Date: 12 Jul 1999 12:59:31 -0700
From: dctopman@members.gayweb.com
Subject: Barefoot Boy--Chapter 6

			       Barefoot Boy
			   Chapter 6 - Bad Guys

As Dale and I walked down the long corridor toward the stairwell, my heart
pounded and I couldn't help but think that in just a few minutes I could be
getting the shit kicked out of me. The only thing I could hope for is that
our intrusion might distract them enough to stop raping Stevie. Dale was
surprisingly quiet.

We reached the stairwell, opened it, and began jogging down the steel steps
to the first floor and the entrance to the laundry room. We stopped at the
laundry room door. I stood on one side of the small window and Dale stood
on the other. I carefully looked inside. Surprisingly, the room appeared
empty. I flung open the door and walked inside. Dale was right behind me.

"They must have dragged his ass somewhere else." Dale said.

I heard movement from behind the row of washers and dryers. I quickly
walked around them. There lying on the smooth concrete floor was Stevie. He
was completely naked and had pulled himself up into a fetal position. He
was barely conscious.

"Help me get him up," I said to Dale.

I moved around and place my hand under one of Stevie's armpits. Dale did
the same standing opposite me. We lifted Stevie up. He tried to get his
legs going under him but was obviously having difficulty walking. He moaned
loudly. I looked around for the jean shorts he had been wearing that
morning but saw nothing. I decided to chance it and began moving Stevie
toward the laundry room door.

"We've got to get him out of here," I said to Dale. "Let's try to get him
up to my apartment."

"You sure you want to do that, Mike?" Dale said. "You sure you want him in
your apartment like this?"

"What other choice do we have?" I said annoyingly.

I reached out and open the door with one hand while holding on to Stevie
with the other. We managed to get him through the door and to the foot of
the stairs leading up to my 2nd floor apartment. Stevie groaned with each
step he took. I couldn't see any bruises or blood but I knew he was
hurting.

"This is just great," Dale said.

I had to agree with Dale. If anyone came along right now it would look
pretty bad what with the two of us half dragging a naked, young, boy. We
got to the top of the stairwell and this time Dale reached out to open the
door leading into the corridor. By this time, Stevie was almost unconscious
again. Dale and I were totally supporting his weight and both feet just
drug along the tile floor.

We finally reached my door. Dale supported most of Stevie's weight while I
fumbled for my keys. Finding them at last, I unlocked and opened my
door. We dragged Stevie into my apartment and laid him on my sofa. I
carefully grabbed both his ankles and lifted both feet up on to the
sofa. Stevie was out cold.

"For what it's worth, I think you're making a big mistake bringing him back
here," Dale said.

"What am I suppose to do, man -- leave him laying on the floor in the
laundry room?"

"I'm telling you Mike, you're getting in deep with this kid. If you don't
need anymore help, I'm outta of here."

"Thanks Dale.  I mean it.  I can manage from here."

"Good luck, man."

Dale walked to my door, opened it, and left. I went to the bathroom to get
a cold washcloth. Stevie never stirred.  As I walked back into the room, I
had a good view of both soles of Stevie's feet.  They were totally black
and blue.  What the hell is going on here, I thought to myself.  I folded
the cool washcloth and laid it across Stevie's forehead.  I could smell the
same sweet, sweaty, boy aroma I had earlier grown so fond.  I repositioned
the washcloth and looked closely at Stevie's face as I did.

I hadn't noticed it before but both his lips were swollen.  I could only
imagine what his tight little boy pussy must look like.  It was obvious the
kid had been raped, mouth and ass.  The gang was obviously careful though
not to do anything that would cause bruising or in anyway seriously damage
Stevie's fine, young body.

Stevie began to moan softly again and move.  He reached up to the washcloth
on his forehead.  His eyes opened but I could tell he was having difficulty
focusing.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"You're OK," I said.  You're in my apartment."

"No!" he exclaimed.  I've got to get out of here."

He began to sit up and placed both feet on the floor in front of the sofa.
As soon as he started to stand though the pain from his battered soles
caused him to wince and sit back down.

"Listen, I have got to get out of here," he said.

"You've got no clothes, Stevie.  And you're in no shape to be going
anywhere."

"Listen, being here is the reason they got pissed off at me in the first
place," he said.

He tried standing again but the pain in his feet was just too much and he
flopped back onto the sofa.

"What are you talking about, Stevie?"

"They don't like me hanging out with you.  Don't you understand?  I got to
get out of here," he said pleadingly.

"What did they do to your feet, Stevie?"

"They didn't do anything.  I got to go."

I walked into my bedroom and rummaged around in my laundry until I found an
old pair of cutoff jeans.  They would be huge on Stevie but at least he'd
have something to wear.  I walked back into the living room and threw them
at Stevie.

"Fine.  Put these on and go then." I said.

