Psycho Simon...

Simon is proving to be difficult and demanding...and will not let me compromise on him questioning himself...or exposing himself.

This comes after he was raped...

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His sketches had grown furious and violent after that. His favorite artist changed from Tom of Finland, whose joy in male on male sex was evident in every one of his drawings, to Etienne, who revelled in the rape and destruction of hunky men in myriad ways. 

Especially if they were married. 

And circumcised. 

With a resemblance to Robert Conrad, whose numerous moments of bare-chested bondage on The Wild, Wild West had captivated Simon’s inner beast, as a boy.

Kidnappings. Anal and oral assaults. Murders, Burials. He built up a fair-sized portfolio of death after pleasure to satisfy his prurient needs. Gave him a semblance of control over his existence.

Then one night, after having been fucked long and hard by an amazingly handsome black man, in a fit of joy he’d burned them all. Set up a barrel in the back of his apartment building, made sure a hose with a spray nozzle was ready to use, and one by one had turned every one of them into ash. 

The fire department had not been happy, and had fined him for starting a burn within the city limits. Cost him forty-five dollars. But he was glad to pay it. 

Until the black guy never came near him, again. Oh, Simon invited him back, over and over. Even went to where he worked...and was brutally warned never to return. So he slunk away like an abused hound.

That happened twice more. Once with a long lean cowboy from Lubbock; once with an Army PFC from Fort Sam Houston. Both of whom reacted negatively to his dick and only took his ass...or let him use his mouth to satisfy them.

That was when he began to write short stories instead of sketching. Usually good-looking men being forcibly used in the ways he had been. Killing some, but not all. And he built poems...ditties, as he called them...like this:

To show just how warped I can be,

If I walk down the street and see

A man who’s gorgeous, roaming free,

I think the only way for me

To have fun is to tie him down

And then, despite his cry or frown,

Strip him to show skin golden brown

And stroke his dick until its crown

Has grown so full and rich and fine

My lips demand I make him mine

As my hands grasp his ass divine

Till his cum and my spit combine.

Then who knows what next I will do?

I don’t, and I admit it’s true

That all I take is what I’m due –

Complete control of him, in lieu

Of kisses and the soft caress

His fingers might leave on my chest

In nights of loving without jest.

This shows you why I am not blessed.

Now he was wondering if murder on the page was as monstrous as the actual deed, itself. He had brutalized men like Doyle in so many erotic fantasies. But could that be seen as just as bad as actually doing it to a living human being?

Was it the same manifestation, spiritually if not physically? Were the nights he pleasured himself...pretending he was both rapist and victim...would that on the same level as him actually forcing another man...a man in the same mold as Doyle...to submit to his own satisfaction? Had he, throughout his life, been building up a reservoir of pain and anger and brutality behind a dam of simple silence to the point it was now planning to give way and drown whoever happened to be in its path?

Like that bastard cop, Paley?

Had he actually intended to let loose of all his fury, that night? Do far, far more than sketch him?

Had the fates sensed it and stopped him before he did the unacceptable?

Could the honest answer to all of that be yes?

Could he have really become that much of a monster?

Probably.

Life will tell you, dammit...

Off the topic of MQM, I just found that while some of my books are being carried by the Buffalo Public Library, their titles are input incorrectly into their catalogue. The only way you can find them is by my name. A Place of Safety-Derry is okay, but New World For Old and Home Not Home are entered into their system as A Place for Safety!

And they have 3 copies of The Alice '65 entered as The Alice of '65. WTF? These books have Library of Congress Catalogue listings that could be downloaded without issue. Don't even need to input them, manually.I'll need to get that corrected.

On top of that, I placed an order with Amazon for a DVD. I don't like ordering from them for a number of reasons but I couldn't find it anywhere else...so ordered a book and another DVD I wanted, as well...and somehow the package being shipped to me got turned around. Marked as undeliverable and being returned to sender before it even got to Buffalo. No reason offered.

And do you think I can get any information out of Amazon about this? No. On one page, they claimed they tried to deliver it three times but I wouldn't accept it. Which is ludicrous. Their own tracking information contradicts that. All I can do is wait for a refund or see if it's reshipped...in 7-10 business days.

