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The Next World

Part Six

I asked the twins their names, and decided I was not nearly so pervy as some of my brethren in the Church. I doubt that Archbishop Archie knew the boys personally, but apparently he knew where to get them somewhere around Dallas/Ft. Worth so he could send them to me with his hit list. By the way, the cut one said his name was Alice and the uncut one said his name was Denise, so you can figure out for yourself what kinds of shit were going on in the darker corners of the Texas Union of Religious Denominations.

Alex and Angel, of course, thought it was all funny. Anyway, there I was in my pile of boys, feeling up two very sweet albeit skinny little asses while trying to decide whether I preferred the feel of cut or uncut nine-year-old in my mouth. It was kind of a toss-up, but I still was sure I much preferred a boy whose balls had dropped, so I untangled myself from Archie's girly-boys and dug Alex out of the heap. It can be very calming to suck on a just barely pubescent boner, and I needed to be calmed.

Pretty soon, after all, I was bound to be on somebody's kill list, and probably on two. I needed a plan, and I didn't have one. It was not a good situation, but kind of typically for me I figured I'd just wing it. Maybe I'd find a chance to trade the truck for an old Chevy sedan or something, so I could be a bit more incognito. I sure didn't want to leave Angel or, especially, Alex behind, but I might have to do it for their safety as well as my own.

Well, I never learned to worry all that well. It was while Angel was getting tongued all over by the twins that Alex asked if he could try fucking me. In all honesty, I'd never been fucked before. Frankly, I'd never felt any urges along those lines, and figured I was just all top and no bottom. I hadn't even bottomed those three months I spent in the boys' reformatory up in Abilene, when I was a teenager -- probably because I was quite big for my age, or maybe because of all the pimples I had on my ass back then.

So I stopped to think about it.

Alex looked a little dejected, and said, "Okay, you don't hafta. I understand. You're the man, not me."

I hated seeing him look dejected. "Oh, what the hell," I said, "you've got a little one. Where's that conditioner?"

I fingered some up my ass, and spread a big gob on his four-incher. Well, maybe it was four-and-a-half by then, because he definitely was having a bit of a growth spurt. My hemorrhoids hadn't troubled me lately, but I sincerely hoped they wouldn't suddenly start bleeding and scare him. They cooperated. It was easiest with me laying on my side with my knees pulled up, so that's how we did it.

The nicest thing about it was how much fun Alex was having. For me, it was no big deal, one way or the other. If I got mostly hard -- and I did -- it wasn't because he was rubbing against what the boys liked to call their "tickle spots." I know there's a prostrate up there someplace, because I shoot pretty substantial wads, but Alex must have been too small to reach it, which was no surprise because I'd never been able to find it with a finger either. Maybe it's just way up there. I don't know.

What I did know was that I was making him happy.

"Jesus Christ," I blasphemed, " I guess I'm really, really in love."

..........

The next morning, we tucked the twins back into their little tart outfits and set them out on the room service cart to be rolled away by housekeeping. When we went down to the breakfast buffet, nobody even raised an eyebrow. Even in Dallas/Ft. Worth, it appeared, nobody wanted to risk insulting a Bishop of the Texas United Religious Denominations.

It was a long weekend. I delivered that goddamned stump speech fifteen times in two days -- and Saturday night at the hotel in Arlington the boys and I didn't have the energy for much beyond cuddling. Okay, there was a fair amount of gentle, affectionate cocksucking, and Alex got me to fuck him while he fucked Angel (mostly for the sake of efficiency, because we really were tired.) Sunday night was just hugs and kisses and sleep.

I woke up before the boys did on Monday morning, thinking how good it would be if hardly anybody showed up for the brunch buffet wanting to blow themselves up, and maybe I could weasel out of the impossible situation Bishop Cryin' Ryan and Archbishop Archie had created for me. I certainly wouldn't want to eat the brunch (or drink the Kool-Aid), and it was early enough to order room service breakfast, so I did. It arrived without any underaged hustlers, which was kind of a relief.

The boys, I had decided, would not be attending the brunch.

Alex and Angel and I chowed down on the sweetest, fattiest breakfasts on the menu. If you might be dead soon, you don't worry about that shit. I gave the boys a wad of cash, and told them to wait for me at the bus station down the block, and that if I didn't show up by late afternoon to get on a bus to someplace they might like and do their best for each other. They didn't like how I was getting kind of teary, but they said okay.

