Date: Fri, 10 May 2019 16:37:01 +0000 (UTC) From: Abra Cadabra Subject: Trash Punk Phantoms (Part 1) Content: the chief's son wants to leave the town walls behind and roam the grassland with scavenging punk boys. His invisible shadow twin is half blessing, half curse. Chapter 1: Welcome to the Fuck-o-Drome Spit's morning started with a walk through the streets of Apex. His sky blue mohawk was tied into a small bun, giving his angular face an edge of strictness. Despite his young age of 20, the tall hunk had cultivated an aura of dominance. His heavy boots and his flimsy loincloth were deep black, matching his pure black eyeballs that gave away his freak nature. Apex was a small but important town and Spit had always taken his job seriously, helping out the men and boys who lived in the shrill painted concrete and steel constructs, or tent clusters. But today, he would quit. "Yo!" Spit said, startling the entrance guard by the name of Oh. A second earlier, Oh had activated the screeching motor that hauled aside the thick grate at the entrance to open the town for today's business. "Yo Spit, nothing to report so far," said Oh. He was an older man, with a bald, tattooed head. He wore the bright pink thong any NewLaw guard used as identification, plus a simple x-harness on his chest. It carried a phaser weapon Spit knew was long defunct. "Well *I* have something to report," Spit said with a grin. "Today's the day I tell my dad I'm leaving." "Again?" Oh asked with an eye roll. "The city can't run without his second in command. What makes you think he'll let you go this time?" "Fuck that, I can totally find a guy to take over for me at the party tonight." Oh shrugged, then gestured at a hip high pile of reinforced steel crates of supplies. "Those are left from yesterday. Care to bring them over?" "Sure." Spit grabbed the uppermost crate, finding it to be too heavy. He activated his freak power. A ghost stepped out of his body, completely unperceivable to anyone but himself. The shadow twin was a presence only Spit could feel, but who could affect the world like anyone else. Together with his freaky ghost – who was an exact copy of Spit's physique – the chief's son lifted the crate. From the outside it looked as if the box hovered in the air and he pulled it along at the handle. Spit and his ghostly twin made their way into the town center. The Fuck-o-Drome was the tallest building on the square's rim. Huge neon letters – looking drab in daylight – enticed boys from all over the region to visit. The club's success made it the town's biggest revenue source. Left and right of the entrance were posters, letting everyone know the reason for the Fuck-o-Drome's popularity. It was the only scouting ground of `Bubble & Butt' in the area. Boys flocked to the club in hopes of being discovered by the modeling agency and make it big. Spit thought they were idiots to try. On most nights, no model scout was even present. After dropping the crate, Spit squatted over the sensor bar at the entrance, to let it scan the UV barcode on his taint. Then he pulled the crate along on the ground, helped by his ghost twin, and into the dim club. The dancefloor was freshly cleaned, smelling of chemicals. At the bar, a small boy wearing only a metal collar and a chastity cage sorted cans into the shelf. When the twink turned away, Spit could see the huge tattoo on the boy's backside, under his freely dangling leash. The tattoo was an advertisement for the Fuck-o-Drome but also showed the slave's name underneath. "Yo, Fuck Two," Spit said. "Delivery here." Fuck Two glanced at him. With voice-break hoarseness he said, "Not for the bar, Master. Look upstairs." Spit dropped the crate anyway, unwilling to carry it needlessly. He dismissed his ghost twin into nothingness and jumped up the freestanding staircase, two stairs at a time. On the gallery, overlooking the club main space, was Zee. The Fuck-o-Drome owner's black mohawk hung in a braid to his lower back. His loincloth was draped over the gallery's rail next to him. In front of him knelt Fuck Four, the newest slave. Zee held the little twink's leash and enjoyed a snail-paced edging blowjob. "Yo Zee," Spit said. The beefy man looked to the side and smiled. He kicked Fuck Four in the balls, which were conveniently pushed out by the chastity device, to make the kid crawl backwards. "What can I do for you?" Zee asked, stepping closer while still getting blown. "Just brought a delivery some trash punks dropped off yesterday before gate closing. There's more." Zee leaned to the side to look down into the main space. While the club owner frowned downward, Spit called his ghost twin into existence and had the unseen being drop to its knees. The ghost slid under Spit's loincloth and opened its mouth. Spit got a simple blowjob, with three invisible fingers up his ass. "Right!" Zee shouted. "Gotta be the missing parts for my light show. Just put them down at the main stage. Fuck One can assemble it later." "Great," Spit said and dismissed the ghost. The stimulation had been enough to make his dick semi-hard. With his loincloth tenting, he turned to leave, then hesitated. "Anything else I can help you with, my boy?" asked Zee. "Actually... do you happen to know anyone who'd want my job as the chief's right hand? It pays well." Zee laughed. "Still thinking your calling is the trash punk life? Are you sure you don't want to try getting scouted? You have a great ass, you could be on all the billboards." "No, I don't think I wanna be Fuck Five." Zee laughed again. "No fucking way, you would totally blow the modeling agents mind with your hot face." "So, I take it you don't know anyone who'd want my place?" "Sorry," Zee said with a shrug. "I'll