A sort of flowing...

Now that I'm letting Simon lead, the story seems to be coming together. Today I worked up the first pass at a real opening...which still needs work to make it readable enough. So here's more of Simon's first day in Court...

------

Dillon continued with, “We should talk before the trial.” 

That suit was even better-looking, up close. He’d spent some money getting it tailored, and it was begging for a compliment. But all Simon said was, “It’s Mr. Harper. We’ve been over this.” 

Dillon hesitated then forced himself to smile. “Very well, Mister Harper. Now, I think you should know...” 

Simon cut him off, deeply irritated at the attitude seeping from him and barely keeping his voice even. “Are you withdrawing the charges?” 

Dillon jerked a little, probably startled at Simon’s direct question. “We....um, we have no reason to.” 

Elissa piped in with, “We now have a pair of witnesses and...” 

That made Simon frown. “No one else was round.” 

She rolled her eyes in a way that was almost comical. “Two police officers in a patrol car were driving up Lincoln and saw your interaction with Officer Paley.” 

“You’re telling this now? Immediately before trial?” 

That made her blink. “We...um, we only just learned about them and...” 

Dillon sat next to Simon, “Of course, we’re open to a continuance to give you time to interview them.” 

Simon managed to keep his voice level. “Are they here, now?” 

“Um, no. As Ms. Manville said, we only just learned...” 

“So the whole point of you coming over to me was to tell me I’ve just driven nearly four-hundred miles and paid for two nights in a hotel room for nothing.” 

“That is not something we are obligated to take into consideration,” Dillon sighed, all but forcing himself to take a weary yet sympathetic tone. “We’ve also done some research. I didn’t realize you were a...well, let’s say poet as well as an artist.” 

Oh, for God’s sake, Simon almost groaned. “If you Google my name, my work comes up, rather quickly. It’s no surprise.” 

Elissa seemed taken aback. “You Googled yourself?” 

He just looked at her. 

Dillon cleared his throat. “Simon, what we found was some rather...intense work. At first I thought it was a mistake, you’re such a laid-back kind of guy, and your name is not exactly unusual, so...well...it was surprising.” 

“Is there a point to this conversation?” 

Now Dillon glared at him, shifting to stiff and cold. “You produced a coloring book with some poems. Illustrations. That tell us very interesting things about you. Gangs of men kidnapping heterosexual men. Tying them up. Raping them. The suggestion is, some of them are even killed.” 

“Did you order one?” 

Dillon blinked. “Excuse me?” 

“Did you order a copy?” 

“No!” Elissa chimed in with, “Some pages were posted online.” 

Which made Simon almost smile. “It sounds like you’ve been perusing Gay Portal. You have to be a member, for access. Was it smart of you, to sign up?” 

Dillon stiffened even more. “We didn't. I...I have a friend who's gay and he recognized your name...” 

“Recognized it?” 

“Yes. He's an attorney and I was sounding him out about your case and he realized he knew of you. And...and he showed me some of your work.” 

“A fellow gay man helped you gather information on me. How nice of him.” 

“He’s a very up-to-date kind of guy...” 

“Up to date? What does that mean?” 

“I just mean, he’s not...he’s not some innocent or unaware dude and...and even he was freaked out. Said it all got brutal in the...how’d he put it...non-con area. He told me about this one...” 

 He held up a printout of one page. Ray Who Was Taken. Simon noted it was a pen and ink sketch he's done of a young man being jumped by an older man, in an urban area. It was only the first part, since it had spread over nine pages.

The hour was late before Ray headed home

From the party his best friend had held at Le Dome.

The blues and the blacks of the night's monochrome

Made him feel so easy, he thought he would roam

Since he had a condo that wasn't too far.

But he didn't notice when that silver car

Pulled out of the parking lot next to the bar

And quietly followed. Its back doors ajar.

He passed his street and as he started to turn

For the park, the car pulled up. Now too late to learn

The four men inside of it each had a yearn

To force Ray to join in their weekend sojourn.

 Dillon continued with, “It made me wonder if you planned to get Officer Paley back to your hotel. Drug him. Abuse him.” 

Simon sighed and closed his laptop, saying, “That idiotic comment is why you should have purchased a copy of my coloring book...”

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...

--------

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...

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...

Self-healing day

It might be self-indulgent, but realizing 3 of the actors from Buffy, the Vampire Slayer are dead and all were younger than me...it was just hard to deal with. This is on top of my youngest brother dying 4 months back...so I did some pampering.

Made a peach cobbler using Bisquick and canned peaches in juice. A couple spoonfuls of sugar and spices, but nothing more. Almost healthy. The Cool Whip is sugar-free.

