Date: Tue, 27 Jan 2004 02:13:57 EST
From: CT
Subject: Brimstone

"Brimstone" is a work of adult fiction and contains scenes of sex between
males.  If this genre of fiction is not to your taste or liking, or if you
are not of legal age to read such fiction online, or should you find it
socially or politically offensive, please leave this site immediately.  Any
similarity between "Brimstone" and actual persons or situations is purely
unintentional and coincidental.

"Brimstone" was inspired by, but in no way derived from, a posted urban
legend.  You will find the URL for that legend's listing appended at the
end of the story.

-0-

	"This is the stupidest, shitty assed idea you've ever come up
with. Honest to God, brah, what're you doin?  Thinkin with your ass hole?"
	Ryan Dempsey was normally quiet and easy going, but the escapades
of his friend and best buddy, Blake Doyle, could easily unleash the dormant
volcano within.
	"Dude, chill," Blake laughed.  "We're just gonna to have ourselves
some fun."
	"Fun!" Ryan hollered back.  "Fun my ass!"
	Ryan and Blake had been inseparable since kindergarten, and their
friendship had endured and, over the years, survived many scrapes and
brawls, mostly instigated by Blake. Ryan Dempsey, however, was not the long
suffering innocent in this relationship.  He would complain, and argue, and
rant and rave until he found there were no escape routes from Blake's
intrigues, then he'd jump into the mischief as fully as his friend.
	"Just take a look at the paper," Blake said, using his best
theatrical whine.  "It's right there. Mark Teller's got a whole article on
it."
	He shoved the local edition of the Honolulu Daily Press across the
dashboard to Ryan.
	"You read that shit to me once already," Ryan growled, "and I'm
still not going to do it."
	Blake grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, threw his head
back and roared loudly.  They'd been sitting in his classic '79 TransAm in
front of Kukui's All Nite Market on Lualani Streert since shortly after
nightfall, arguing.
	"Dude, we been here for half an hour; let's go do it."  Blake
sounded closer to sincerity than he had since their dispute began over
dinner.
	Ryan sat staring through the windshield at the light rain outside,
then after several long, silent minutes, grumbled under his breath, banged
open the passenger side door, and stomped out into the drizzle of a warm
and heavy tropical night.
	"Way to go, dude," Blake exalted.  "Way to go!"
	"Shut up," was all Ryan replied, or wanted to.
	The two young men jogged across the tiny parking lot, dodging a
smattering of black puddles, and entered the brightly lit market, heading
toward the fresh meat department.

-0-

	When Blake and Ryan graduated from Waialae Prep two years before,
they'd both decided, much to their families' distress, that they would not
move forward automatically into college.  Both wanted a chance to stretch
their legs and have fun before the music stopped.
	Blake's dad was an architect, so there was not much chance for him
to take over the business unless he were an architect too, but Blake had
made his mind up that architecture would play no part in his future life
choices.  He had no idea what he wanted to be, but he had very definite
ideas on what he did not want to be.
	Ryan withstood mounting pressure from his folks to follow the path
to success of his dad's side of the family, go to Harvard, get an MBA, trot
off to the London School of Economics, and finally settle down in
Washington DC where half the family lived and become like each of them,
another mindless bureaucrat with a six figure income.  As far as Ryan was
concerned, that was a death sentence minus the capital crime.
	Both boys had been outdoor fanatics almost from the day they popped
out of the womb; friends and family used to say they were able to surf
before they could walk or talk.  Maybe an exaggeration, but not by much.
They grew up with a love of hiking, camping, and climbing, especially in
those back-of-beyond places on Maui and Kauai.
	Throughout junior high and high school, inter-mural sports were
their passion, and they excelled in every field they entered.  Blake, at
six foot one inch and more muscularly bulky, dominated in varsity football
and wrestling; Ryan's lean, firm, six foot four inch frame gave him more
than an edge in senior basketball, track, and water polo.
	Upon finishing high school, Ryan and Blake wanted to live life
through the bodies they had spent so many years building.  With no
financial worries because of their indulgent but extremely disappointed
parents, the boys decided on doing grunt work for a construction company
owned by a classmate's dad and family friend.
	"Just until we're ready to go to college," they told their folks,
then celebrated with a beachside beer bust when both sets of parents gave
in.
	Construction was up, and their jobs were steady and physically
hard, but freed them from the imminent prospect of classroom and desk.
They worked from seven in the morning till three thirty in the afternoon,
followed by a couple of hours surfing and maybe a couple more hours on a
basketball court or working out in front of a bevy of chicks at their
folks' very, very exclusive health club.
	The heavy duty nature of their work bulked up their muscles, and
their heavy duty sun screen guaranteed a bronze glow on their shirtless
torsos. It was a great time of life, and Blake and Ryan were energized day
after day from head to foot.  Even their families, particularly their
fathers, had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that after six months, the boys
were in great shape and great spirits.  The boys thought their paunchy dads
were just plain jealous.
	With no expenses for their upkeep, except what they chose to spend
on themselves, their income verged on extravagant.  After a year on the
job, they decided they could well afford to move out of their folks' homes
and into a place of their own, especially in view of the generous subsidies
both sets of parents made to their paychecks.
	Blake usurped the task of finding the perfect habitat for two dudes
on a roll.  Weekdays were for work and sports, but weekends were for
partying, and wherever they lived, it would have to accommodate the full
range of their lifestyles.  And Blake found the ideal place, one story, two
bedrooms, shared bath, a living room dining room combo, with an all
electric kitchen, a big front and back yard fenced around and set back from
the street, on the edge of Makiki Heights for twelve fifty a month plus
utilities.
