Catfish Finds Old Gold 4 By Bald Hairy Man
This is a story for adult men. It depicts gay sex. If this offends or bothers you, DO NOT READ IT. It is a fantasy and is not a sex manual, or a discussion of safe sex. If you have, comments send them to bldhrymn@yahoo.com
I knew it would be a media sensation, but I underestimated the extent. We had the treasure hunters, the gold bugs and the Confederate true believers out in force. I would guess that no more than ten or twenty percent had a firm grip on reality and a good portion should have been institutionalized.
I knew there would be unreconstructed Confederates, I hadn't guessed there would be Black men after reparations. The real battle was underway in law offices. Some of the gold was labeled CSA. That was clear, as was the gold with the Commonwealth of Virginia and USA Treasury Department seals. If I was King of the Mountain I would have loaded the gold and taken it to a bank's vault that night. The police wanted a carefully supervised inventory in the vault on the island.
I assumed that some Federal gold was in the South when the Confederacy was formed and Virginia may have had some gold on hand. The Commonwealth and the U. S. Treasury were still viable organizations. They might still own the gold. The Confederate States of America had ceased to be viable 150 years ago. I assumed the gold of the defeated goes to the victor. Some ingots were marked Tredegar, the name of the foundry. The Foundry too was gone, but I didn't know if there was a successor firm, or if the gold was legally acquired.
The night after the bulletin there were several efforts of misguided persons to get to the island and carry off an ingot or two. While there are people in Richmond who know the River and know it well, they tend to be either naturalists or extreme sports people. The rafters and kayak people knew the river and its dangers.
The police, emergency services and the fire department were busy all night. There had been big storms up river that turned James into a violent torrent. Only two people died, but at one point they thought six were missing. That was a discouragement to those who thought they could slip into the river and take a little gold.
During very high water the island was inaccessible and the police had to supply their men by copters. That made for great television the next morning, but as long as the gold was on the island it was vulnerable. The television people were good about explaining how dangerous access was from the air. There is a major substation on the edge of shore and high tension wires crisscrossed the river. It was difficult in the day time, but almost impossible at night in the dark.
Captain Miller called me and asked if I could do him favor. He needed someone to go undercover in the White Legion's camp. Their home base was in West Virginia, but Billy-Boy had relocated to a farm in Goochland County that afternoon.
"Are they in Redneck Goochland or in Foxhunting Goochland?" I asked. Goochland was just outside of Richmond and had a split personality.
"Billy-Boy is 100% redneck, but the farm is own by Elliot Howell," he said.
"The reclusive millionaire and eccentric?" I asked.
"That's him," Miller replied. "He hasn't left his house in seven years. He's afraid of germs and infection. According to the Anti-defamation League, he seems to think that blacks and Jews are germs. He has never been involved with Billy-Boy before to our knowledge, but he is secretive to the extreme. These is strong evidence that he is losing his sanity. He still has deep pockets. The obsessions do not seem to affect his ability to make money."
"If he has deep pockets why go with Billy?" I asked. "Couldn't he buy the best?"
"He has religious delusions too. He wants people to be pure, true believers. Billy-Boy is a charismatic and a charlatan. If you're crazy, that's not a problem," Miller said. I told him I would check and see who was available. I called Jarvis. He was ready but not able; he could barely walk.
"As a matter of fact, I joined the White Legion a few days ago," he said. "I paid my dues of fifty dollars and they issued me a temporary membership card. I actually have an invite to meet Billy-Boy on the farm. They apparently don't have many Richmond members. They are looking for guys who know the lay of the land."
"Is it a photo ID?"
"Shit no, it's just a piece of paper saying I'm a sixty-five-year old gent, with blue eyes and a beard," he said. Jarvis looked at me. "I didn't mention [BW1][BW2][BW3]that I weigh almost 300 pounds. I made the description generic. You might make a good Jarvis."
We talked a little longer. I decided to give it a try. I called Miller and said I going to visit the camp. The next morning I was driving into Goochland in an old Dodge Ram truck complete with a rifle rack in the back window. I have to admit I didn't need to do a lot to get in character. I was stopped at a gate outside the farm. Jarvis' membership form and my accent did the rest.
I did not stand out in the men I saw nearer the farmhouse. I parked my truck under a tree. My truck was fifteen years older than most and was clearly a real truck, not a suburbanites' vision of a redneck truck. I was also under the impression that my years in Richmond had mellowed my accent, but no one else seemed to think that.
I wandered by group of younger guys. "Hey Gramps, did you lose your walker?" one yelled.
"Hell no!" I replied. "I did hear that a mama was calling for her baby boy. It's time for his nap! You'd better get home or she will whip your sorry ass!" I apparently hit the right note in that interchange.
"Where are you from Gramps?" one of the guys asked.