When I dealt with KDP for print and ebooks, I ran into the same issue. If things are going fine, it's great. But if something goes wrong, it's fuck you. No help. Nothing. Which is why I shifted everything to Ingram and Smashwords. 

And now those two are becoming just as bad. 

Building...

MQM is coming together, and the characters are copping attitudes. Fabian wants to be Doyle, again. So be it. I don't argue over things like that.

Simon continues to remember things as he soaks in the tub. Including the reason he fell so hard for Doyle...and it has to do with him having been raped...

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Simon had been sneaking into gay bars since he was seventeen. The drinking age was twenty-one and he looked like he was fifteen, but that had never kept him out.

After graduating high school, he started running around with a dyke he knew, Estella. She had a car and they would go hunting together...her for a woman she was crushing on who might be at this bar or that one; him for a man to take the place of his family. Preferably one who looked like Robert Conrad. 

This became a Friday night ritual between them...until he was nineteen. Then one night they hit a bar off Broadway, north of San Antonio's downtown. Simon wasn’t in a good mood. A co-worker at the department store he was employed at had figured out he was gay and was being nasty about it. On top of that, Estelle had just learned that girl she’d been crushing on was married, had two kids and was living in Natalia.

She grew really bitchy, claimed Simon had known all the time and just using her to go whoring around, for his own sake. She actually said she ought to kick him between the legs, for it, so he stormed out. 

A guy he had seen around before was in the parking lot smoking a joint. Which was very brave, in Texas. That could get you ten years at huntsville.

He was tall, trim, conservatively dressed in small-collared shirt and regular trousers. Cowboy boots with Spanish heels made him Simon’s height. And he had nice Latino looks, half Castiliano, half Indio. Said his name was Juan, which Simon only half-believed. He’d used fake names, himself, when directly asked so didn’t blame this guy if that was what he’d done. And Juan was easy to remember.

So he replied with, “I’m Rick.”

Juan nodded and they chatted. He offered the joint and Simon took a few drags because he did not want to seem uncool. Besides, it was a nice night, considering how warm the day had been. Summer was already snarling down their throats. 

Once the joint was finished, Juan said he had more smoke in his car. The last thing Simon wanted was to come across as some dork who couldn’t handle a little weed, so he let the guy lead him down a long row of cars to a blue ’64 Impala SS 2-door. Very nicely kept. Where two of Juan’s friends were there...Alphonso and Jesus, also smoking. 

Jesus was well-built and showing it off in a tight t-shirt and hip-huggers. His face was almost cherubic, with curls adding to the impression and chest hair detracting from it. 

Alphonso...”Just Al”...was lean and tight, also in a t-shirt and low-rise bellbottom jeans. His face was thin and his eyes on the small side...though they might seem that way because they were half closed from being stoned. 

They were holding each other like lovers do, making Simon a bit envious...and confused. Because Jesus also wore a wedding ring. 

He noticed Simon eyeing it so grinned and said, “What she don’t know won’t hurt me.” Followed by a wink. 

There was chit-chat about the weather and the Astros and asshole cops as another joint was passed around and long neck beers were shared. Simon felt pretty comfortable and casual around them...

Until they started to get handsy. First Juan pinching a tit then Al caressing his ass, then all three of them putting their hands all over him.

He said he wasn’t up for that and tried to get away, but suddenly the passenger door to the Impala was open and he was being bundled into the back seat, face down. Jesus crushed Simon’s mouth to his crotch as Al piled on top of his ass. Juan got behind the wheel of the car and away they went.

Both men's hands were digging and grabbing in places Simon didn’t want. He argued, but it was hard to be heard when Jesus had the mound of his obviously ready dick pushing against his mouth. Obvious even through the hip-huggers and briefs he was wearing. 

They took Simon to a quiet, amazingly dark area of Breckenridge Park, yanked his pants to his ankles, tore his underwear off and used his ass. First Jesus. Then Juan.

Even as he gasped and cried and told them he didn’t want to.

Makes no sense...

It's going to take a couple days for me to get back on track with myself, I can already tell. The flights were fine. I even napped on the redeye, something I rarely do on a plane. But I was still cranky and tired...

