Selected Transcripts from the "Hard Time Chronicles" of "Billy Budz"

Section 1 (15Mar2034)

1.01 (From Joe's narrative)

We is out on the dump, y'know, just looking for something good. Pretty much anything to sell, maybe. Or something to eat, maybe, if it ain't too bad. I spots the flash off the dingo's binoculars. You can count on it that a guy with binoculars is a dingo, which, if you never heard the word, is what we calls the slavers. You better watch out for them good or you will find some real trouble. The worstest kind. Once a dingo gets you, that's that. You gets passed around, one john to another, a year, maybe two. Some of them johns can be kind of nice, I hears, and they even says they will buy you to keep you, but it won't never be enough for the dingo. He's keeping you for the worst kind, the ones who wants to kill you some awful way or another, and who pays top dollar to do it. Top dollar, even if the boy been used pretty hard.

Robby is three or four leaps down the heap from me, looking in some tin can that still maybe got something worth eating inside. I looks back where the flash were, figures the distance and the wind. Can that dingo dart Robby from that far? Can he dart me? I don't know, but I don't take no chances. "Robby," I yells. "Robby, do the rat."

Robby is my kid brother, and he knows that "do the rat" means fade away. Don't be seen. Hide.

Robby and me, we been working the dump four, five months now, since Mama died. It was not easy, how she died. You see, she got this cut on her foot, not even that big. She cleans it up best she can, but we ain't got no medicine for it, and they already shut down the free clinic years ago. Well, it gets all puffed up with pus and she can't step on it no more. And then she gets hot all over, and she's seeing things ain't there. And then she dies. Took maybe three weeks, start to finish, and she was hurting bad pretty much all the time. Real bad.

So now I looks after Robby, who is nine, and I am thirteen. We had another brother once named Tommy, but he died too.

Oh, yeah, my name is Joe.

Yeah, well Robby does the rat like I taught him, and me, I hits the dirt and rolls over the top of the heap to the far side where the dingo can't get at me with his dart. Then I sneaks around to look for Robby. He's skooched up inside some old cardboard box. I don't think the cardboard is thick enough to stop a dart, but the dingo can't see him now, so probably he won't shoot. Just one problem, which is Robby is looking at his sack which has everything he collected that day and is right out in the open. I just knows he's gonna go for it.

No, I says, but he ain't listening. He scoots out and grabs it. I hear a dart go ping off something metal, probably that old car hood he just ran over before he grabs his sack and burrows down between what's left of a couch and a mess of other crap. Then there's a dart in the couch. You stupid little shit, I'm thinking. Just stay put now. But no, not Robby. Wait, where the hell did he go?

The dingo breaks cover and starts to cross the open space between the trees and the trash heap. His dart gun is the longest I ever seen, maybe a six footer. It's the kind you shoots from your shoulder, with telescope sights. Robby is very lucky he ain't laying there stiff as a board. And me, I'm lucky I'm not trying to drag him away because that dingo probably would of got us both.

Some trash shifts behind me and I jumps, thinking maybe that dingo got somebody coming up from the other side. But no, it's Robby, burrowing out from someplace down underneath. He's covered with dirt and some kind of rotten stuff that I can't say what it is but he really smells like shit, and he's grinning like it's his birthday and someone threw him a party. Come on, he says, let's get out of here, and we does just that.

1.02 (From Billy's "blog" )

Can you write a blog now that the internet is gone? Not in a pure sense, I suppose, but that's the format I intend to follow. The power's been on six or seven hours a day lately, so I can do some recordings too. I don't know if anyone ever will hear them, or read my transcripts, but I think the record should be there, just in case. History has a way of ignoring lost boys on garbage heaps, but just in case some future historians want their story, there's a chance they may find it. There are lots of children like Joe and Robby out there, and they shouldn't be forgotten.

The boys call me Old Billy, and it's not just because they're so young -- I am old, pushing seventy. Joe and Robby are not the only ones I've befriended, but they really are my favorites. My young friends come to me for food, a warm place to sleep, and maybe a little affection. In return, they keep me company through some very lonely nights -- and that company usually involves a bit of sucking and fucking and whatnot. I honestly try to keep the action to what they genuinely enjoy, but I know they sometimes go out of their ways to please me.

I know that a lot of people are shocked by the explosion of pedophilia since the conservatives regained control of the government this last time -- to the extent there still is a government -- but it wasn't surprising to me. The social conservatives never did understand that their collaboration with the plutocrats inevitably would lead to a reign of debauchery that would make the declining years of the Roman Empire seem mild by comparison. Well, now they know, but they're too busy trying to keep a little food on their tables to do anything about it.