	"Not bad, dude," he beamed, "waddya think?
	"Not bad, dude," Ryan beamed back.
	The following Saturday, the boys moved out of their rooms at home
and stuffed their new digs full of nineteen years worth of furniture,
clothes, junk, bric-a-brac, souvenirs, junk and more junk.  What did not
fit into their less than spacious bungalow, was piled outside in the yard.
Rather than dealing with dismantling, transporting, and reassembling beds,
the boys opted for mattresses on the floors of their bedrooms; this also
provided them with convenient platforms on which to dump more stuff.
	It took Ryan and Blake the better part of the following year to
agree on a routine and a division of labor to maintain even a modest degree
of habitability in the house.  For the most part, they merely walked around
in boxers or briefs amid piles of dirty laundry, unemptied garbage cans,
discarded pizza boxes, and two unkempt sleeping bags sprawled in front of
the TV.
	The unmade mattresses in their bedrooms were now used mostly to
entertain overnight 'guests,' and with their spectacular bodies and
smashing good looks, sandy haired Ryan and dark haired Blake had no lack of
overnight guests, provided they cleaned and disinfected the place first.
	"Life is good, dude," Blake would chirp while popping the first
after work beer of the day.  "Life is good."
	The first twelve months in the house flew by, and, in amazing short
order, the boys found themselves on their lunch break the day before their
argument in Kukui's parking lot signing the lease for a second year.
That's when they decided they needed to get started making plans for their
twentieth birthdays which would fall all too soon at the end of the month,
three days apart.  -0-

	The following day, still juiced over signing the lease for a second
year, they put in a good muscle stretching eight hours on the job, then
hustled off with their boards in Ryan's pickup to Yokohama Bay for a couple
hours of surfing.
	They got in over two good hours, and, returning to Ryan's truck
around six thirty, scooted out of their wet boardshorts and into their
boxers and baggies; they decided by a kind of silent, mutual agreement,
that they'd had enough physical activity for the day and headed back to
Makiki Heights to celebrate their new lease.  The sun had dropped out of
sight and a darkening, overcast twilight domed the sky as they pulled into
the gravel driveway in front of their house.
	The evening was warmer than expected and unusually and oppressively
humid; the house, sweltering.  Trade winds and cross ventilation kept the
place reasonably comfortable most of the time, but the 'two dudes on a
roll' dream house lacked one essential for total comfort, air conditioning.
As often as they vowed to install window units, Blake and Ryan kept
forgetting to do so, until the next time they came home to a steam box.
	Entering their overheated house, the boys immediately dropped their
work clothes onto the floor and stripped down to their boxers, leaving two
sets of baggy shorts, tee shirts and flip-flops in their wake between the
front door and the fridge.
	Beer was never in short supply at the Makiki house, and Blake and
Ryan made sure they had at least a half dozen six packs ice cold in the
fridge at all times.  They wrested their cans from separate packs and
popped them open, sighing loudly at the crunching sound and the instant,
stinging aroma that hit their noses.
	After toasting high hopes for their second year in the house, Ryan
took his beer and flopped down spread eagle across an oversized bean bag
cushion, his beefy cock and balls in full view through his boxers' wide
open fly.  Squeezing his eyes shut and sucking air in through clenched
teeth, he pressed the bottom of the cold can to his forehead before
greedily gulping its icy contents.  When he finished, he tossed the empty
into a large box fairly overflowing with empty cans which the two boys
fully intended to recycle someday.
	Catching a second beer that Blake lobbed at him, Ryan said, "Dude,
I'm sweating up a storm. It's too hot to eat here.  Let's grab dinner
somewhere, then go to the mall and buy some fuckin air conditioners."
	Blake chugalugged his second beer, belched, and said, "Yeah, why
not," and belched again.  He'd dropped his boxers and was standing
completely naked in front of the open refrigerator, absently fingering his
thick semi-hard cock and letting the chilled air flow over his body.  "Go
get ready, dude; I'm gonna have another beer."
	With a groan, Ryan rolled slowly off the bean bag, his sweaty
underwear hanging half way down his butt in back and across the bottom his
bush in front.  He moved listlessly toward his bedroom to sniff out some
clean clothes or at least some not too rancid dirty ones.
	Forty-five minutes later and after three beers apiece, Blake and
Ryan, freshly showered and back in baggy shorts, clean tee shirts, and
flip-flops, emerged from the house and jumped into Blake's pride and joy,
the Muscle Car, his 79 TransAm, and roared off to the mall.
	The boys decided they'd grab a pizza, then go to the mall and look
for air conditioners and babes, but that plan was waylaid when Blake
decided he had a taste for beef noodles instead.  Under a dark and
threatening sky, they wheeled into a Vietnamese place off King Street,
ordered their noodles, took a couple of beers and sat down at a table in
the little outdoor terrace behind the shop.
	Some previous customer had left a copy of the Daily Press on the
chair next to Blake's, so he picked it up and started paging through it,
glancing at articles and ads until his eyes fell on an tempting headline.
	"Dude, listen to this."  The Vietnamese cook brought their bowls of
noodles as Blake started reading aloud from the item that had caught his
attention.
	"More than two hundred years ago, in his war to unite the Islands
of Hawaii, King Kamehameha I annihilated an army of Oahu warriors in battle
by forcing them up the steep Nuuanu Valley and over the edge of the Pali
cliffs to their deaths on the rocks a thousand feet below."