Stevie immediately began lifting his obviously sore legs and feet and
pulled the shorts on. He attempted to stand again.  This time he managed to
get to his feet but he was in a lot of pain. I was right, he had to grip
the waistband in order to keep the shorts from falling off him.

He staggered to the door, opened it, and left without saying another word.

Weird, I thought to myself.  The kid was obviously into something pretty
heavy but he wasn't going to talk to me about it.  I looked down at the
sofa where Stevie had been sitting.  Just like earlier this morning, there
was a large wet spot on the sofa.  It was cum that had leaked out of
Stevie's ass again.  But this time, it wasn't mine.

				 * * * * *

Several days past uneventfully.  I managed to distract myself by studying.
I hadn't seen Stevie or Dale since the incident.  Driving back to the
apartment complex one afternoon, I noticed flashing red lights and stalled
traffic up ahead.  I figured it was another fender bender and put my car in
park figuring we'd be there a while.  I tried to get comfortable and turned
on the radio.  It was another hot day and the air conditioning in my car
had long before ceased working.  I just didn't have the cash to get it
fixed.

An ambulance raced past on my left as I sat in the snarled traffic.
Obviously, it was more than a fender bender.  I began straining now to get
a little better view of what was going on up ahead.  Several other people
had gotten out of their cars and walked up to the accident.  It was
excruciatingly hot in my car so I decided to do the same.  We wouldn't be
moving anytime soon anyway.

As I walked toward what I thought was a car accident, I realize it wasn't a
car accident at all.  Lying there on the hot pavement was the twisted and
bent remains of my bike.  Of my god, I thought to myself.  A car has hit
Stevie.  I ran up to where the ambulance attendants were removing a gurney;
it wasn't a boy it was a girl, no a woman.  There was a large pool of blood
surrounding where her head laid on the asphalt.  Her limbs were twisted
grotesquely like those of a marionette puppet that had been carelessly
dropped.  I studied the unmoving body and realized the woman was dead.
Obviously struck by a car while riding the bike I had given Stevie.

The ambulance attendants lifted the body from the pavement and placed it on
top of a large, heavy plastic bag -- a body bag I realized.  She was indeed
dead.  After positioning her, they proceeded to sip it closed and then
lifted it up onto the gurney.  All that was left was a chalk outline one of
the cops had made earlier.  There was, of course, also the large pool of
blood where her head had impacted the pavement.  I wondered who it could
be.  Then, it occurred to me.  It was the woman who had visited my
apartment a few days earlier looking for Stevie.  It was Stevie's mom.

I was numb as I walked away from the scene and back to my car.  What the
hell was going on here?  Dale was right; I was getting in deep.  Much
deeper than I wanted to be.  I couldn't help but wonder if this was really
an accident or just a way for the bad guys to get Stevie's mom out of the
way.  I climbed back into my car and just sat waiting for the traffic to
move again.

				 * * * * *

"Hey, did you hear what happened to that kid's mom?"

It was Dale's wife, Wanda.  I really didn’t like Wanda.  I don't know
why exactly.  It wasn't just that she was such a busy body and the biggest
mouth in the entire complex.  There was just something about her that
rubbed me the wrong way.

"Yeah, I heard," I said as I stood in front of the stairwell door leading
up to my floor.  Wanda was just exiting the laundry room where Stevie had
been raped.  She was holding a large basket of laundry in front of her.

"It wasn't an accident either," she said.

"Do you know that for a fact?" I had to ask her.

"She was a doper and owed those guys money.  That's why they raped her son.
It was a warning to pay up or else."

"Wanda, sometimes I think you watch too much tv," I said very annoyed at
her amateur detective theories.

"Alright, but you mark my words.  It wasn't an accident," she sneered and
walked past me and through the 1st floor door as I held it open for her.

I couldn't help but wonder how much of her stupid theories might be true.
Stranger stuff has happened after all.  I also wondered what would happen
to Stevie now that his mother was dead.  He was too young to be out on his
own.

I walked up the stairs and down the corridor to my apartment door.  There
was a white business card stuck between the door and the jam.  I removed
it.  It had the state police symbol on it and the name Cpl. Raymond
A. Yorkshire.  There was also an address and a phone number.  On the
reverse were scribbled the words, "Have been trying to get in touch with
you.  Please call me."

Oh great, I thought to myself, now the fucking police are involved.  I had
a sick feeling in my stomach.  You don't suppose Stevie had told them about
us.  I mean about me fucking him.  Oh god, I thought, I could be in deep
trouble.  But wait a minute, if that were the case they would have just
come and kicked my door in and led me out handcuffed.  Surely, they
wouldn't just leave a card asking me to call them.

I tried to calm myself down.  I kept thinking back to what Dale had told me
before about not getting involved.  The asshole was right.

"State Police," the voice on the other end of the line said gruffly.

"Yes, I'm trying to get in touch with Corporal Yorkshire please," I said
nervously.

"Hold on."

