|
Criminal Behaviour, Part Two
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
From kaiwan.kaiwan.com!rahul.net!a2i!bug.rahul.net!a2i!genmagic!sgigate.sgi.com!swrinde!cs.utexas.edhowland.reston.ans.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!uunet!in1.uu.net!prodigy.com!usenet Wed Aug 16 19:2:4 1995
Path: kaiwan.kaiwan.com!rahul.net!a2i!bug.rahul.net!a2i!genmagic!sgigate.sgi.com!swrinde!cs.utexas.e!howland.reston.ans.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!uunet!in1.uu.net!prodigy.com!usenet
From: [email protected] (J Hill)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: "Criminal Behavior Part 2" (m/m)
Date: 7 Aug 1995 23:39:48 GMT
Organization: Prodigy Services Company 1-800-PRODIGY
Lines: 159
Distribution: world
Message-ID: <[email protected]>
NNTP-Posting-Host: inugap2.news.prodigy.com
X-Newsreader: Version 1.2
Xref: kaiwan.kaiwan.com alt.sex.stories:83653
The door to my cell swings open and a guard motions me to get up.
"You're lawyer's here to interview you," he tells me in a bored voice.
Since I don't have any money, I've been appointed counsel by the court.
The guard leads me down a series of corridors to a door with a black
enamel plaque reading "Interview Room". He opens it and directs me with
a curt nod of his head.
The lawyer they've assigned to me re-establishes my link to the outside
world. He's wearing a skin tight pair of Levi's, a Fidel Castro cap, a
pair of army boots, and a t-shirt claiming "This Face Seats Five". The
hair not covered by his hat is black and cut boot-camp style. As I walk
into the room, he regards me with a sense of Attitude so exquisitely
cultivated that I can't help but be impressed.
"Have a seat," he says, nodding towards the chair opposite him. I obey.
"As you have no doubt been informed," he continues, "I've been appointed
to represent you." He pauses, fixing me with a cool stare. It's the
same look, I imagine, that he uses in a bar on those men without future
trick potential. "My name is Mountain."
I extend my hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Mountain," I say, with a
politeness ridiculous under the circumstances.
"Not Mr. Mountain," Mountain replies impatiently. "Just Mountain." He
ignores my offered hand and I put it back in my lap.
Mountain glances down at a stack of papers in front of him. "You're
being charged with willful and malicious destruction of fantasy." He
glances up at me. "This is a felony, and even under the best
circumstances you're risking a heavy prison sentence. Do you want to
tell me what happened?"
I do, leaving nothing out. Mountain takes notes at the beginning of my
narration, but after awhile he puts his pen down and just looks at me.
There's a brief silence when I finish speaking. "What you are doing," he
says dryly, "is giving me a confession of guilt."
I shrug my shoulders and say nothing.
Mountain extends his hands, palms upwards, and shrugs his back. "Well,
what is it that you want from me?" he asks, half laughing.
This annoys me. I lean forward, pressing my palms on the tabletop.
"What the hell do you think?" I growl. "I want you to get me out of
here!"
Mountain's mouth twitches, and it's obvious that it's everything he can
do to keep from laughing in my face. With an effort, he contains his
laughter and begins flipping through his papers with a brisk cheerfulness.
All of a sudden, he's so jaunty. I half expect him to start whistling.
"You have quite a record, Mr. Larson." he says pleasantly. "Status
reports from City Hall show how you've consistently failed to meet your
fantasy quotas. And I have," his eyes flicked down to the table again,
"oh, at least a dozen complaints here lodged by previous partners of
yours. There's lackluster execution of fantasy, inappropriate costume
and props for prearranged fantasy, conflicting fantasy signals, shifting
fantasies without proper notification, et cetera, et cetera." Mountain
smiles gently. "And you want me to get you out of here?"
I can feel a drop of sweat trickle down from my armpit. "What's going to
happen to me?"
Mountain gives a friendly laugh. "I believe you've gone beyond a jail
sentence," he replies. "Offhand, I would put my money on expulsion."
I stare at him. It's as if I have just seen the jaws of hell opening up
before me. "What!" I shout.
Mountain is enjoying this! The color rushes to his face, giving it a
sense of healthy animation. "Expulsion," he repeats amiably. "Exile,
banishment. Run out on a rail, as the idiom goes. Ejection from the
world."
I feel the muscles in my face stiffen as the implications sink in. "You
mean Peoria?" I whisper.
Mountain grins. "Or it's equivalent."
My lips again form the word "Peoria" but no sound comes out of my mouth.
I reach over and seize Mountain's arm. "Listen," I say thickly. "You
can't let this happen. You're my lawyer. You're got to think of some way
to get me out of this!"
Mountain jerks his arm away. He leans forward wearing a grin of wolfish
glee. "Like what? You've just confessed your guilt. Your record stinks.
What the hell do you expect me to do?" He falls back in his chair and
the look on his face is one an Islamic would give a pork-eating infidel.
"I want another lawyer."
Mountain gives a loud braying horse laugh. "You think that'll make any
difference?" He gets up and walks over to the door to call the guard.