For lunch was a hot dog sandwich that entails slicing a hot dog in half and pan-frying it till it's black then slipping cheese on it. Transferring it to regular bread that has mustard, ketchup and sweet relish on it and enjoying the shit out of it, with potato chips.

No writing. I made the mistake of listening to a young man talking about some gay novels he loved, which have won awards, and I was drifting into thinking my work is not that good and wondering why I'm doing it so...

I made latkes to stop my downward spiral. Using a recipe I saw online. Mixed some leftover mashed potatoes with Monterrey Jack, onion and shredded carrot, cooked them in olive oil till they were nicely crispy on both sides, and had that for dinner. With HP Sauce.

I have enough left over for three more, but I may bake those to see what happens.

I'm feeling good enough, now. Tomorrow...we shall see...

I hate this year...

Anthony Head, who was Giles the Librarian on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, TV version, has died. And Xander was taken, back in March. With Michelle Trachtenberg last year.

Shit. This year is really doing its best to make 2025 seem like a walk in the park. Somebody surround everyone else from this show in bubble wrap, because Buffy... was one of my favorite programs, despite the stories swirling around Joss Whedon...

What's funny is, I've been writing on MQM all day. Got more than 2500 words added, dealing with Simon agreeing to expand his job cataloguing a collection of antiquarian books; that was why he came to the town. Now he needs to stay to deal with the legal ramifications of his arrest so at least he can charge it off to the dealer he's working for.

I also wrote about him getting his things after having been in jail for several weeks and finding his phone smashed and money missing from his wallet.

I don't know if I'm over a hurdle, yet, but it seems this part came out fairly easily. Of course, they aren't very much in depth, yet, but this is still a first draft. Even if I rework it twenty times. Doesn't count as a draft till it's full and complete.

Of course, now a job I had for June 18th has blown up and needs rearranging. At 10pm on a Friday, and what's being asked is way more difficult. Not to mention airfare already paid for and other jobs scheduled in a way that cannot be changed. And nothing I can do to settle it until Monday.

Jesus, I'm already tired for next week.

Pride month and I'm not feelin' it...

I am so sick of people and the repetitious attacks on the LGBTQ+ community for daring to celebrate their existence...some even from those within the community who like to nitpick over everything. I'm too old to keep up with all the bullshit from every direction, anymore.

Not that I ever was able to. I've never been one of the sharpest people alive, capable of thinking on my feet. On the rare occasions where I make a snap decision, half the time it turns out to be the wrong one. And I usually head the wrong direction when trying to find some street or business.

I'm rather thick of brain, normally, so if I'm ever confronted by a car speeding towards me on the street, I'll probably just watch it hit me, that's how out of it I can be.

There's also me going to a store where I think I'm sure I will find exactly what I want...and they don't have it. That happened with an Office Max, today. I need ink for my printer but they were completely out. I almost went to another store but was feeling grumpy so came home and went online...and every other store was out of stock. They don't carry the one I need, anymore. If I'd done that before going, I'd have saved myself a trip.

I had to buy it from HP, so won't have it till next week. Hopefully before I head out to Portland...which is Wednesday. I won't be back till Saturday morning...

Still...Pride Month is here...a dedicated observance celebrating LGBTQ+ culture, commemorating the contributions of the community, and raising awareness about the ongoing fight for civil rights and equal justice. It is observed annually in June to honor the 1969 Stonewall Uprising in New York City, which catalyzed the modern gay liberation movement

Got that off Google AI. And works for me...grumpy, ancient, idiotic, old man me...

Am I who I am?

I don't know. Sometimes I click into a mode where everything seems unreal, and I am no part of it. I doubt it's a form of dissociation. I'm simply not in my apartment, all of a sudden. Or not in control of the planning I'm working up for jobs. I go...blank.

I wouldn't call it psychotic. More surreal than anything else. And I was already feeling pretty much overwhelmed by other things. But still I wonder, could it be the beginning of dementia? Alzheimer's? It runs in my family.

This time it happened when I locked onto this image from Retrorope. while searching for a jpeg, and found myself lost and blank of mind. Well, except for this one thought in my head that I wished I had him. Like this. To own for a while.

I've always thought of him as lovely and someone I could easily obsess over. And this is not some overt desire, even when it's dancing around in my own mind. More like a long forgotten wish I'd once made and am now remembering. Maybe a dream I'd once had...a dream I now know will never come to fruition.

I don't know the guy's name. I do know he lives north of Chicago, and owns the site. He posts lots of young, somewhat attractive men in varying forms of light bondage, on it. Nothing too intense. No nudity. So I could track him down if I wanted to.

