I'm just along for the ride...

Simon is taking over the writing of himself, and sliced away plot points he doesn't like, such as his dick having a birthmark or tattoo or something. He thinks it's ridiculous, unbelievable for his character, and just plain superfluous. So, as he and I come to terms, here's a continuation of yesterday's post:

--------

Of course, Simon’s father had stopped talking to him after he learned his son was queer. Stopped even acknowledging him. Unlike his mother, who made it her mission in life to scare him straight by ranting about being subject to eternal damnation for going against God’s plan. He’d had to cut off contact or kill himself. So he’d chosen the former. 

Even though the latter still liked to make itself known, now and then.

Looking back, it was no surprise they'd reacted the way they had. No loss, really. Being the youngest, he had never been as close as his brothers and sister to his parents. He was like an afterthought. 

He smiled to himself at remembering the time his mother had said she thought he was homosexual just to get more attention from them. Like it was some familial path to acceptance. Very strange. 

But...he also found it curious that Paley in that uniform was reminding him of his father. That was a bit creepy. 

Simon merely walked past the three of them without even a nod and sat on a bench across from Courtroom Three, to await the grand opening of the double-doors. He took a moment to glance around and note it was a fine older building with a nice-looking corridor of polished wood. Probably oak stained to look like mahogany, which had once been a very big thing.

He had the sense that it had been constructed in the Thirties, probably under the WPA; it had that Art Deco feel. But would they have stained a lesser wood to achieve this look, back then? That might be something to research. Sometime. Or maybe it wasn’t so lesser, because the wood was intricately carved and well-polished and complimented by floors that were glazed slate. Giving off the sense of no money spared.

Church-like arches crossed above, with plain white plaster or sheetrock between them. He never could tell which was what. Overall, it was not so much intimidating as inviting respect. Peace. Perhaps even a hint of comfort instead of installing fear. Something he never thought of as coming from a courthouse. 

An older, once-attractive guard in a green and tan uniform stood before the double-doors, at parade rest, eyeing everyone with full suspicion or malevolence. He had that Marine stance and cut on full display. Simon had little doubt the man actually had been a jarhead. 

The bench he was seated on was also polished and a bit slippery thanks to it, but was close enough to the wall that he could lean back. So he pulled out his laptop and connected with his phone’s hotspot to fire up some WiFi. The building may have its own internet service, but he doubted it was at all that secure while his phone was. 

Not that he was being paranoid or anything. Oh, no. 

An old leather file portfolio held his documents and details, and also served well as a tray to rest his laptop on. So he was neatly set up to log in and scan his folders. The Word file of the vicious little story he had written about Paley, Walstead and the Judge was positioned near the top of the screen, making him smile. Writing that had let off a lot of steam so maybe he could make it through this fiasco after all and... 

“Good morning, Simon.” 

He jolted and looked up to see Dillon standing next to him, Elissa one step behind him. They must have snuck over, because both were very still and standing nearly at attention...like robots.

Simon goes to trial...

Reworking this bit, just before Simon's trial is to begin, to set up the time and place...

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Simon parked in a far corner of the designated lot, paid for the full day, and was waiting at the light to cross a very busy avenue to the courthouse when he noticed a bank was on the corner diagonal to him. And it had an exterior ATM. So he crossed to that, instead. 

It warned him there would be a five-dollar service charge for his withdrawal, but he just sighed, accepted it, and took three-hundred dollars from his savings. He wanted cash on hand in case the clerk refused to let him use his Visa or debit card to pay the fine. If applied. He knew it was a pessimistic assessment, but he could not shake the sense that those little shits with the DA's office would be better at presenting lies than he would be at defending the truth. 

He slipped the money into his wallet, slipped his wallet into his backpack, then deliberately waited at the corner for the walk sign before he crossed to the courthouse. He wanted no one to have any excuse to go after him, right now. Not even for a jaywalking ticket. 

Security was straightforward. The two sets of doors opened into a foyer where there was an x-ray scanner next to a table. He had to put his backpack on it and push it along to be inspected by an already very bored guard. Another motioned him through the scanner. 

He’d added his keys, glasses and everything else that might set off the alarms to the outside pockets of the backpack, so no problem arose there. Nor was anything found within the backpack that might be dangerous. His name and case number were on a list of people attending court proceedings, so he was allowed to continue. 

 Dillon Walstead and Elissa Manville were already standing in the corridor outside the courtroom, both crisp and fresh in appropriately tailored suits. While hers was navy-blue-neat jacket and skirt, probably straight off the rack at Macy’s, his was seriously sleek and stylish. And perfectly fitted, almost as if it were bespoke. Made him look even more like a male model. 

In addition? While she held the typical briefcase that was slightly worn with hints of the faux-leather peeling away, his was finely crafted and well cared for. Not something an assistant District Attorney could usually afford, so apparently his parents were helping him, financially. 