	"Dude," Ryan said, his mouth full of noodles and hot broth, "we
studied that in Island History Class.  Remember?"
	"Yeah, yeah," Blake answered, "but here's a real interesting part.
'For more than a century, Native Hawaiians left offerings after dark of
pork wrapped in Ti leaves to placate the spirits of the warriors hurled
over the cliffs in the battle of Nuuanu Pali.'"
	"Yeah, that's real interesting," Ryan gurgled, slurping down more
of his dinner.
	Unfazed, Blake continued dramatically "'These offerings had always
disappeared by the following morning.'"
	"Right," Ryan scoffed, "like down the throats of some dogs or
cats."
	"Listen up, dude. It gets better." Blake was visibly excited about
the article he was reading, "' In 1953, reports began circulating about
strange occurrences taking place at night on the Pali Highway.'" Over the
top of the newspaper, Blake arched his eyebrows and stared at Ryan, a
steely, serious expression on his face.  Ryan rolled his eyes and Blake
continued.
	"'On June 6, 1953, Makani Anderson of Kaneohe was driving home over
the Pali about ten o'clock at night, with...'" Blake glanced at Ryan with
the same eyebrow wrenching expression, "'with...ten pounds of spareribs for
a barbecue he was hosting the following day.  As he approached the crest of
the Pali, his car began to choke and sputter, and finally stalled.  His
efforts to restart the car failed and his headlights went out.'"
	Ryan broke into Blake's narrative waving his hands, doing the theme
from 'Twilight Zone,' "doh, doh, doh, doh,doh, doh, doh, doh."
	Blake ignored him and continued, "'Anderson, 71, later recalled
that sitting in the pitch black was a frightening enough experience, but
worse yet, the car started shuddering and rocking violently back and
forth. 'That's when I remembered my grandmother talking about the pork
offerings, and,' he said, 'that's when I tossed the spareribs out the
window.  All of a sudden, the car stopped rocking; I turned the key in the
ignition; the car started; the lights came back on, and I never carried
pork across the Pali ever again.'"
	"doh, doh, doh, doh," Ryan giggled.
	"You scoff, dude," Blake harrumphed, "but it says here that the
same thing has happened a bunch more times since."
	"So?"
	"So let's do it."
	"Do what?"
	"Take some spareribs up to the Pali tonight."
	"What!" Ryan almost fell out of his chair. "You have lost it, brah.
You've gone and lost your fuckin mind.  We're gonna go buy air conditioners
tonight.  That's it, period!  So eat your fuckin noodles."
	"No, dude.  Let's do it.  It'll be outrageous, man, taking dinner
to a bunch of ghosts."
	"Dude, don't go there.  Don't even think about going there.  We're
going to go buy air conditioners, and then we're going home.  No
spareribs. No Pali.  No ghosts!"
	"Ah, dude.  Chicks love guys that do stuff like this.  We can work
them into a frenzy.  Tell them all about the curse of Nuuanu Pali, lay it
on really thick, and the story of Makani Anderson and how we fuckin dared
the curse by taking spareribs up the Pali in the dead of night."
	As much as Blake was getting excited by his own enthusiasm, Ryan
was having none of it.
	"Cut the crap, Blake.  This is bad karma, man.  You don't know da
kaina shit you're gettin into."
	"Dude, you're not scared of ghosts, are you," Blake laughed
	"I'm sayin," Ryan shot back, "I ain't goin up the Pali tonight."
	Blake leaned across the small table and said with a big grin,
"You're scared of ghosts," then picked up his noodle bowl and drank down
the broth and all its contents."
	In exasperation, Ryan grumbled. "Can we fucking go now and get a
couple fuckin air conditioners?"
	"Nah," Blake answered with grinning finality, "we gonna go get some
fuckin spareribs."
	Deep down inside, where Ryan talked only to Ryan, he knew he had no
chance of winning this one.  He'd complain and argue and rant and rave,
like he always did; he'd play all the tricks he'd played before...before
losing every time to Blake's whim of the moment.
	The first raindrops of the coming storm splattered randomly across
the patio as Blake shoved his chair back, stood up, grabbed the newspaper,
stuck it in the back pocket of his baggies and said, "C'mon dude, it's
Ghostbusters time."
	"This is not a good thing," Ryan complained.  "We could get into a
lot of trouble, and I don't mean with the cops."
	"Dude!" Blake took his turn at sounding exasperated. "Fifteen
minutes top to the Pali, swing through the parking lot, toss the ribs,
fifteen minutes back.  What's the big deal?"
	"No big deal," Ryan snapped.  "You can drop me off at the house on
your way."
	The light rain began to fall steadily as the two exited the noodle
shop and sprinted to the TransAm.
	"Tomorrow," Blake proclaimed, "you are going to be so glad you did
this; you are going to be talking about it all day; it's gonna be like the
best pussy bait of all time."
	Ryan looked at his bud, grimaced and said, "You are a total shit,"
then half heartedly, "I'm still not going."
	Little more than half an hour later, Ryan and Blake were standing
in front of the display case in Kukui's meat section, and Blake was telling
the clerk that he'd like ten pounds of spareribs.
	"Anything to go with that?" the clerk asked.  "Barbecue sauce?
Cole slaw?"
	"Nope," Blake responded with a satisfied wink at Ryan.  "Just the
ribs."
	Even though Ryan finally agreed, as they both knew he would, he
didn't want any "funny stuff" along the way.  "We're going to go up and
come right back, that's all," he insisted.