But I won't. That would be invasive and not something I would want anyone to do with me, for whatever reason. I may have been born under the sign of the cat and year of the dragon, but I am proof positive those things mean nothing. Strong? Bold? Courageous?

Ha! I was born with a brake inside of me that stops me dead whenever I consider ever doing anything disruptive to anyone. I can fantasize about it, no problem, but in real life, if I have the oppotunity to be bold...I freeze. Cannot think of what actions to take.

Maybe today was just one of those days. Too much going on and me getting lost in the jumble. I just wish I understood me and my weirdness better.

Trying for an opening...

And I'm trying out a new opening for MQM...which may be too gentle or uninteresting...

----

Silence is one of the most complex words in the English language. Or any language. It can mean peace. Acceptance. Anger. Understanding. Acquiescence. Disapproval. Separation. Refusal. Hate. Love. Disregard. Thought. Concentration. Punishment. And even cruelty.

To be silent in a judicial sense, for example, is said to mean consent. Which is far too simplistic a definition, even when restricting it to the law. The cause could also be fear of retribution or a lack of understanding regarding what the person had just seen. 

There was also simple disregard for the perpetrator's victim, since some people just plain did not care about others. So while Silence equals consent made for a catchy phrase used to disparage inaction, to be sure, it was also limited and incomplete.

As for silence in a relationship? That is often seen as evidence the bond between two individuals is broken. Though it could also show two individuals had become so comfortable, together, they had no need for speech.

There was also the notion that someone might be focusing very hard on a project or a book, to the extent that all other forms of communication were filtered out.

The latter is the definition Simon preferred. Silence as a gentle blanket enveloping him in peace and safety. He had always sought it, but of late had learned the easiest way to achieve it was to let it come to him. Usually, while reading late in the evening and lazing in his overstuffed recliner with a glass of wine.

He had also found it at the end of a furious thunderstorm, which would initially declare its presence for all the world to see but now was whispering like a lazy feline in need of a light caress. He would sit on his back balcony, under an awning that still dripped from the rain, the moisture remaining thick in the air as he sipped a cup of hot tea and soaked in the joy the world seemed to feel. 

Then there were occasions where he could achieve that level of Zen, for lack of a better word, while listening to music. Easy tones drifting melodiously. No words. Nothing brash or demanding. Liquid Mind. Deuter. New Age in a classical style. 

During those moments, he cared nothing for the world and its billions of issues. His eyes would close and in the darkness everything would be reborn...would renew...would regain its meaning. His mind would not drift beyond the immediate sense of quiet he felt as life realigned itself within him.

A funny thing to learn in your seventy-third year.

Totally fucked up...

For some reason, I wasn't sleepy, last night. So I stayed up. Putzed around. Fiddled with some emails. Posted on Xitter and Facebook. And watched cat, dog and other animal videos until I finally grew weary about 9am. Took a 2 hour nap and spent the day prepping for my next trip to Hong Kong. 

The nap was a mistake. It threw me even more off center. Grumpy. Sad. Not wanting to do anything. And it's only gotten worse as the day went on. Meals were off. I'm hungry for tamales but the only place that makes decent ones is 10 miles away and I did not want to drive.

I have an appointment to get my stomach and bladder scanned, tomorrow morning. I have to fast, starting at midnight, and just know I'm going to be in even more of a mood before we're done.

What makes this especially rough is wallowing in this type of emotional space opens up the floodgates that hold back my You really fucked up your life thoughts. And that lets loose my masochistic need to beat myself up. I'm doing a great job of it, right now. Can't write a coherent story and Your grammar's basic Strunk & White and all that shit.

Of course, it's also the first of the month...when I balance out my checkbook and take stock of my finances and compare myself to how everything was a year ago...even six months ago...and kick myself for not having everything under full control.

Then I guilt myself by pointing out my brother was diagnosed with cancer not quite six months ago and going back and forth to San Antonio and staying there and paying for things that were needed is the reason I'm financially shaky, now.

Which makes me depressed...so I make pity-me posts like this, embarrassing myself further. At which point I finally snap This is fucking ridiculous and start to work my way out of it.

Shit...I'm a walking cliché of artistic self-indulgence. I need a cat to sit on my desk and judge me.

I think I just wrote the ending...

The part I've added to Simon's memory of Fabian dying, where his body is found, has wrapped the story up in such a so that I may not need to write anything further, to end it. I'll still need to shift back to the rest of the book to make everything fit. But that said, and with the understanding I could shift back to a more extensive ending chapter...this ending works.

Well, in my head it works. Simon's body is located by ReShawn, who calls the state police in to investigate. He was buried in a state-owned park. The intention was to make it seem he had skipped bail when faced with potential accusations of having and distributing kiddie porn, and hurt his claim of innocence against Officer Paley.

