Judge me and the four sadistic students as you will.  They've already ruined my life.  May God forgive them;  I can't," he wrote, before signing his name.

DICKINSON then took the seven parcels to the small Post Office there in Gorman, paid the postage, and sent them on their way.

Being just past two o'clock, he grabbed a quick bite in the Hi-5 Gorman Café & Gas before continuing north until somewhere around Fresno, when he turned west and headed toward the coast, arriving at Big Sur just before dusk.

Alone, with no other hikers, sightseers, tourists, artists, poets, philosophers, or people quietly contemplating life, he sat … at peace … finally knowing what he would do, until the glorious golden sun sank beneath the waves on the western horizon.  He rose, and returned to his car.

<><><> 

The next day, Sunday, a couple of seventeen-year-old surfers reported finding a brown and white, 1969 Jeepster Commando, totally demolished, on the craggy rocks at the base of the cliff in the state park.  Forensic technicians were sent to the site and found no blood nor any indication that a human body had been in the vehicle at the time of the crash, but they did find a backpack with Video Copier, portable typewriter, a pair of men's trousers, a pair of men's white briefs, a man's T-shirt, and one sock, all the garments of which were heavily stained with semen and fecal matter.

Somewhere … DICKINSON laughed and spoke aloud to no one but the Nature Spirits around him:  "Oh, how sweet it is.  REVENGE IS A DISH BEST SERVED COLD.  Too bad I won't see the results … at least, not with THESE eyes."

Case closed. 

The End.

Posted: 02/11/11