	Blake absolutely vowed, "No funny stuff."  But then, Blake never
knew what he was going to be doing from one minute to the next, so, in a
sense, his vows were always technically truthful.  The boys chugged back to
the car quickly through the increasing rainfall, Blake shielding the ten
pounds of ribs by pressing the package like a football against his hard
belly, under his tee shirt. In the car, he tossed it onto the floor in
front of Ryan.
	"Bitch!" Ryan squawked.  -0-

	By the time Blake swung the TransAm to the right off the H1 and
started his ascent up the Pali Highway, what began as a hit-and-miss
drizzle had become a deluge.
	"Can we go home now," Ryan groused.  "It's fuckin pourin out
there."
	"We'll be home in half an hour," Blake grinned. "Just think how the
rain's gonna cool off the house.  Good sleepin weather, brah."
	"Bastard."  Ryan would make sure he added this jaunt to his payback
day.
	Even with the wipers running full tilt, it was difficult to see
much beyond the front of the car, and the increased intensity of the
downpour made normal conversation impossible
	"Keep an eye out for sign posts," Blake yelled.
	"Go fuck a duck," Ryan grumbled to himself.
	Blake was justifiably proud of his driving skills, especially under
adverse conditions like this torrential storm.  Besides, having made
innumerable runs between Honolulu and Kailua to windsurf, he knew the Pali
Highway well, every twist and every turn.
	After less than a quarter of an hour speeding up the highway, Ryan
shouted, "Pali turn off coming up."
	"Hang on, brah.  Here we go."  Blake swung the TransAm into the
exit lane through the slashing rain and into the parking lot.
	Nuuanu Pali is notorious for the ferocious winds that roar in off
the Pacific, breaking like tsunamis over the jagged lip of the cliffs.
This night they were fiercer than ever, driving sheets of rain almost
horizontally across the parking lot.  The only illumination in the midst of
this maelstrom was from the car's headlights, and their beams petered out
almost immediately into the inky blackness.
	Blake gunned the TransAm, careening wildly across the flooded
parking lot, its tortured tires shrieking like banshees against the roar of
the storm.  He whipped around the steering wheel, plowing up walls of water
on either side of the car, finally lurching abruptly to a stop.
	"What the fuck are you doin," Ryan screamed. "You said no fuckin
funny stuff!"
	"Just lettin the ghosts know we've arrived, brah," Blake laughed,
then quicker than Ryan could respond, his hand darted forward, and he
switched off the ignition and killed the lights, plunging them into the
storm's raging blackness.
	"Fuckin son of a bitch," Ryan sputtered.  "Turn the fuckin lights
back on."
	He struggled against the restraint of his seat belt, pummeling
Blake and trying to turn the keys in the ignition, only to knock them to
the floor, losing them in the darkness.
	"Christ, Ryan," Blake hollered, trying to defend himself against
Ryan's hysterical barrage of punches.  "Back off, man.  You're losin it."
	"You promised," Ryan screamed, "you promised no funny stuff."
	Blake had no idea how scared Ryan had been from the outset; his bud
was truly frightened of the pitch black and of the unknown.
	"You promised."  Ryan was on the verge of tears.
	Before Blake had a chance to respond to his friend's distress, the
impenetrable darkness surrounding them was ripped apart by violent
explosions of lightening and bone crunching avalanches of thunder, one
after another after another.  The TransAm shook madly as though in the grip
of a monstrous earthquake, the thunder so deafening the boys couldn't hear
each other scream.  Suddenly, the left side of the car heaved up off the
pavement, as though hit by a battering ram, and the TransAm skidded
sideways across the parking lot.
	Ryan buried his face in his arms, screaming at the top of his
lungs; Blake gripped the steering wheel with clenched fists, eyes squeezed
shut, mouth soundlessly open.  A series of gut wrenching blows fell on the
car like a circle of sledgehammers smashing repeatedly into the roof, hood,
trunk, and fenders.  The storm shrieked in tightening circles around them,
like a howling tornado; then, with an earsplitting crack, the windshield
and rear window shattered simultaneously, showering glass throughout the
dark interior, the gale force wind and rain exploding into the car.
	"Out of the car," Blake shouted, already half drenched.  "Get out
of the car!"
	After desperately struggling to release his own seat belt amid
jagged bursts of lightening slicing the air, he scrambled to get Ryan free
of his.
	"Get out, get out, get out of the car," he continued to shout,
jerking the handle on Ryan's door and shoving him through.  He turned and
forced his door open against the storm, but only managed to get one foot
part way out.
	A powerful blast slammed into both boys, knocking them back into
the car, across their seats, and into each other, then, momentarily stunned
and pinned by the force of the impact and brutally pounded by the storm,
they felt something else, something part of the wind but not part of the
wind, something that violently forced itself between Ryan's thighs and
threaded his crotch on both sides, coiling around his hips, engulfing
Blake's chest and waist and crushing the boys together.  It dragged them
howling and squeezed tightly into each other out of the car through Ryan's
door, flinging them onto the ground.
	Under the ferocity of the storm, reason evaporated and the boys,
totally drenched and screaming with terror, felt themselves being pulled by
their ankles in whirling circles around the parking lot.
	The full fury of the wind and rain whipped their bodies, tearing at
their clothes, hurling their flip-flops away into the darkness, as another
bone crushing swirl of forces gripped their wrists and arms, and, to their
horror, they were lifted straight up off the ground.  Fingers unseen, even
under repeated, violent lightening flares, clawed at them, ripping their
clothes, stripping them naked, exposing them helpless to the scouring
elements of a night gone berserk.