But Simon had an airpod in his backpack and ReShawn's cell phone because his own had been damaged. When ReShawn cannot contact him, he follows the airpod signal to the grave. The State's Attorney General comes in with the state coroner and head of the state troopers, and a lid is kept on it all...as tight as they can.

Of course, people notice and rumors swirl, and Frahnkly Frank's earlier podcast adds to the gossip, but it's how they figure out who committed the murder. Right now, the chapter ends with them about to go after the cops and DA's office...and I wonder if I really need to detail that.

When I wrote Bobby Carapisi, it was initially in two books...one mainly about Bobby and the other about Eric coming to terms with how he inadvertently helped cause Bobby's suicide. The end of book 2 was him deciding to go after the men who'd raped them both. But I felt the need for more so wrote the third book to explain Allen, the man held responsible. Which led to Eric finding closure.

I was told by a couple of readers they felt that was unnecessary...but to me it was, and still is, what made the story complete. It was the same for Jean Renoir's La Grande Illusion (1937) with the section after the prison break, with the German farmer's widow. A professor of mine said it was redundant, but I argued it was what made the film true poetry.

I don't think I'll have the same feeling at the end of this one...still, you never know.

Morre movement forward...

This image should give you an idea of what Fabian (once Demian and before that, Alain, grrr...any more name changes and I'm taking him out of the story altogether) looks like. Not a pen and ink sketch of him but one of Simon's graphic artworks.

Today was connecting Simon's attempt to return home and being arrested, again, with the part where he remembers the death of Fabian. The two parts together is 10,000 words and still being worked over. Added to.

There's a local podcaster named Frahnkly Frank who may have inadvertently let the police know where Simon was staying...thanks to a podcast. I'm at that point, now, and trying to figure out which way to go with it.

I'm also debating whether or not I should treat this like a murder mystery, after all, with someone like ReShawn investigating. Putting the pieces together. It might make the story more interesting. Compelling. I don't know.

I'm hesitant because that adds another layer of separation from Simon's story. I also think it lessens the impact of some moments...and makes him a character instead of a person. I have several moments of him just being Simon...sitting on his porch during a downpour, in a sense of calm...doing a work of art he's especially proud of...and, in fact, his whole memory of Fabina's last days.

I think that is what will keep this following him instead of an investigator...until the third part of the book. After he's dead and ReShawn is not only trying to figure out what happened but navigate the minefield being laid down by the DA's office and the Barrington Police Department.

So much left to do. I won't be done, this year.

Driving me nuts...

God, the characters in my head make me think I'm completely gone. Out of touch with reality. Demian doesn't like being named Demian. He wants to be Fabian, which I do not like. But he's being a real dick about it.

See what I mean by being completely gone?

There's also Simon suggesting he actually did ask that cop to join him in his hotel room. And things escalated from there. It's my understanding that even if he'd raised the possibility of paying Paley to join him, he would first have to have handed the money over to show he meant to go through with it. But Paley jumps the gun...and tries to cover it by claiming Simon exposed himself, which he never would do.

From that point, it becomes lost in the gray area between legal and illegal activity, and Dillon's prosecution grows more and more zealous.

He claims Simon was arrested within six-hundred feet of a school, and never mind it was at midnight. But Simon actually measures the distance to show the school is 609 feet from where he was arrested. Which Dillon fights as inaccurate without presenting evidence to the contrary.

There's also Paley being unable to describe Simon's penis after claiming he got a good look at it, and Dillon Walstead bringing in a PHd to do a physical examination without mentioning the man is not an MD...which becomes explosive.

There's even two more cops brought in to back up Paley's version of events, which tips the judge to finding Simon guilty. Something ReShawn witnesses in the courtroom and decides to help Simon with his appeal.

An appeal that cannot happen unless the defense can show misconduct by the prosecution. Which puts ReShawn in the crosshairs of Dillon's anger because he now believes there was.

So...a lot still left to do.

And meanwhile, a secondary character is whining about his name. Ugh.

And finally...

Here's the end of this chapter. Longish, but done and I know what to follow it with, now...

-------

After his outburst, Demian grew quiet. Just lay in his bed, gazing out the window and saying nothing, for hours. Unmoving except to make use of the bedpan...which soon became unnecessary because he stopped eating or drinking. He had surrendered to the inevitable and now just awaited its arrival. Sometimes he would still weep, but that had no effect on Simon. 