1.03 (From Joe's narrative)

We ducks through the streets, not wanting to show ourselves to nobody. People mostly stays off the streets if they has someplace else to be. Me and Robby got some hidey-holes here and there, but Robby really wanted Old Billy that day. He is our friend, though Mama never liked him much, or that's what she said -- but she sent us to him when there was nothing left to eat, so I guess she never thought he was all that bad.

Old Billy lives in a building which is fancy enough to have some guys with guns at the front door, to keep out the riff-raff like me and my brother. We never goes to the front door, though, we goes up the fire escape and Old Billy unlocks the steel grate and lets us in. So that's what we did. And then Old Billy is holding his nose and waving his other hand at us. Jesus, he says, you stink! Bathtub, both of you!

Me, I don't think I stink all that bad, but it's true Robby is really foul. Anyway, it don't matter because Old Billy likes to bath us even if we's pretty clean. We go in his big old bathroom and strips while he runs hot water in that big old tub that stands up on lion feet. Old Billy's building always has oil, somehow, so the water is hot. We sink down into it, and it feels real good. Billy picks up our clothes on the end of a broomstick, because he don't want to touch them, and he puts them in the washer. If the power stays on, they gets washed, and if it stays on longer they gets dried too. Whatever. We will be naked the rest of the day at least, because Old Billy likes that.

Billy comes back with some soap, and starts in on Robby. Now Robby loves it when Old Billy baths him. He loves being touched and rubbed, all slippery with soap and hot water, and I got to admit I kind of like it too. Okay, I like it a lot. It feels like someone is, y'know, taking care of you, even if his finger's up your ass getting you ready to fuck a little later. Anyway, Billy is always gentle on you, not like some other guys. I wish he could just keep us, but he says he can't, because it goes against the rules of his apartment building. I don't know. There is another guy lives there who keeps a little girl -- or maybe it's a little boy he dresses up like a little girl, it's hard to tell. I would dress like a girl if Billy would keep me, that's for sure.

1.04 (From Billy's "blog" )

Why am I so hung up on history? All my life, I've heard it said that the winners write the history. Am I a winner? In a way, I suppose, I am. I've lived long enough to get old, and I've accumulated enough wealth to live quite well by today's standards. I own this apartment and can pay the common charges on time every month; I can afford police protection when I'm out on the street; I never have to go hungry; I can even pay for decent medical care. I'm not one of the plutocrats, though. They are the ones who will get to write the history unless, as some of the intelligentsia have been saying, history is over.

I hate it that the plutocrats are back on top again. Strike that. They always were on top, even while the so-called liberals were in power. The ultra-rich lost big chunks of their wealth in the early years of the Greater Depression, but so did people with a lot less wealth to lose. The difference was that, when things finally leveled out, the rich were still rich and they still had all the power. Most people were left with nothing.

I didn't do badly, though, by comparison with most. I got lucky, you could say, because I made my money dealing in recreational drugs. Back then it was a serious mistake for a man who made his fortune selling heroine and cocaine to flash a lot of cash around. I knew some people who made that mistake, and wound up losing everything to corrupt officials and avaricious policemen. Some even found themselves in prison for very long periods of time. Me, I was always a saver by nature, but when you have to hide your income, the rule is no stocks, no bonds, no fancy real estate. When everything came crashing down, I was scarcely hurt at all. My wealth was, in a manner of speaking, "as good as gold."

I put my money in gold coins, and I've been living on that accumulated wealth, a few coins at a time, for fifteen years now. I'm fairly frugal, although I enjoy a few indulgences: aged whiskey, well marbled steaks, fresh vegetables out of season. All those are quite expensive these days.

I also enjoy a succulent boy from time to time. If provided by a dingo, a good quality boy can be as expensive as a good quality steak. Offer a little kindness and affection, though, and one can have his choice of a great many free-range boys for the price of a bowl of mac and cheese. One does have to bathe them thoroughly, of course, and be alert for fleas and lice, but I maintain they are well worth the trouble.

1.05 (From Joe's narrative)

So I sits in the tub watching Old Billy wash Robby. Billy has a chair he sits on by the tub, and he says it is because he is too old to bend down for long and his knees don't work so good. He thinks that is funny, and he laughs. He wets Robby's hair and squirts on some of that green soap that burns a little but takes all the itches away. He rubs it on good with his fingers. Robby got his eyes shut, and he is smiling.

The hot water feels real good, and I leans back against my end of the tub and puts my hand down on my wiener, which is getting hard. Old Billy is combing Robby's hair with his special little comb, and good, he says, no little animals this time, duck down and rinse. Robby slides forward to duck his head under, and his feet come up against my bone. He wiggles his toes, and leaves his feet there when he pops up his head again. It's not for long, though, because Old Billy wants him to stand up. He does, and I see his little stiffie sticking up. He knows what is coming.

The soap smells sweet and good. It is one of the nicest smells I know. Mama never had money for soap, but sometimes we got pieces people throwed away. They don't bubble up that good in the river, though, maybe because the water is too cold.