	Powerful tendrils wrapped themselves around the boys' genitals,
squeezing, crushing, twisting; others tightly gripped their throats and
thighs, winding their way around their midsections and legs.  Ryan, his
limbs pulled wide apart, tried in vain to struggle against the agonizing
vise like pressures immobilizing him.
	There were no thoughts, no words in his head; he couldn't breath;
fingers he could feel but could not see tightened around his throat; his
blood pounded in his ears.  This was what it was like to die.  He continued
to fight, but to no avail.  As a thick darkness began to sink into his
skull, he was savagely catapulted up into into the black. Released from
constraints, he frantically clawed and kicked the air, gasping for breath
to fill his burning lungs, his face and body lashed by the fierce cyclone
roaring around him.
	Unable to comprehend any of what was happening or even to touch the
terror that pulverized his consciousness, Ryan heard Blake's high pitched
screams over the shattering roar of wind and rain as he fell back into a
sea of invisible arms, thrashing and coiling around his body, pulling at
him, tearing at him, hurling him through the darkness.
	Blake and Ryan could hear each other's cries of fear and panic and
could see each other at every lightening bolt that split the night, their
bodies whipped by the vicious storm, their balls shriveled with terror,
their cocks, limp, lifeless, bouncing up and down between their legs then
slapping their thighs and bellys as they twisted and struggled against the
unseen forces hoisting them above the ground and into the raging winds of
the Pali.
	From some unknown space within each of them, sparks of reason
grazed the boys' consciousness, unnoticed in the horror of the moment, but
touch them they did, and the slight wedge of awareness that scratched the
surface of their terror opened the jaws of fear and panic wider still.
They were being borne irresistibly into the fury of the Pali winds, not by
the winds, not in their direction, but straight into them, against them,
toward the Pali itself.  They crashed into the trees and shrubbery edging
the perimeter of the parking lot, twigs and branches, sharp edged leaves
and thorns raking their skin, their new awareness intensifying their
screams and vain struggles to escape.
	As lightening bolts tore across the storm, the boys could clearly
see the rain beaten cliffs and the reinforced guard rail pass beneath them,
and for a fraction of an instant, they hung, frozen, suspended, wailing and
shaking uncontrollably in the blackness beyond the Pali's edge, then they
plunged into the abyss.
	Kicking and clawing, twisting and writhing, screaming in horror at
the face of death, they plummeted insanely through the black.  They fell
and they fell, and continued to fall, until the faintest glimmers of reason
extinguished in a mad rush of blind terror, flickered dimly anew as a
wordless knowing spread through their brains that they were falling too
far, hurtling through the void longer than it should have taken them to
smash onto the rocks at the foot of the Pali.
	Their bodies should already have exploded, impacting on jagged
boulders, but they kept falling until they plowed feet first and without
warning into a viscous cushion of spongy, slimy mud.  They cartwheeled and
tumbled over and over, sliding and spinning on their backs uncontrollably
across the slick, liquid surface, trying to regain their breath, rasping
cries of terror spilling from their lips.
	At once, they were horrifyingly aware of the scalding heat bubbling
out of the muck surrounding them.  The mud was boiling, prompting newer,
more prolonged, higher pitched screams.  They struggled and writhed in the
steaming, agonizing mire that clung to their naked bodies, but there was no
way out, no way to free themselves, no anywhere else to go.  They flung
their arms about, vainly crying for rescue; ultimately succumbing to the
boiling torment oozing over them.
	Through this ceaseless onslaught of agony and terror, Ryan and
Blake could not escape their consciousness, could not escape their
awareness, their pain.  They could not cease to be; they could not die;
they could only suffer.
	Steaming volcanic mud surrounded them, stretching out endlessly in
front and to their right into a curving wall of darkness and to their left,
sweeping into a seething ocean boiling out of a black beyond.  Above them,
a dark, red glow throbbed, like the dim reflection from a slag heap or a
lava flow.  Enough to see by, enough to distort, enough to terrorize.
	Sobbing, the boys were beyond words; their agony, excruciating;
their reason, dissolving.  They slumped over in the bubbling slime, the
only sound, the crashing of a boiling hot sea swirling closer and closer.
	Faintly at first, accompanying the pulse of the steaming ocean, a
second sound arose, different from the ocean, separate from it.
Increasingly more insistent, increasingly more pronounced, increasingly
closer than the beating surf.  Almost identifiable sounds.  Almost animal
sounds.
	In an agonized daze, Blake opened one eye and slowly raised himself
up on one arm from the blistering mud He listened.
	"Oli," he gasped. "Oli."
	Ryan stirred at the sound of his friend's voice.  "What?"
 he groaned.
	"Listen," he whispered horsely, "Oli. Someone chanting."
	In spite of the scalding mud clinging to their skin, Ryan and Blake
rose slowly and painfully to their knees, to see what the chant like sound
was and where it was coming from, hoping it promised salvation.  The dull
red cover above them distorted perspective and distance.  The sound was
coming from behind them, rhythmically, like a drumbeat, deep, persistent,
primal, closer. They turned toward it.
	"I see them," Ryan moaned, "Oh, Jesus!  I see them."
	Blake groaned inwardly; the boys began to claw at the mud, despite
their pain, trying desperately to stand and get their footing, only to fall
back each time into the seething, steaming slime.
	"Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh God," Ryan cried, his voice strained by his
suffering.
	Racing across the surface of the mud, as though it were solid
ground, a grisly legion sprung from the gates of hell, chanting in unison
and shouting in cadence with their foot falls, rapidly advanced toward the
boys.
	"I know who they are," Ryan sobbed.  "I've seen pictures of them."