That was when he brought in his sketchbook, something he hadn’t touched since escaping Demian, and worked up lightly detailed images of the man. Cheeks sunken in more. Eyes more intense and wide. Skin drawn tight. Hands merely bones. Lips unable to meet. Each sketch capturing exactly what he looked like, though pen and ink. 

Once, Demian had shifted to look at him, seen the pad and his pen at work, and sighed before returning his gaze to the window. 

Simon just kept sketching. 

He took his vacation time so he could be there constantly, and he kept in contact with Yolanda. He would need her for the final part. 

Which came a week before Thanksgiving. That morning, Demian did not open his eyes. His breathing was ragged. His hands trembled as his fingers stretched out to grasp at nothing. Simon called Yolanda and she came to stay with him while he dropped by the store to let them know he would return a few days early. They were happy to hear it; the mall was already busy with Christmas shoppers. 

Then when he arrived home, Yolanda greeted him with, “He be gone before two days. Maybe tomorrow.” 

Simon nodded. “I’ll be up all night with him.” 

She sighed. “I let coroner know to look for your call. Here is number.” 

“Not a funeral home?” 

“You know one to accept him?” He shook his head. She put a hand to his arm. “They will come for him. Do what it is they do for men like him...” 

“Cremate him?” 

“No, that you arrange. Does he have money?” 

Simon chuckled. “I’ll pay for it.” And almost added, It will be worth it. 

She nodded. “You are good man, Mr. Halloran.” 

“No, I’m not,” was his instant reply. And he still believed that, even today. 

Not that he had ever really been bad. He had just...had just kept himself separate from the world and its dangers. He’d wanted no chance of a repeat with another Demian. 

The one positive aspect of the man’s suffering was, it actually did help Simon with those he tended to, afterwards. Other men who were slowly dying. Men who hadn’t been selfish monsters or sadistic beasts. Who had sought love...given love...and now were being destroyed by that love. His empathy went deep with them. Men whose families had cut them off. Like his own had. The very people who should have supported them. 

He came to believe such families were cowards. Filthy, hateful people who thought more of their position in their tiny community than those who needed them most. Who chose to believe lies. Who gladly fell in with assholes who called this a divine punishment, and conveniently ignored how it was merely a venereal disease, like syphilis or gonorrhea. 

Both of which had also once been fatal. 

He tended to these men as gently as a mother might. Listened to their regrets. To the dreams they once had. The lives they’d expected. The men they’d loved. Or hated. Or both. What cut into him the deepest was how...no matter what they said, no matter what their condition or situation, they seemed to have lived lives far richer than he had ever allowed himself to. Been far more decent and human than he. Been who they wanted to be and built new families and made friends, despite the hate cast their way. Friends who were now showing up for them and helping them in any way they could. 

 These men had lived as human beings out in the open instead of just existing in the shadows, licking their wounds like a cat or dog after a fight. They could tell Simon anything and know he would keep their secrets. And if needed, know he would be willing to go to their homes, once they were in hospice, and saint their rooms so the family that had rejected them wouldn’t be too horrified at what they found. He brought cookies and cupcakes and light salads made of fruit or carrots or macaroni, along with old movies to watch on VHS. He also talked them through depressions and...and on two occasions, remained silent when they confided they could handle the pain and heartache no longer. 

He was able to do all of this without judgement, thanks to having survived Demian’s hatefulness. With them, he felt a gentle coil of soft understanding make him part of each one. Until the day came where the disease was minimized in its horror and its death toll collapsed. When the world could accept it was nothing more than a chronic illness and begin to provide for them as it moved on to its next target of disapproval. 

And when Demian had finally drifted into a stillness that almost seemed unreal, it was so simple and easy it took Simon a few minutes to understand he was gone.

Now he’d thought he could relax. And had. And all had been fine. So long as he’d been in his own little world. But the second he stepped away from it... 

The second he’d come to this goddamned town. 

Simon looked around the bathroom, which would have been considered out of date in the Eighties. So cold and uncaring. No character to it, unlike his bathroom at home. A home he never should have left. 

He sighed...then drained much of the now cool water and refilled the tub with hot. He wasn’t ready to leave the tender feeling of lying there. Wasn’t willing to turn away from the thoughts that came to him. Questions he had. 

Why had he photographed that bastard cop? Why let his guard down? It’s not like he needed the photo; he had plenty from his online searches, any of them good to work with...to paint. 

True, Paley’s face was nice and he was well-built, but Simon had hundred...thousands of images of men who were better looking. Granted, the picture he’d made, posing under that street lamp...it had been truly elegant. And he could now acknowledge the man carried a vague resemblance to Demian. Very vague, Simon told himself, because Paley was far more muscular. And all of it was in proportion. And he’d sensed no warning signals. Had he been fool enough to think he could move freely in the world, now? 