Old Billy rubs the bar of soap all over Robby, gets him real soapy all over. Then he puts down the soap and just uses his hands. You likes that, huh, he says. He is rubbing Robby's little titties with his thumb and one finger, his hand is so big and Robby is so small, and his other hand goes up and down Robby's legs, one then the other, stopping each time up to rub my brother's crack, and the other hand goes down his belly and grabs his little stiffie and tickles his little balls. I sees Robby's face, he likes it. Me, I feels bad seeing that, I don't know why. Shit, it don't hurt him none, and Old Billy is not a bad guy.

Robby still gots his eyes shut, and he squeezes them harder. Yes, Old Billy put his finger up my brother's hole. It don't hurt, really, just takes you by surprise even when you know it's coming. With his other hand, Billy is working Bobby's boner, though, so Bobby feels fine again right away. Watching them makes my own dick stiffer, and under the water I pushes it down with my hand and lets it pop up again. Maybe, I thinks, maybe I'm just bad. Because, you see, I don't like seeing him get on my little brother, I really don't like it, but it still makes me hot.

Old Billy is finger fucking Robby harder now, and yanking his little bone, and Robby is hugging himself and making that noise he makes when he is going to cum. I look and make sure. Yes, it is just one finger in Robby's ass, so I can tell Old Billy still thinks Robby is too little to fuck. Really, Old Billy is not a bad guy. Some other guy won't care, will not care if he hurts some very little boy who nobody loves. Nobody but me.

Old Billy is really hard tonight, his old thing poking up out of his saggy underpants between his skinny legs, and I guess he must of took one of those boner pills. Well, I figures, he ain't fucking Robby, so I will be sitting on that old bone pretty soon. Funny, though, I'm thinking, his bone don't look old at all, just the rest of him does. His bone is just another man dick, not all that big and not all that small, not wrinkly like his face or saggy like his gut, just a regular hard dick. Maybe it's them boner pills.

Then Robby is going oh! oh! real loud like he always goes when he cums, and Billy squeezes Robby's little dick real hard and his finger is way up Robby's ass. And then Billy picks him up out of the tub, picks him up mostly by his ass with his finger still up Robby's hole, and pulls my little brother, still wet and soapy, onto his lap and kisses him him all over his wet, soapy face. And Robby just kind of goes limp, and makes little moany noises like a cat we had once, a long time ago, back before Tommy died. And Old Billy just holds him, and kisses him a while before he puts him back in the tub and says to rinse off.

1.06 (From Billy's "blog" )

Joe and Robby are here. They came by offering to sell me their little sacks of salvaged trash, but what they really wanted was to stay here tonight. I gave them a couple of bucks for their swag, even though all of it will be back on the dump in short order. Sometimes I'm really tempted to keep them, but I know that's a bad idea. They're illiterate, rough, and not especially docile. Joe will be good for another year, perhaps -- two at most -- and then what do I do with him? Send him back out on the streets but keep his younger brother? If he hadn't grown up on the trash heaps -- if he'd had a little education and proper care -- perhaps I could find a trade school that might take him, but it's too late for that. It's a shame.

The liberals tried to keep the public schools going, and they even expanded the free clinics for a while, but they lost public support. There were scarcely any jobs, and the jobless lost their homes. Entire neighborhoods were emptied by foreclosure, and, in short order, they burned. Liberal plans to help the homeless failed, because the homes were gone, and right wing demagogues kept asking anyone who hadn't collapsed into complete poverty why he should share his meager "earnings" with those who did no work at all. People who had almost nothing were turned against those who had even less.

So the conservatives were back in power. As they promised, they cut taxes, again and again. They privatized the schools. They privatized the police. They even privatized the sewer systems. Everything became pay to play, and those who could not pay got nothing. The plutocrats put their people into every remaining government position, with special emphasis on the courts. The most important government institution that survived privatization was the army, and the army's main job was to keep the common people in their place.

You may think it odd that somebody like me, a career criminal, so to speak, would be upset by all this. After all, I was accustomed to paying the police and assorted corrupt officials for the government "services" I required -- and the addicts who were my source of income were quite resourceful when it came to finding the cash they needed to buy my product, no matter how distressed the economy became.

Well, it did upset me, though, and it still upsets me. Joe and Robby never knew a different world, but I did. It wasn't perfect, but it was a much better world than this one. And now that world is gone.

1.07 (From Joe's narrative)

Then it's my turn. The shampoo stings more than usual because I got some scabs on my head, and Billy knocks them loose with his little comb, but I don't got no bugs. And then it's time to stand up for the soap. He looks hard around my dick and tells me I still don't got hair down there, like I don't know that, and then he starts rubbing me with the soap. I think Old Billy is more gentle with Robby, but that's okay.