	Blake's arm fell around his friend's shoulder as they both
struggled to their feet again.  "I know," he gasped. "I know."
	Like the surge of an incoming tide, their horrifying fate spilled
across the boiling mud in front of them, approaching swiftly, their
features easily distinguishable even under the dark and foul reddish light.
The boys tried to turn and run, but could only slide and stumble.
	"They're the warriors," Ryan howled.  "The warriors Kamehameha
killed.  Jesus God! They're coming to kill us."
	Pressing their bodies together instinctively, side by side, Blake
and Ryan tried to back away as the first line of marauders swooped in
around them.  They were petrified, terrified beyond the confines of their
pain, slack jawed, eyes bulging, staring at the embodiment of all the
frightening, ghoulish drawings they had grown up with. Drawings of
ferocious aboriginal Hawaiian warriors, their arms raised, hands spread,
fingers curled, teeth bared.
	 They were huge creatures, completely naked, hair thick and wild,
falling far below their shoulders, bodies pierced with shards of bone and
blackened by tattoos and ritual scaring; even their penises, protruding
like gigantic war clubs, were scared and tattooed, their eyes burning red
like coals in a furnace, leering mouths ringed with teeth filed sharp,
reflecting darkly the glow overhead, slime oozing over their lips.
	The boys screamed as the forest of arms descended on them, dragging
them apart, driving them back down into the boiling mud, pinning their arms
and legs.  Howling chants and war cries hammered down on them, crushing
their minds and throttling their bodies, as warriors scooped out handfuls
of steaming mud and began smearing it over the boys.  They tried uselessly
to buck and fight against the searing agony and the warriors' horrific
strength, but hands, huge and rough, dragged boiling mud down the full
length of their bodies, jerking their cocks and mangling their balls with
it.
	One of the monsters dropped onto Ryan's chest, forcing a mud caked
fist into the his mouth, clogging it almost shut.  From their heads to
their feet, the boys were blackened with blistering mud.  Powerful hands
gripped their ankles, jerking their legs upward and wrenching them wide
apart and back over their shoulders, exposing their holes for the warriors'
pleasure.
	On earth, honua, and under the earth, kehena, prisoners taken alive
were for raping and torture, and then for the heiau stones, the places of
sacrifice.  In kehena, in hell, Ryan and Blake were prizes, plunder for
demon warriors, never dying agonizing sheets of flame.
	Like white hot pokers, fingers of fire, thick and hard, ripped into
the boys' anal cavities spewing geysers of pain into their bowels, and,
like mindless beasts, the two screamed beyond all screams ripped from their
throats so far.  Hunched around Ryan's and Blake's upturned buttocks, a
circle of aboriginal warriors shoved mud coated fingers deep into the boys'
rectums, layering with steaming muck and stretching their syphincters wide
as drain pipes, scorching the walls of their inner chutes with the boiling
abrasive.
	When they had been made ready, specters of madness loomed over
them, glaring into their faces, monstrous warriors, pointing their huge,
black, mutilated cocks at the steaming, mud smeared holes prepared for
them; the boys, their faces screwed tight in agony and terror, shook their
heads, pleading soundlessly, until the massive throbbing war clubs tore
into their holes, plowing apart the walls of their innards, digging and
grinding more than a foot into their bellys, cockheads clearly bulging
through their skins, impaling them on swords of fire until massive jets of
molten lava shot into their guts, drowning them in pain beyond pain.
	Warrior cocks, like branding irons, ripped into the boys' asses one
after another.  They no longer needed to be pinned down; walls of steaming,
mud slimed arms and legs held the boys in place, doubled over, bent at the
knees, their holes bubbling with sludge and semen, their chests crushed
under the weight of grotesquely tattooed giants, their ritually scared
cocks crammed deep into the their throats, warrior cum, like fiery acid,
filling their guts and bellys.
	The boys and the warriors raping their holes and throttling their
bodies, and the ranks of seething torsos, arms, and legs grasping at them,
clawing them, began to slide across the boiling slime like a prehistoric
creature returning to the sea.  Warriors hoisted Blake and Ryan above their
shoulders; hands, burning to the touch, tore at them, dug into their flesh,
wrenching their arms and legs wide apart.
	Like the launching of some satanic barge, mud smeared warriors,
chanting and howling wildly and pressed tight together, their captives,
coated with steaming muck, crying aloud and held overhead like twin
sacrifices to devil gods, slid into the blistering surf that crashed
against the shore.  Blake and Ryan, their captors and torturers plunged
beneath the surface into the boiling, churning sea, their shrieks of
torment beyond human capacity.
	The convulsing, bubbling liquid swirling away layers of mud and
filling lungs and bellys, did not diminish the screams of agony erupting
from all their mouths.  The dark and throbbing blood red overcast
blanketing this world glowed deeply into the raging acid sea, transforming
it into a crimson bath of horror.
	Sliding deeper into the seething currents, the warriors continued
raping Ryan and Blake, their massive limbs wound around the boys' arms and
legs, unimpeded by the surface of a volcanic shore or the limits of
gravity.  They twisted and turned, spun and plunged, warrior cocks driven
deeply into the boys' guts and throats, warrior claws squeezing and
crushing their balls and cocks, needle sharp warrior teeth grinding against
nipples, throats, buttocks.  None could drown.  Not the warriors.  Not Ryan
or Blake.  None could die.  None could escape.  They were together in agony
beyond understanding.