No...it had been that cold, cruel flash of condescension and disdain in the man's eyes when he’d noticed Simon looking at him. Like he was thinking, I know what you want, faggot. Make me an offer. 

Which had caught Simon’s full attention...to the point he actually considered doing it just to wipe that self-satisfied smirk off the man’s face. He had cash with him, back at the hotel, and wouldn't mind feeling a man, again. And money always had a voice in negotiations with his type. 

At least that was what he’d always thought. 

But now he had to admit that hate could be just as great a motivator. That bastard's actions had proven it.

And Simon was self-aware enough to admit he had also proven that...with Demian.

He chuckled in the bath. 

Perhaps this was karma from it, coming back on him.

More honesty...

I don't know if this hits as hard as I want it to, but....

------

It took Demian a moment to say, “You really hate me that much?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why? We had some good times!” 

“You had some good times.” 

“What d’you mean?” 

“What I said.” 

“You’re fuckin’ ridiculous. I...I was gorgeous. Best lookin’ guy in the whole fuckin’ state. Country. I could fuck anybody I wanted. Any man, no matter how straight he said he was.” 

Simon almost snarled, Yes, I heard about that Persian pilot. Gossip was, he’d deliberately crashed his jet after Demian was done with him. 

“I’d fuck any man I wanted to,” Demian had almost whined. “Fuck anybody I wanted to.” 

“I remember.” 

“You know why I chose you? Let your skinny ass into my group?” 

“Was my ass skinny or perky? Make up your mind.” 

That confused Demian. His mind drifted as he said, “Looked good in those white disco pants. Looked like fun.” 

Simon rolled his eyes. He had never owned white disco pants, but he knew what Demian meant. “I was a toy. A party favor.” 

“What?” 

“I can see that, now.” 

“No...no...I...I liked you, lots.” 

“You liked fucking me,” Simon said, his voice still even and calm. “And me sucking you off. And rimming you. And then sharing me with your friends. Buddies. Assholes you met on the street. You cared for me about as much as you’d care for a blow-up doll. Took me a long time to accept it. And I hated myself for letting you.” 

The snarl returned to Demian’s voice. “An’ now you hate me...” 

“Yes.” A word so soft and gentle yet still a knife to the man’s heart. 

Demian leaned forward. “Fine! Fine...fine...you feel like that? Then stay the fuck away from me!” 

“No.” 

That startled Demian. “What d’you mean?” 

“I want to be here when you die.” 

“You...what?” 

“I want to know for certain you are dead.” 

“That's sick...”

Simon merely shrugged.

“I...I...I’ll make you go! I’ll get a lawyer and...and a restrainin’ order...” 

“Go ahead. See what good it does you. If you can find one who doesn’t think you’re slipping into dementia.” 

Demian was breathing hard, now, lost from the exertion of his anger. It took him several minutes to say, “You really want to...to...?” 

“Yes,” Simon murmured. “And considering how you’ve deteriorated, over the last few days, it won’t be too long, now.” 

Demian lay back, seriously confused. He was one of those people who took full pleasure in dancing with his lies, but had never been the sharpest man when it came to honest commentary. And now his left hand was grasping at air, as if he were trying to reach something...or someone. 

“We...we had some good times...” he muttered, more to himself than Simon. 

“No...you did.” His voice plain and simple, but with the hint of a snarl to it.

Demian howled and threw his still-full cup of soup at Simon. Some of it splattered over him and the cup shattered. It was still hot but only stung a little; didn’t burn. 

“You’re pathetic!” Demian screamed. 

Simon just sighed, grabbed what was left of the paper towels and began cleaning up the mess. 

As he worked, Demian continued with, “You got no balls. No backbone. No dick worth suckin’ on. Takin’ care of a man you hate ‘cause you used to love him.” 

“I never loved you,” Simon replied, surprisingly calm. “I lusted for you. Obsessed over you. Grew afraid I’d lose you. Till you went too far and I couldn’t ignore reality. But the one thing I’m glad about our time together is, it was never love.” 

“How fuckin’ sick is that? It’s weak. You can’t just walk away. You gotta sneak off. You gotta make sure I’m dead so I can’t make you want me, again. Like I did before. So many times, before. Five times you tried to break it off and each time you crawled back to me. Five fuckin’ times! Like a fuckin’ whimperin’ dog.” 

“Four times. This time doesn’t count.” 

“Oh, yeah? Yeah? Why not?” 

“Because it’s not about sex or fear. It's just a need for verification.” 

“You’re a fuckin’ monster.” Demian was close to tears. “It makes you laugh, seein’ me in pain.” 