There's a red handkerchief dangling from his left pocket. He turns to me
and smiles in a way designed (successfully) to make me want to tear his
face off. "Baby," he says, "you're ass is grass no matter who defends
you."
I'm looking at my leather jacket and trying to figure out how useful it
would be if I took it with me. Not useful in how it would help kick off
some hot fantasy out there. No, I'm wondering how warm it'll keep me on
those cold winter nights, Out There. This is so weird.
I decide to take the jacket with me. I yank off its chrome chains, like
epaulets being stripped from a disgraced soldier. I throw it into a
suitcase (one of two that the court allowed me to take) along with a few
flannel shirts and a couple of 501's. I sweep the room, trying to gauge
what else could help me survive in a hostile environment. What I see
doesn't reassure me. I don't think the sling, the tit-clamps, the acu-
jac, or any other of my toys, were designed particularly for wilderness
life-styles.
Two cops wait for me in the hallway outside. They escort me downstairs
to the waiting squad car. It's late afternoon, and the sun hits the
street at an oblique angle, bathing the cars, the rows of apartment
buildings, the sidewalks, in a light more orange than yellow. One of the
cops hustles me into the back seat, and we pull away from the curb.
This is Fantasyland's final kiss-off to me. I stare out the window like
a pickled fetus in a glass jar, trying to understand the bright world it
was never born into. At a street corner, a crowd presses together, their
necks arched upward. I follow their gaze and see through an apartment
window a young, tightly muscled man dressed only in sweat socks and a
baseball cap. He's jacking himself off in slow easy strokes. In a
Safeway parking lot a man suspended from a sling is being lovingly
fistfucked by a partner wearing leather chaps and a motorcycle cap. An
orgy is going on behind the plate glass of a Denny's restaurant, bodies
writhing on the formica counter amidst the ketchup squeeze bottles and
napkin dispensers. Out on the sidewalk are the cowboys, the jocks, the
cyclists, the truck drivers, the hard-hatters, the marines, the drag
queens, the muscle men, the street punks, every conceivable fantasy
parading by.
We finally approach the battlements that surround San Francisco. The
buildings stop a short distance away from the walls, leaving a broad
avenue that forms the perimeter of the city. We follow the curve of the
walls until we come to the twenty foot iron gates that are the only
entrance into the city. The car stops and the cops signal me to get out.
"Hey fellas," I say hurriedly. "I just want to tell you this has been
really educational for me. I mean, like I've gotten all these terrific
new insights about fantasy, and how we all got to do our part to keep the
ball rolling, so to speak."
The cops smirk and one of them irritably waves me out. "Cone on, come on,
" he snaps.
"No, look," I rush on. "I know that I've been screwing around, not
really playing into the general game plan of things. I see the whole
picture now, and I can assure you that from now on I'm going to start
taking fantasy a lot more seriously."
They exchange looks and then together reach in and pull me out. With a
hand planted in each of my armpits, they start dragging me away.
"No, really," I babble. "I've just gotten some really intriguing ideas
about some new fantasies I can set up. Just an overall perspective, so
far, I'll need a little time to work out the details, but..."
"Hey Arnold!" one of them shouts. "Let 'er rip." Some invisible
technician sets the gears in motion and the gates begin to swing open
with a protesting screech of metal against metal.
"Sort of a Busby Berkley routine involving a rich, scintillating amalgam
of cowboys and leathermen choreographed together to create a..."
The gates are about four feet apart now and with a concerted heave the
cops throw me through them. I do a nose dive onto a patch of gravel.
There's a "thunk, thunk" and I see my suitcases skidding along the ground,
coming to rest beside me. I immediately scramble to my feet and start
running back towards the rapidly narrowing gap between the two open gates.
"Or if you want something on a smaller scale," I cry out, "how about...
"
I stop abruptly as the gates slam together with a hollow reverberation.
For a few seconds I stare at the patterns the iron rivets make against
the steel plates, and then, with infinite slowness, I turn and survey the
landscape around me.
I back away, almost unconsciously shaking my head no. There is a tubby
gut, 48 year old man, dressed in a lime green polyester leisure suit. He
is chuckling over his Reader's Digest. The approaching bus says
"Atlantic City".
"Let me in!" I scream. "I'll be good! I'll live out and goddamn
fantasy you want me to, I promise!" I begin clawing at the crack between
the doors. No good.
I bend down and pick up my suitcases. I glance behind me one last time,
but all I can see is the deeper blackness of the gates against the night
sky. You blew it, Kevin, I think. I pick my way down the embankment and
into the wilderness beyond.
??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
? Brought To You By: Head's Up BBS (909) 681-3721 (2400-19200) ?
? ?
? * Over 15,000 GIF Files * Over 2,000 Text Files * ?
? * Original Scans * HOT Message Areas * 7 Day Free Test Drive * ?
? ?
? All Interests: Straight, Oral, Anal, Bi-Sexual, Lesbian, ?
? Gay, Transexual, Bondage, Discipline, ?
? Toys, Odd Things, ORIGINAL SCANS!, MORE!!!! ?
? ?
? Come Join The Best BBS in Southern California! ?
??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
|
|