	Fiery pain, the boys only awareness; no thoughts, no reason, only
the scalding sea and searing cocks; torment was existence; it was
addictive.  Ryan and Blake writhed not just in misery, not in never ending
pain, they writhed as tortured partners, accomplices, slamming themselves
back into the warriors' thrusting cocks, clenching their guts tight around
them, milking out bursts of boiling cum.
	Their bodies knew what their crippled minds did not; warrior seed
was not just filling their bowels or clogging their throats; it was
transforming them, saturating their flesh, releasing a long shackled
primordial beast within.  They were becoming part of the savage horde, its
rage and blood lust becoming theirs as well.
	The writhing mass of bodies coiled around its captives and around
itself broke the surface of the boiling sea, a monster spewing scalding
liquid out of throats and lungs and bellys, rolling and roaring, tumbling
toward a steaming shore of mud.  The boys twisted and squirmed on warrior
cocks embedded in their guts and ramming their throats, driven mad along
with the savages raping them, and like the savages, their eyes burned red
like the skies of hell, lusting for that pain beyond pain, for that pain
that fed their lust.
	The acid sea hurled the devil warriors and their prey onto the
boiling mud and surged over them as they struggled against its pull.  Ryan
and Blake fell beneath a tidal wave of bodies, encased in walls of flesh,
twisted and bent, held in place.  Mindlessly driven by the lust possessing
their bodies, the boys gyrated violently on the cocks buried deep in their
guts and sucked savagely on the ones crammed in their mouths, digging their
tongues into the ancient, tribal scars gouged into the pulsing shafts.  The
more blistering semen swirled in their guts and bellys, the more the
madness possessed them.
	Bone crushing claws again grabbed their ankles and wrists, hoisting
them up and carrying them high in the middle of the demonic, howling army,
tossing them from one circle of upraised devil arms to another, fingers
tearing at their flesh, twisting, pulling, digging.  In a frenzy, they
fought against the waves of arms and hands wrenching and twisting their
bodies until with bone crunching suddenness they were hurled onto a rough,
blistering hot black stone platform.  The Heiau.
	Monster warriors wrestled the boys onto the surface of the
platform, dragged them to its center, and pinned them spread eagle upon it.
The broiling, rough stone expanse burned and raked their backs, ripping
their flesh and cauterizing it at the same time.  They raged against their
captors, fear and terror long melted before their unrestrained, mindless
fury.  Like wild dogs snared, they lunged impotently, with fiery lust at
the warriors crushing in on them, possessed of one all consuming drive, to
plow their own cocks deep into warrior holes.
	Two hulking warriors hunched down between their legs and began to
finger their man-cocks; two more crouched down on either side of their
hips, and another two on either side of their chests.  They would prepare
the sacrifices.
	Like a sudden, blinding bolt of lightening, a brutal explosion of
pain ripped through the captives' bodies, tearing away the blood lust that
had driven them mad.  Ryan and Blake howled in agony as the warriors
squatting between their legs ripped out knots of cock hairs one fistful
after another.  The pain was like a blow torch aimed full blast at their
crotches.  Their cocks withered under the assault, their balls shriveled.
Fire and pain throttled their bodies, but at a single scorching touch from
a warrior's hand, the boys' cocks sprang up in the midst of their pain,
rigid, thick, bursting against their skins.
	The warriors held the boys' rock hard cocks flat against their
bellys, stretching them past their navels, and, with the points of their
thumb nails, traced a line slowly across the base of their shafts, then
viciously gouged a furrow deep along the line.  Deluged with bloodthirsty
war cries and the savage pounding of warrior feet on the heiau stones, the
boys, their backs arched, limbs writhing against the hands that pinned them
fast, shrieked as furrow after furrow was slashed along the length of their
cocks, blood spurting onto their bellys and spilling onto the stones of the
heiau, sizzling.
	The other warriors crouched around their bodies began slashing them
with with sharp serrated claws. They were sliced across their nipples, down
the front of their bellys, into their navels, back and forth across their
thighs, slick with their own blood.  As the howling grew louder and
fiercer, the ritual scaring of their bodies continued, unabated, brutally
agonizing, seemingly never to end; they were thrown over onto their bellys,
the fire stones beneath them searing the cuts they'd just received while
their shoulders, backs, buttocks, and legs were ravaged over and over, more
blood pouring onto the sacrificial stones.
	Thrown onto their backs again, they were yanked up by massive
warrior hands, their arms stretched out at their sides, their legs bent and
knees pressed back against their chests, raw, bleeding gashes circling
their exposed holes.  The cacophony of war cries battered them with the
force of a hurricane; the swarm of savages parted in front of them as they
were carried aloft, toward the far end of the heiau, to a horror beyond
reason
	Two huge black stone idols, eyes blazing like molten steel, stood
at the far end of the platform, thick grooved snarling masks with gaping
fang edged mouthes, atop grasping, gnarled, distorted arms tipped with wide
spread, talon clawed hands, riding thick, massive bowed legs deep into the
stone base.  At the very center point of each carving, jutting out above
the blackened stones, a giant, obscene, twisted, cock waiting for
sacrifice.
	Even knowing the futility of struggle, Ryan and Blake could not
help but writhe and howl against the terror in front of them.  Two devil
gods etched obscenely against the lurid glow above, about to leap upon the
captives and rend them to shreds on the spot.  They seemed to quiver, like
dogs waiting to attack, but the boys' eyes were riveted in horror on one
spot only, the massive, mushroom capped cocks thrusting out from the black,
scared surface of the idols' bodies.