“No. But it does make me feel good. Knowing there’s some form of justice in the world.” 

That twisted the knife.

Demian just lay back, as if in defeat. 

Simon had finished cleaning so sat back in his chair with his cup of soup, now merely warm. He knew he was treating the man inhumanely, but it was what it was. And seeing him speed closer and closer to the end...being both pleased it was coming and wanting it not to come too quickly...Simon was far too honest to not accept it all as evil within himself.

And did not care.

Blunt honesty...

I think this chapter is too long. More than 4000 words. But I can't find a natural breaking point.

So here's more of it...

-------

“Bullshit,” Demian snapped. “You loved it. Three guys. Fucking you up the ass. You loved it. Never saw you cum that much. I’ve still got the Polaroids of your ugly little dick shooting your cum. Wanna see ‘em?” 

Simon put a blanket over Demian’s lap, murmuring, “No.” 

“You got the weirdest dick. People wouldn’t believe me when I told ‘em so showed ‘em and...” 

Simon almost froze, again. “You...you showed that to people?” 

“Sure,” the man snickered. “I bet it still is...” 

He grabbed at Simon’s crotch, but his hands were smacked away. “So that’s what you liked about me.” 

“You fuckin’ kiddin’? That’s why I never...” 

“Not for sex. It’s what helped you control me.” 

“Who else was gonna deal with shit like that? 'Specially a guy who looks like me. Lucky you had a perky little ass. Skinny boys with perky asses. Love ‘em. Not a lot of meat there, but...but yours. Man, I’d never seen skin so white. Still white?” 

He grabbed at Simon’s waist and pulled at his belt. Simon twisted away, took in a deep breath and turned to stripping the bed. 

Demian continued with, “Nobody liked it as much as you, since.” 

“Being raped?” How Simon kept his voice even and cool amazed him. 

Demian choked out a laugh. “Ain’t rape if you cum.” 

“Yeah. Right.” 

A plastic cover had protected the mattress so all it needed was wiping off and cleaning with Lysol and eucalyptus oil. Then fresh sheets and everything made nice. 

Throughout, Demian remained silent. Watched him. Almost malevolently. 

Simon helped him back into the bed, which now had an additional plastic pad, then set some water boiling to scald the cleaning utensils and to make some instant chicken soup for them to eat. They both liked it mixed with onion soup. 

And throughout, he refused to let himself think about anything except what he was doing, moment to moment. 

When he finally brought the steaming cups in, one for Demian, one for himself, the man cast him a vicious glare. “You hate me, don’t you?” his voice a snarl as he accepted the cup. His hands were shaking. His lips quivered. But even now, as pale as his eyes were, they held enough anger and contempt to freeze a charging rhino. 

Simon knew...intellectually knew he should feel sorry for Demian. His mind was deteriorating quickly. His emotions out of control. Facing something he probably hadn’t thought would come for him till he was old and ready for it. But Simon was beyond any sort of empathy for the man. 

Instead, as he sat in the chair, he said, “Yes.” Surprised at himself for being so honest. And calm. 

Demian seemed not to notice. “Those stupid cunts they keep sendin’. For Home Care. Fuckin’ dykes who hate men. You can feel it. They got that stupid baby talk. How’re we doin’ today? Are we hungry? Now, Demian, all you had to do was tell me you needed to do poopsies. Got a bedpan, right here. Fuckin’ thing is cold as fuckin’ ice. They don’t last long when I start on ‘em, ‘cause they don’t really give a shit. They ain’t bothered by this disease. Think it’s good for men to have it. We deserve it. Just like the fuckin’ preachers yell about. And fuckin’ politicians. Homophobic cunts.” 

Simon just sipped at his soup. He’d heard this, before...just not all at once. 

Demian’s glare went dark. “But you. No nice talk. No nothin’. Just get it done and let me wallow in my thoughts. I keep askin’ myself why you do it. You ran from me. Fuckin’ left town. Not a word an’ you were gone. That hurt.” 

“Good.” The word whispered from him like an afterthought. 

Now the man snarled like a cornered animal. “I bet I know why you’re here. Why you do it. I bet I really know. Why you take care of me. You wanna see me suffer. Wanna see me die. May even help it along...” 

Simon shook his head. “That would be too easy.” 

Which made Demian blink, in shock. As if he finally understood Simon’s meaning. “You...you do want me to suffer?” 

“Yes.” It was time for absolute honesty. And Simon was ready for it.

More of that memory...

This is taking an interesting path into Simon's capacity for hate...

---------

Simon just aimed the water over all of Demian’s body and even shot some up to his rectum until the worst of it was gone down the drain. Then he squirted some pHisoHex soap onto his hand and smoothed it over the man’s emaciated arms and back and ass, carefully brushing extra amounts on the lesions. 