..........

My practice in Jasper and San Augustine must have done me some good, because there were twenty-six volunteers at the brunch. Granted, seven of them were young men who hadn't attended my stump speeches, but just heard about the wonderful opportunity to turn themselves into heavenly chopped meat -- but the other nineteen had been inspired by my delivery of what Archie's PR guys had written for me.

I didn't have a speech prepared for this bunch, so I had to wing it. I talked about evil. I started out on the evil of the others, but after a while I switched over to the evil within. If I was going to work either list -- Archie's or Cryin' Ryan's -- I had to talk about the evil within. Anyway, I really was starting to believe about the evil within. Like me, for example, only I wasn't that bad in the big scheme of things. Hell, I might even be redeemed!

(Sometimes, under a lot of stress, you can kind of convince yourself that such bullshit makes sense. It's still just bullshit, though.)

Five of my twenty-six dropped out. A lot of the others had personal vendettas to pursue, and most of those were okay with me. I was left with four to send after Archie, but just one to send after Cryin' Ryan. It was okay, though, because Harvey Ray looked quite a bit like me, and I was supposed to meet the big-shot Bishop later that night, to let him know how things turned out. I swapped my pickup for Harvey Ray's itty-bitty Ford hatchback.

..........

After I'd got everybody kitted out, there still were a hell of a lot of explosives in my truck, and Ryan never had a chance. Archie, for however long he survived, must have been quite pleased. Fuck Texas. Making it through New Mexico was not that hard because, after all, it's back in Mexico now. The hard part was the Mormon states. Those fuckers are supreme pains in the ass. We made it, though, although sometimes we had to hide Angel in what passes for a trunk in a hatchback. We rigged up a way to drop the back seat from inside, so he could duck right in if the Mormon cops got on us.

It was not an easy trip, especially buying gas. Arizona is worse than Utah when it comes to fundamentalist Mormon assholes. Anyway, we eventually made it to Las Vegas, and we were free, in a manner of speaking -- which is to say, there were all kinds of predatory types who wanted to take my boys from me, but none with any official standing. I took to wearing my clerical collar -- which I'd never worn in Beaumont -- because it lent me a little aura of authority.

..........

We were in a cheap motel in some little shitass town in Nevada. Angel was laying there naked, with his knees up by his ears, and Alex was licking his asshole, getting it ready to fuck -- and Angel said, "You know, Bishop Bob, you ain't been yourself lately. Maybe if you give me a really good fuck, you'll feel better. Alex turned his face away from Angel's hole for a second and flashed me a little grin. I guess he agreed.

I started hardening up for the first time in a couple of days. Stress, you know, is bad for you, and when you're pretty sure people want to kill you, that's pretty stressful. Just the same, your dick kind of manages to pull through. Well, at least so far as getting you a couple of comforting fucks before you die.

We had picked up a tube of honest-to-God lube (sorry, Jesus) at a convenience store in Indian Springs, and it was a hell of a lot better than cheap motel conditioner. Pretty soon after, I was ramming myself home up Angel's little Mexican ass while we took turns sucking at Alex's stiff white cock, which must have been almost five inches by then, and had a few little pubic hairs curling out at its base.

I thought about shaving off those little pubies, but it's not the kind of thing you do to a young boy. He never said anything, but I'm sure he was proud of them. I figured that by the time we got to Reno, he'd have a regular little bushy mustache over his cock, and we could trim it back well enough so that it didn't tickle our noses too badly.

..........

This is Alex. Bishop Bob got blowed up by some old man in a old truck. It looked like Bishop Bob knew him, and from what I heard them yelling at each other, the guy was from San Augustine. He'd been having a real hard time getting to Reno, and he was pissed. Our motel got set on fire, but me and Angel got out okay. We miss Bishop Bob.

We get by mainly by Angel whoring himself out. Okay, I do it too, but only for rich guys who pay a lot better than those guys who fuck Angel, on account of I'm white. Yeah, we made it to Reno. It's pretty cool. There is no Jesus here -- at least not the Texas kind. Bob would've liked it.

Bye.

(That's all there is, there ain't no more -- but look for more hot stories with bummer endings by heedon@tormail.org)

Coming up next: Boxcar Boys