	These cocks were not carved of stone as the rest of the gods'
bodies were; not rough, tortured volcanic rock; they were flesh.  Flesh,
rigid, throbbing, pulsating, muscle and vein bursting, erupting out of
crudely chiseled black stone, and the boys, their legs bent high, their
holes distended, were hurled upon them.
	Heads thrown back, Ryan and Blake could only gasp in agony as the
warriors drove their asses onto the devil cocks, ramming them back and
forth along the full length of the fiery shafts, smashing their raw and
bleeding scarred buttocks into the idols' jagged stone flesh, their bodies
grinding tightly against the blistering rods buried deep within.
	One hulking savage stood behind each boy's head, like a formal
guard, digging claw like fingers into their shoulders, holding them in
place as each drove his massive cock deep into the boys' tortured throats,
then bending over, lying belly to belly, full length on top of the boys,
they shoved their lips down around their cocks.  Like the searing heat of a
furnace, the burning walls of the warriors' mouths sucked tight around the
boys' cocks, reigniting their agony fueled lust for devils' semen.
	The howling chants and bedlam of war cries, the writhing arms and
the pounding of feet on the fiery stones of the heiau, the savage screaming
all pounded into the boys' flesh like a thousand primitive drum beats, as
they ground themselves fiercely and furiously on the stone gods' throbbing,
living cocks embedded in their guts, the searing agony of each movement
hurling them closer to the blistering eruption they sought.  With warrior
cocks crammed into their mouths, and theirs sucked deep into warrior
throats, the boys pumped and bucked wildly, madly, insanely until, like a
blinding flash of lightening, devil semen erupted violently out of the
stone gods into their bellys.
	The boys and their warrior guards convulsed against each other,
ancient hardened ritual scars grinding against fresh, bleeding gashes, as
they discharged spasm after spasm of boiling cum down each others' throats.
The convulsions and spasms continued as huge quantities of semen were
blasted into the boys' quivering submissive bodies, until the warriors
pinning their asses to the bellys of the stone gods jerked them back off
the idols' pulsing cocks of flesh and off the warrior guards buried deep in
their throats.
	Two of the largest and fiercest of the warrior savages tore the
boys out of the hands of those who had rammed them back and forth on the
idols' cocks, and flung them over their shoulders like sacks, or trophies,
or lifeless bodies.  The entire bestial horde, howling as they once did
charging into battle, surged around the running giants and their victims.
With hands grabbing their upended buttocks and fingers jabbing their balls
and holes, the boys, helpless and slamming wildly against bodies of their
captors, were hauled across the venting mud once again toward the boiling
surf.
	They were dragged under the surface by the sheer volume of warriors
pressing in upon them, the giants pinning them tightly to their shoulders
as they plunged deeper and deeper into the swirling acid sea.  They passed
beyond the final fringe of the throbbing red atmosphere above and into
utter, scalding darkness, their lungs and guts filled as before with the
searing ocean, their screams pulsating out in waves through the sea.
	Like balloons caught on branches in a windstorm, the two boys
struggled in the ever heavier blackness against the massive arms pinning
them tight as they fell deeper and deeper into the void, eyes like burning
embers.
	Release came with a violent jolt; in an instant, the boys shot
upwards through the dark toward the faint swath of dull reddish light and
on to the boiling surface beyond.  They surged upwards, faster and faster,
eyes blazing like molten lava, mouths open, trailing currents of warrior
semen and gut juices through the swirling acid sea, until they exploded
through the boiling foam, mindless, screaming into a dark gray blanket of
fog.
	Blake and Ryan continued to scream, gawking mindlessly into phantom
curtains of clouds swirling around them.  Dissolving slowly; through the
blurring fog, shapes gradually began to appear; lines began to intersect;
forms seemed to emerge out of emptiness.  The boys' cries melted away, the
evil glow of their eyes dimmed as they stared uncomprehendingly at flat
white lined rectangles faintly visible through the mist.  In abject
silence, they watched a world created, and as each part touched their
unraveling consciousness, they knew what they were seeing.  A dashboard.  A
windshield.  A parking lot.  A TransAm.
	They were seated in Blake's muscle car, dry, dressed in baggies,
tee shirts, and flip-flops, seat belts fastened.  Stunned.  As the world
took shape under the faint glow of a pre-dawn overcast, the boys also
became aware of throbbing aches and pains throughout their bodies.  They
grunted as they shifted their weight, straining against the pull of the
seat belts, and looked at each other.
	Nothing seemed to have changed; the storm had passed, but rain
puddles abounded; confusing images swirled and merged in the boys' minds,
nothing distinct, but more than either to speak about.  As they turned
their heads away in silence, glowing, red devil eyes reflected back at them
from the windshield; instantly they both knew they would return to the Pali
that night, and they knew exactly who they would bring with them.  A
co-worker, a muscled hunk of man flesh that both boys enjoyed looking at
and roughhousing with.  Eric Takagawa would make a juicy sacrifice to the
devil gods.
	As quickly as their eyes had burned with evil, they returned to
normal, along with their minds.
	"Brah," Blake puzzled, "Where my keys?  Ignition's empty."
	Ryan replied absently and with a yawn, "I think they fell on the
floor."
	"Oh, yeah," Blake answered, "I see them."
	In a moment the TransAm sped out of the parking lot and onto the
highway back to Honlolulu, the boys confused, disoriented, drawing almost a
total blank about the night they'd spent on the Pali, each of them
wondering why he was thinking of Eric Takagawa.

-0-


http://oregonstate.edu/~polendes/ORST/UrbanLegend/UrbanLegend.html

Additional URLs: http://www.ksbe.edu/endowment/hawaiian/history/pali.html