A minute passed.  I began to really get nervous again and contemplated
hanging up the phone…

"Corporal Yorkshire here."

The voice was pleasant but authoritative.

"Corporal, my name is Mike Delozier.  You had left your card on my
apartment door…"

  "Oh yes, Mr. Delozier.  Thank you for calling me back.  I am
investigating the recent death of one Karen Anne Nichols who I think lived
in your building," he said dryly.

"Well, she actually lived across the way in another building but in my
apartment complex."

"That's right.  I'm sorry, you're absolutely correct.  Anyway, it's our
understanding that you were friends with her and her son?"

"Actually, I only knew her son.  I really didn't know her at all."

"I see.  What was your relationship with her son?"

"We were just friends.  I saw him around the complex.  He seemed like a
good kid.  I gave him a bike."

"We know.  It was your bike that Mrs. Nichols was riding when she was
struck by the car I think."

"Yes, it was my bike.  I saw it the day of the accident."

"You were at the accident scene, Mr. Delozier?"

"Yes, I was returning from classes.  The police were already there."

"Are you aware of anything unusual going on with Stevie, Mr. Delozier?"

"I'm not sure what you mean?" I replied.

"Was Stevie messed up with any of the local gangs or into drugs or anything
like that?"

"I heard rumors to that affect but don't know for sure."

"Which?" he asked "Gangs or drugs or both?"

"I heard that he was involved somehow with one of the local gangs."

There was a pause but I could hear the Corporal writing.

"Do you know which gang?

"I heard it was the 28th Street Gang."

There was another pause and more writing.

"May I ask a question, Corporal?"

"Sure, shoot."

"What is going to happen to Stevie now that his mother is dead?"

There was another pause as he finished writing.

"That's really not my department, Mr. Delozier.  He'll probably end up
being placed with a family member or foster care.  I honestly don't know."

"OK, I am just concerned."

"Well, thank you very much for your time and for calling me back,
Mr. Delozier."

"Is that all?" I asked.

"Yep, I think that pretty much wraps things up.  Thanks again for your
cooperation."

"No problem," I said.

"Have a good day, sir"

He hung up.  So did I.

I didn't quite know what to make of the call.  Did he believe me?  I didn't
lie but I certainly didn't tell him everything I knew.  Maybe there was
something to what Wanda had said.  Maybe it was Stevie's mom and not Stevie
who was messed up with drugs.  I couldn't believe that anyone as healthy
looking as Stevie could be doing drugs.

I kicked off my flip-flops and stretched out on the sofa.  It was hot in my
apartment.  Staring up at the ceiling, I wondered where Stevie was and how
he was doing.

				 * * * * *

I awoke to a strange sound in my now completely dark apartment.  I had no
idea what time it was but I had obviously fallen asleep.  I tried to sit up
when suddenly something very hard struck me on the head.  I fell back to
the sofa and reached up to grab my head.  Hands came from out of nowhere
and held my wrists tightly.  Other hands grabbed my ankles.  I began to cry
out just as a cloth was forced into my mouth.  I could hear tape being
pulled from a roll near my head and down near my feet.  Tape was now being
wrapped around and around my ankles.  I was rolled off of the sofa and onto
the floor.  I landed on my belly.  My arms were quickly pulled behind my
back and more tape was used to fasten my wrists together.  Again I heard
the sound of it being pulled from a roll and then felt it being wrapped
across the cloth in my mouth and around and around my head several times,
covering my eyes as well as my mouth.

I can never in my life remember being more frightened then at that moment.
I was sweating profusely and my heart pounded in my ears.  There were many
people in my apartment.  I could hear them rummaging around laughing and
talking in low tones to one another.  Only a small amount of light filtered
through the heavy tape covering my eyes.  It was difficult to breathe.

Someone reached down and grabbed inside the neck of my teeshirt I was.
With a couple of quick jerks, it was ripped from me.  I heard the coffee
table in front of the sofa being moved and I was rolled over onto my back.
Hands immediately began undoing the buttons of my jeans.  I struggled
violently.  More hands were all over me holding me down.  At least two sets
pulled my jeans down.  Then I felt a knife cutting through the fabric.
Within a few seconds, I had been stripped naked.  I was bound by my wrists
and ankles, gagged, and my eyes covered with tape.

I could feel the hot breath of someone's face very near mine.  The face
moved over to my ear and whispered, "Now we're going to teach you a little
lesson, faggot."


A Los Angeles firm interested in publishing "Barefoot Boy" has approached
me.  I have had two phone conversations with them and they seem legit.
They also overnight delivered a very large official looking packet of
papers to me.  I frankly haven't read them yet.  There is just one problem
though, they want illustrations to accompany the story.  Are there any
illustrators out there?  I would be willing to share whatever meager
proceeds may be forthcoming with a partner willing to share his drawing
talents.  Any interested parties please contact
dctopman@members.gayweb.com.