It tickles so much when he rubs my titties I keep pulling away and covering them with my hands. They gets all hard and pointy when he does that, and I don't like it much, but it makes my dick hard just the same. Finally he lays off my titties and soaps up the rest of me. I close my eyes while he rubs his fingers across my face, touching up and down my nose and over my lips and around my chin and on the lids of my eyes. It's funny, but I really likes that. It's like he really wants to know what I looks like or something, and it's nice. Then he takes water in his hand and rinses the soap off, and then he kisses me, on my eyes, my nose, my cheeks, my mouth. He never done that before.

His lips are playing with my lips, squeezing them, and then he pulls down on my chin with his hand so I know I'm supposed to let my mouth open, and then his tongue is inside. He tastes like the wild mint Mama used to find for us to chew in the summertime, which was a treat when she found it. He must of chewed some before, maybe to make his tongue taste good. It tastes good.

Meanwhile, his hands are all over me, my chest and my legs and my back, and then he's holding the two halfs of my ass in his two hands and squeezing, and I wish he would touch my dick which is hard as can be and sticking nearly straight up. I go to reach for my dick myself, but he moves my hand away. I'm not allowed, not now.

Then he is done kissing me, and he turns me sideways, and with one hand he grabs my dick, at last, and rubs it, and puts a finger from his other hand up my ass, and rubs there too. I starts to breath hard, and think maybe I'm going to cum, but he pulls the finger out of my hole and, whack! he smacks my ass real hard. I'm all wet, so it really hurts, but it stops me from cumming. And then, while he's still working my dick, he smacks me again, twice, one on each side of my ass. He never done that before neither. Funny, though, because even if I feels like crying it also feels good in a funny way.

Right after that I feels two fingers go in my ass, and I knows I'm gonna get fucked. He works them fingers in and out, but not far enough to hit that spot that feels good, he's saving that for his dick. And then he's pulling me to him, by my dick and my asshole, and I can hardly get my feet over the side of the tub in time to keep from falling down. And then he pulls me to him, back first, onto his lap on that chair of his, not caring that I'm soaking wet and all slippery with soap. And he's hugging me from behind, and rubbing his hands all over my front and my dick. And then his hands are under my legs and he picks me up a little, and I feels his hard bone poking around my ass.

Well, I knows what I'm supposed to do, so I do it. I reach under me for his dick, and I point it right at my hole, so when he lets me down it slides right up into me, all the way. And he puts both his arms around me, and hugs me hard, and starts jerking me up and down on his dick, making all groany noises, and ramming it home, over and over again. And, yeah, now he's hitting that spot, again and again.

I can't help that it feels good to me. I don't want to be a fucktoy, a boypussy. I don't want to like it.

I can't help that it feels good to me, though. My dick is raging hard, and crazy happy little zings is going all through me. I never want to cum when Old Billy fucks me, but I always do. And I heard him breathing harder and harder, and making that gaspy noise, and then he gets tight all over and squeezes me real hard in his arms, and I feel him pumping his cum deep in my hole. And he's not even touching my cock, nothing is touching my cock, but just the same I cum, hard, wiggling on his dick and loving it.

And then it's over. His dick goes soft and slips out my hole, but he still holds me a little bit, which is nice. Then he says, okay, rinse off. And that's when I feels ashamed.

1.08 (From Billy's "blog" )

I've always had boys, even back before the world fell apart, before the collapse. I never had any trouble coming up with some nubile boyflesh, not in my line of work. There was always some strung out mother willing to trade her son for a fix.

I didn't have to be a drug dealer. I earned a bachelor's from a well respected college, and I was working on an advanced degree at an Ivy League school when I made my first connections and began my "life of crime." It was easy money, and much more than I could have earned based on a Master's in journalism. I think what I liked about it most, though, was the romance of "outsider" status. Well, maybe not. Maybe it was the easy access to boys. The two were tied together, anyway. I'd always been sexually attracted to boys, which was as "outsider" as you could get in those days.

Outsider, ha! Judging by what's happened since, there must have been a lot more pervs back then than anybody suspected. A hell of a lot more.

1.09 (From Robby's narrative )

We got to eat real meat tonight. Billy made pork chops, and we each got our own, and also peas and tomatoes and bread and butter. And tonight we gets to sleep with Billy in his bed. I wish he could keep us, but he can't. I wants him to tell us a story about the old days. I thinks it was really something back then.

1.10 (From Billy's "blog" )

The power stayed on later than usual, and I got some recordings of the boys tonight. Robby doesn't have much to say, but Joe is different. The oddest thing is that when he talks to the machine, he seems to forget I'm sitting there next to him -- whatever comes into his head, he just blabs it right out.

He says I'm not a bad guy. When I play back his narrative, though, I think it's quite likely that he's wrong about that.