keep an ear out." He kicked Fuck Four away and said to the slave, "Turn around, I'll cum in the other hole." He looked back up. "See you tonight at the party, Spit?" "Sure thing." *** While Spit and his ghost carried the second heavy crate, it occurred to him that the town relied on his freak power. He'd need someone unusually strong to fill the gap he'd leave behind. With his half boner still bouncing, he went through all the guy in town who had a massive physique. They all applied their muscles elsewhere already, unfortunately. There had to be someone at the party. Spit arrived with the crate, this time carrying it on his shoulder. He squatted over the scanner in the ground in front of the door and regretted not setting the box down. Inside, he ran into Fuck Three, who was a twink on the cusp of turning hunky. Same `clothing' on him, same advertisement tattoo on the back. "Yo Master Spit, boss is busy right now." "No problem," said Spit. "I know where to put this. Hey, I'm really horny, can I borrow your hole for a minute?" "Sure, I need to wait for new orders from boss anyway." Spit dropped the crate at the main stage, where Fuck One had already started assembling the holo-projector. Fuck Three bent over and stretched his hole. Spit had his ghost twin position itself behind himself. When Spit sunk his dick into Fuck Three, his phantom-self entered his own hole. It was a slow fuck because Spit didn't want to distract Zee. The reason the owner was busy were two cute boys in white jockstraps nearby. One made out with Zee, the other rimmed his ass. With certainty, those two kids were here to apply as dancers. Bubble & Butt rarely took a new model on board. Anyone trying to make it big needed to stand out. Dancing on stage was the best option. Those two boys were full of cum and hope. Zee would take them as thralls, meaning they got collared and put in chastity but not permanently so. Being a thrall was miles away from slavery since you were freed at the end of the contract and the collar wasn't even set to electroshock you. But at the end of every year, the boys not scouted were properly enslaved – this was part of Zee's special contractual condition. He kept the cutest one and sold the rest. Swaths of boys thought they were going to break into the modeling industry and fell for Zee's charm. Predictably, the club owner pulled away from the kiss after a while and said, "I think you both have great potential. Honesty, it's been a long time I've seen boys as pretty and talented as you two. Please don't tell anyone but... I think I'll make an exception. You're *both* hired." Spit had heard this speech before – nearly verbatim. But the boys were bursting with pride. While they went to the backroom to get enthralled, Spit cummed into Fuck Three, dismissed the ghost still up his ass, and left without a word to get the next crate. *** The music from the Fuck-o-Drome didn't quite make it to the town gates, but the flashing neon lights still colored the night sky a different shade every few seconds. Men and boys arrived in droves from the surrounding region and from farther away. Oh handled the entrance to make sure everybody crouched over the scanner strip to have their bar code registered. Anyone who brought baggage was directed toward Spit who assigned slots in the town depot. The hunk picked up the light bags and let his ghost twin carry the heavy ones. Any onlooker who didn't know him, must have thought Spit's freak power was simple telekinesis. He liked to surprise men by letting his ghost twin slap their asses as they walked by. They never figured it out. Spit returned from the depot again, to watch the stream of visitors. An older man, packed with muscles, let his thong snap back into place after having his taint code scanned. He was being watched from behind by a tiny boy with an ornate hip scarf. The boy was biting his lip and kept walking close behind the big senior. Spit decided to help a little. His ghost twin stepped out of his body, rushed up to the duo and rammed two of its unlubed fingers deeply into the boy's hole. Meanwhile the ghost gave the big man's back a quick spank. Just as the senior turned around, the small boy yelped under the surprising anal assault, jumping in shock. As Spit's ghost retreated, the man grinned and grabbed the boy by the neck. He leaned down and grunted. "Yo, little bitch. I'm so full of piss, I'm about to burst. Guess I don't have to look for a drain anymore, huh?" The boy's eyes grew wide. "Y-yes Sir, it would be my pleasure to-" He didn't get to say anything else before he was already being dragged into an alley. Oh tapped Spit on the shoulder. "Yo, Rockhard's group is here to help at the depot. You can go if you want." Spit shrugged. "I'll stick around." "Really? I thought you'd want to have a talk with Crisp tonight. Weren't you childhood friends?" "Crisp is back!?" Oh nodded. "Came in an hour ago. Traveling light. Not sure if he'll stay for good." Spit bid the guard farewell and jogged through the groups of club goers, looking for his friend. If Crips had spent the last six years where he had originally intended to go... Maybe Crisp was exactly the strong man Spit needed to find. *** Chapter 2: Taking on the Big Bull Welcome back to a new entry in the trash punk saga. Oddly enough, our main character this time is not a trash punk. Yet. It's been a while since the last trash punk story. Here are the others, if you've missed them: http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/authoritarian/trash-punk-world/ http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/authoritarian/trash-punk-tide/ http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/authoritarian/trash-punk-frontier/