Arms that had once been so powerful. 

A back that had been so broad and defined. 

An ass...well, it had never been really round but nice to look at and...and... 

Simon grimaced and focused on cleaning Demian’s chest...

Which used to be so lovely and full, hair dancing across what was now white, barren skin and bleeding lesions. And his belly...once so flat and real, curving in smooth ways with a treasure trail of beauty, now bloated and marked with bruising and scars. 

And his genitals. Remembering how he’d once worshiped the man’s dick, and felt a twinge of sadness at how wrinkled and sickly it now appeared. 

And, to his surprise, a bit of joy at how it was now ruined...considering the things that man had done to him, with it. 

He continued down his legs, once full and elegant but now mere bones, focusing on more lesions. For Demian’s face, he rubbed a bar of Dove in a washcloth and gently stroked it around his eyes and over his cheeks and forehead, going lightly over he lesion at his temple to keep it from breaking, before dabbing all of the soap away. 

Demian was now quiet. Compliant. Almost seemed to weep. That was unsettling. Simon had never seen a tear in the man’s eyes, before. Nor had he ever seen the skin so tight around them. 

Finally, he focused on cleaning the man’s feet. Still recognizable as Demian’s. Washing between his toes and ignoring the cruel changes in his nails. 

Until he heard the man say, “There’s more.” 

Simon reached up to turn his ass towards the drain... And a stream of red-tinted fluid all but shot from him. Internal bleeding. He hadn’t thought to check for that in Demian’s shit. Not that it mattered, at this late stage. 

He used the shower to wash it away and cast a look of question up to him. 

“For now,” the man said. His expression a mixture of pain and sadness and embarrassment. 

Simon washed his ass and legs, again, then dried him off, spread some preparation H onto folded toilet paper and pressed it up to Demian’s anus. Finally had him step into a pair of Hanes briefs. It wasn’t easy. 

Demian muttered, “What good’ll this do?” 

“Contain some of it. Unless you want a diaper. I can ask about getting some Depends.” 

His voice was a near groan when he said, “You like treating me as if I’m a baby, don’t you?” 

“Sit on the chair. I’ll clean the bed.” 

“Just use Saran wrap. That’d keep the shit contained.” 

Simon’s heart almost stopped. 

As did his breathing. 

And he flashed back to... 

That day he had come home late. He’d closed the newsstand and was dog-tired...and found Demian was waiting for him. Used his key to get in. Had some friends with him. 

“About damn time you showed up,” Demian had snapped. 

 Then they had pounced on him. Carried him into the bedroom. Wound Saran Wrap around his torso and his knees. Trapping his legs, arms by his sides, and even used it to gag him. Left him fully dressed. 

Demian had unzipped Simon's pants and pulled out his dick to toy with then yanked down the back of his pants and briefs for access to his ass. 

And to have his fun. 

Hard and rough and mean...almost hateful... 

His friends followed. Each in turn. Until a vibrator was shoved up into him and used to force an ejaculation as one of them... 

One had pulled at... 

Simon jolted back to lying in the tub. He sloshed about to break the building chaos and covered his eyes. He all but keened in pain. That was one more nightmare memory he had long fought away from his brain. 

He thought. 

But Dillon Walstead had triggered its return. Caused many of them to come slashing into him. If he thought he had hated Demian, that was nothing compared to his loathing of that bastard little Assistant District Attorney. 

And his associate. 

They were monsters, to him. 

Evil and cruel. 

Monstrous.

He finally drained the tub a little then refreshed the water with some that was hot. Nearly scalding hot. Anything to refocus his mind. 

It didn’t work. He still drifted back to... 

Demian on that day. Barely strong enough to sit upright on the chair. So little of his skin left on his bones. 

Simon managed to whisper, “I’m never doing that, no matter how much you want it.” 

Demian managed to sneer at him. “Why not? You got off on it.” 

Simon took a long deep breath so he could respond, “Not willingly.” 

And again, the fucking memory of that fucking night filtered back. Unable to move. Completely helpless as they...as they... 

No! 

No. 

What was important about that night was how Simon had already begun planning his escape. Everything with Demian had been based on his wants, not Simon’s. He wasn’t happy unless he was forcing Simon to do something he hated doing. And the fact that he’d kept going along with it. That he couldn’t stop accepting the sadistic behavior of the man. Over and over. It still cut into him. His self-loathing. 

All he could do to stop it was slip away, silently, because he couldn’t take it, anymore. 

Because that night he’d started hoping Demian would just end him...and only knowing he had himself set up in Houston had kept him going.