Or grandparents. One never really knew.

But that made it was fairly obvious that Elissa was totally on her own.

They were talking to that son-of-a-bitch, Paley, who was wearing the sharpest cop’s uniform Simon had ever seen. Shirt that still looked starched and pressed. Pants that were almost too tight, but not quite. Black belt and shoes polished to gleaming. And a full array of pistol, handcuffs, taser, pepper spray, body mike and camera, all polished as much as his badge. He was really emphasizing the stereotype of a police officer whose only interest is to serve and protect. 

He had also shaved close and tight, and his hair had been recently cut into what Simon’s father had referred to as whitewalls. Meaning next to nothing visible above his ears or on the nape of his neck. 

When had he heard the man call it that? Wasn’t there a more precise designation? Marine cut? Military? Jarhead? Something along those lines. He’d been very disdainful of anyone who wore it without also having the stick-up-your-ass gait of a true Marine. 

 “Buncha pussies actin’ like they’re real men,” he’d snarl under his breath. Usually with some sour beer on it as he rubbed the stubble on his head. 

Before he’d died, he’d almost seemed to prefer men have the long hair he’d so disparaged during Vietnam. It was more honest, in his opinion. Now the quasi-military style was making yet another resurgence in fashion, exacerbated by the police joining with ICE to become part of America’s gestapo. 

So predictable.

Whiplash...

Sat down to write up what I posted, yesterday, and instead wound up doing the whole lead up to Simon's first courtroom bit, with Dillon and Elissa doing their best to scare him into taking a deal and not appreciating he's too stubborn to go along with them.

What's fun is, in frustration Dillon yanked in some info I wasn't planning to bring up until their second session in front of the judge. And asked for a continuance to investigate this new information further. Which even Falwell was unsure about.

"It's a misdemeanor," the judge says.

"With an enhancement," Dillon responds, "making it a class A..."

Then Simon pipes in with. "According to what evidence?"

Seems Dillon's used to people accepting that the city planning office has it on file that the spot where Simon was arrest is within 600 feet of a school, and Simon wants a copy of that. So they have some back and forth in front of Judge Falwell over Dillon not providing anything under the rules of discovery. Which causes Falwell to allow the continuance so that can happen.

That's 26 pages. 5000 words. In one day.

So...now what, Simon?

A workable ending?

I'm working around a conversation that will take place at the end of MQM, between Walstead Sr. and ReShawn. One that I hope will encapsulate the whole of the story.

It's a Saturday and ReShawn's taken his son to a Little League game (he's on one of the teams) when Walstead comes up to sit by him. He's brought his grandson since Dillon is busy and his daughter in law is helping her mother with something or other. Still working out the real structure of that.

I want it to come across as them having a nothing conversation, like a couple of supportive parents on the bleachers. During which, it comes out that Dillon is leaving the DA's office to join his father's law firm. Not as good for a political career, but more lucrative. Judge Falwell is retiring to spend more time with his family. And nothing will be done about Paley, Garisov and Corelli.

The State AG knows those three killed Simon, but he doesn't have evidence enough to convict and doesn't want to run the risk of trying the three cops for murder then having them found not guilty. The only positive thing about that is, there is no statute of limitations on murder.

What it will boil down to is...Simon is dead and justice is only for the living. Possibly even for ReShawn to feel better about not having properly protected Simon after he was released from jail.

That observation will sting, but ReShawn is not dumb. He understands Walstead is merely giving him a heads-up. If he pushes for the investigation to continue, the outcome will not be what he wants and his career will suffer. Not overtly. But he will achieve nothing in exchange for everything he has.

And I pretty much think that is where the story will end...justice blinded, not blind.

Connections...

I've connected Simon and his memories in the bathtub, after being released from jail, with him being kidnapped by Garisov and Corelli and taken to Paley, to be killed. It's just a first pass over it. and includes him dealing with a local podcaster who accuses him of exposing himself to a child, but it's coming together.

I haven't fully written the ending, yet. I thought I might have...but the whole idea of the cops and DA's office in Barrington hunkering down to protect themselves from blame in Simon's murder is just too necessary. It finalizes the corruption of our system of justice and will, hopefully, detail how self-interest and stupidity overcome truth and honor.

Or maybe self-interest and arrogance. Maybe.

Of course, I still have a lot of the first half of the story to write. Hell, the first 2/3, really. I haven't found the opening, yet...at least, one that I wholeheartedly like. I've got four possibles...all rather run of the mill. I wonder if I should work up a prologue or introduction, like I have for Dair's Window. That lays out Adam is dead and telling the story, which I think adds a lot of interest to it.

I don't know. I'll deal with this part, right now...and truth is, once I do write up the rest of the book, the ending may change, again. I have a few different possibilites for that, as well.

Never trust me when I say I am doing something until after I've done it.

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...

--------

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...

-----

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...