Until I took my second nap. Then I felt balanced enough to focus on one of Simon's memories. Or contemplations. not sure which it will be, yet. The story continues to write itself at its own direction and pace. But here's part of it:

Something Simon still hated to admit to himself was just how much he had loved being touched by Fabian. And being one of the chosen few who could touch him back. Caress him. Trail his fingers along the man’s body...especially his sides, gently tracking from his tits to his ribs and across his hips to his legs. So smooth and perfectly built. 

Even now, as much as he had finally grown to hate Fabian’s viciousness and cruelty and casual ownership of him...even now he knew if given half a chance he would have returned to him. To how they were when they first began... 

When? Fifty years ago? 

Had it been that long? 

Almost... 

Back when he had needed someone to love him.

And even after all these years of celibacy, Simon still longed to caress a man in the same manner.

But not just any man. Fabian. 

Not one like him. Him. 

A man whose body had screamed for adoration. Around whom he had once built his life. Had known it was everything he wanted. And continued to want...like a long fought addiction.

At times, when the memories came up they would be almost like half-forgotten nightmares...

No...no, just dreams half-remembered. Once upon a time. That would bring forth a slight twinge of regret and a question of might have been.

When that happened, he had to stop and think and backtrack to in order to recall he’d been involved with Fabian for only three years. 

One that was good. 

One that was borderline. 

One that was hell.

Had Simon stayed, he'd have died long before him. He knew this, deep within, but that meant nothing to his inner being.

The only thing that had saved him from Fabian's fate was that wall of overwhelming hate Simon had felt for the only man he had ever wanted...and that he had been taken away, first.

And despite all the anger and hate he had harbored in his heart, he still grieved.

Old man...

Finished the job at the warehouse, today. Labeling, getting the bins wrapped andd banded as well as weighed. And I'm feeling it. Aches and pains like I'm an old man, or something. 

I'm also brain dead. And, in typical old man fashion, I tripped over a bench in a riverside park that was right in front of me. Got a nasty bruise on my left shin and my neck is very displeased.

All adds up to brain dead, again. My flight's not for another 3 hours yet I already seriously want to curl up and doze. Maybe even sleep. Instead, I'm trying to convince myself to start my expenses worksheet so it will be ready for Monday.

One positive thing about this trip is...the Philadelphia part of the job is canceled for me. So I get all next week to recuperate and regain my momentum before the next quickie job.

I did make it to Powell's Books, on Burnside...and it was not easy. It looks like they closed their off-street parking and the local lots are $6 an hour. I found curb parking for half that a couple blocks away. And got totally lost in the store. I was trying to find a book of Moebius' work, but they don't seem to have anything.

Getting around in Portland is difficult, no matter what. Most of the freeways are 2-lanes, each way, and packed with cars. Even on the long stretch south along the 5, there were parts thatr were slow for no more reason than the number of cars. I like Portland...but it's not a place I could live.

Then a fast one for 3-4 days immediately after. I'm tired, already...just like an old man...

Weird...

I spent this morning packing boxes into containers for shipment. It was hot and nasty, mainly because I was in direct sunlight much of the time. I had help, sure, but it was mainly me.

Once done, I grabbed lunch at an In-N-Out and drove back to Portland. 5 hours. During which I tried to get Simon to discuss MQM, but he ignored me.

The closest I came during that long drive was adding to the ending, where ReShawn is quietly informed his quest to get justice for Simon will not happen, and it's done with cold blunt honesty.

It's Dillon Walstead's father who cuts ReShawn down by laying out the reality of the situation. Simon is dead. He will never have justice, because it's a notion only for the living. He says ReShawn's only pushing for it to make himself feel better for not protecting Simon well enough.

Yet...if I can pull this off...he hints that Paley will still pay. The DA and Judge and even some cops know he's the killer, but they can't prove it well enough for a court of law. And if they do try him and he's acquitted, which is a very real possibility, they get no second chance at him.

But...murder does not have a statute of limitations. Can be investigated for years. Suspects held under the microscope so lo ng as there is sufficient indication they're guilty. And given enough time, Paley could be...oh...possibly driven to suicide. And that would have to do.

If ReShawn goes along with it, he could have a long and respected career helping the living. With Walstead's backing. If not? The man would have no problem destroying his reputation, and that of his wife.

All to save Dillon from being held in any way responsible for the Murder of a Quiet Man.

Today's journey...

My drive to work, today. Oregon is fucking gorgeous...

I tried to upload the video, but blogger didn't like its size...so go to my facebook page...to view it in full...

 

Travelin' man...again...

Off on a whirlwind trip to Oregon to oversee the packing and shipping of an archive. Leave in the morning at 8:33 and return Friday night on a redeye. Did it on Southwest and made sure I got the extra legroom seats, both ways.

I'm taking a book to read on the plane. A collection of Sherlock Holmes' stories. It's been so long since I read any of them, it should be fun...because I know I didn't go through them all.

I had this serious phase in high school where I was into mysteries -- Agatha Christie, Earl Stanley Gardner, Earl Derr Biggers, Ed McBain, even Ruth Rendell. I devoured them, thanks to San Antonio's library having a massive collection. 

I especially liked Ellery Queen's Cat of Many Tails, about a serial killer in NYC. The Perry Mason series of books grew tedious because all Gardner seemed to do was retell the same plotline, over and over, just changing the names and careers of the characters.

I hope this will be fun...

I'm still taking my notes on MQM with me because I'm getting ideas to add to the story. Some will probably fall by the wayside, but others might help this come completely together. Right now, it's still on the disjointed side.

Funny, but it's not a mystery, even though I'm almost treating it like one. The story unfolds and builds in a linear fashion, and we know who the killer is 2/3 of the way through the book. It's more about the broken nature of our justice system and how it cannot be fixed.

Mainly because no one wants to.

Milk...

I don't know why, but when I'm crashing off into a numb-freaky-mode of not knowing what to do or care or anything, having a glass of milk centers me in ways nothing can. Seriously, I just drank nearly a quart, I was in such a fuck it all frame of mind...and now I'm almost back to being human.

Well...as human as I can be. I'm actually thinking of having a cheese sandwich, now. Which is a good sign. More dairy is never bad. And it does do a body good.

I know some people get all pissy about an adult made ingesting the stuff, but I'm of Norwegian stock and we was raised on that. There were times I'd drink a couple glasses of it for dinner instead of regular food. And I did fine. As fine as a weird little fuck can be.

And I was weird. Retard was a favorite word shot my way. Same for goofy. Which didn't happen much because I would not respond to them, and that was what they wanted. To see that they were hurting me.

They weren't. I didn't care what other kids said or called me. They weren't real, to me. Just gnarling creatures.

Anyway, when they started calling me homo, my first thought was they were referring to homogenized milk, because I was so pale. Which I thought was silly. Didn't know what it really meant till I'd graduated high school. And even then, I just thought it was dumb.

But throughout, if life was getting to me my center was having a glass of milk. I could face anything with that in my belly. And right now I feel ready for the world, again...

As fucked up as it is...

What is it?

Simon is unhappy about something, but he's not being forthcoming with the reason for that. He's in the back of my head doing nothing. No arguing or criticism or judgemental attitude. He just sits there.

I don't know what to do. Does he not like how he's being portrayed in MQM? Is he not coming to terms with the ending? Which is sudden. That maybe I need to take further. So does he want retribution to be laid out?

I did once think I'd have his murder tear the police and district attorney's office apart. But that's not how things really work in the world.

Something adding to my uncertainty is, Rihanna Kelvar, a trans woman in Wyoming, was assaulted by a group of rednecks so pulled a gun to scare them off. She has a licence to carry that gun and Wyoming has a Stand Your Ground law, but she's been charged with two felonies and the guys who attacked her are off, scott free.

Wyoming is where Matthew Shepard was murdered, just outside Laramie, and long after his death there were people who still blamed him for it. Is that what will happen after Simon is killed?

Or...does he want me to show them getting away with it? Not have a nice ending but a cold-blooded one? Detailed? No one punished?

That means a lot of work to make certain it's honest, and even more work to make sure it's believable.

Of maybe it's a case of he just doesn't trust me to tell the story correctly, anymore...