"I was born a few counties south-west of here, but I've been in Richmond for a while," I said. "I think I can catch a whiff of West Virginia in the air. From the look in your eyes, I would bet your Momma and your aunt are the same woman."
"You can tell we're from West Virginia?" one of the men asked. I nodded.
"What is Richmond like?" another guy asked.
"Well, Richmond isn't my favorite place in the world, but I seem to like it more now that I know it has a pile of gold in the middle of the river," I said.
"You know where the gold is?"
"I sure do," I said. "I'm a fisherman. I've spent a lot of time in the river," I said. "What is your name boys? I like to know who I am talking to."
"I'm Russ," a big blond guy said. "My bud is Brewster. He's kind of quiet." We shook hands. Brewster was an oversized gorilla with a huge beard. He said hello and I realized he had a cleft pallet. We talked a little while and they took me to their tent. After fifteen minutes of conversation it was clear they were after gold. They weren't exactly stupid, but they must have lived in a mountain hollow somewhere and didn't have a firm grip on what was up outside of West Virginia.
They had no idea of the politics of the situation; they did think that some gold would improve their situation a lot. Russ and Brewster were white-water rafters. The assumed the James was a piece of cake compared to the gorges in West Virginia. I told them they misunderstood. The James at the falls in Richmond was wide and shallow. In a drought you could walk across it without much difficulty.
Unlike the West Virginia gorges, it was filled with the remains of bridges, buildings and trestles. If your leg got caught on old re-bar or debris, you were trapped. Because the river was wide the shore was a long way off. In high water you could be swept into unexpected channels. In the day time that was fine, but at night you could be easily disoriented. When the water was low, it was safer, but gold is heavy, I had no idea how many ingots an inflatable raft could hold. If it held too many it would scrape bottom.
They had not seen the river. I explained the island was in the middle of the river, but it was also was in the heart of downtown. From the shore you could only see a short distance into the river due to the underbrush on the multiple islands and sand bars. It was an overgrown thicket. However, you could see almost everything from the twentieth floors of the office buildings and banks that overlook the river. One of the buildings was the Federal Reserve Bank and it had been fortified after the 9-11attacks.
To my relief Russ and Brewster weren't complete idiots. They understood. "We need to do some solid thinking about this," Russ said. We walked around the farm. More men were arriving hourly, most were well armed and dressed in camouflage or in Confederate inspired garb. The Stars and Bars were everywhere. Some were definitely rough customers. It didn't seem as if Billy-Boy attracted the intellectual type.
Elliott Howell may have owed the farm, but he didn't live there. He had purchased the farms next to his estate to expand the defensive perimeter. This place had been abandoned, but not fortified. I assumed he was defending himself from germs.
I couldn't find any signs of organization. It was a zoo. That night Brewster cooked a good dinner, and we talked and drank. I came with a two bottles of Old Crow and that was a hit. They had beer. At one point, I realized I was helping develop a plan to steal the gold, but the Old Crow worked its magic and we lost our train of thought. I had a sleeping bag, but we had another big storm so I spent the night in Russ and Brewster's tent. It was a nice modern one that was clean and didn't smell of mildew.
The storm was violent and loud. "Damn it's hot in here," Russ complained.
"I usually sleep bare assed naked," I said, "I sleep alone so no one complains."
"We're all boys here," Russ said. "I don't mind a little cock."
"I don't have a little cock," I said. I stripped off my boxers. There was a flash of lightening. My cock was briefly illuminated.
"Shit, that's pretty!" Brewster said. The Old Crow worked. I had no idea what would happen next. Both men stripped.
"I don't know about you, but I could use some heavy duty relaxation," Russ said.
"Do you think I could help you out with that?" I asked.
"That would sure be nice," Russ replied.
"It would be nice if someone helped me out too," I said.
"Brewster likes that sort of stuff," Russ said. I leaned over and licked Russ' cock. A second later Brewster swallowed my cock and tried to deep throat it. This wasn't his first time. A little later Russ stopped pretending he wasn't into it. He turned hard fast, but it took a little longer to coax his sweet, man jelly from his balls. Once the flow started, Russ relaxed.
I like to be even-handed so I switched to take care of Brewster. He was really excited. I expected that Russ would be at my cock. I thought that would only be polite after I sucked him. Nothing happened for a while. Brewster was shivering and oozing in excitement. He had ultra-sensitive cock, thick and stumpy. He was a big man, but I had complete control over him. When I used my cock to tickle his knob, he shivered and moaned. For twerp like me it was a power trip.
I felt a tongue tentatively licking my cock head. A few seconds later Russ' lips enveloped my knob. He was uneasy for a little while and then he relaxed and got into it. I later found out that Brewster had been blowing Russ for years, but Russ had never reciprocated. Apparently Russ was one of those guys who thought he was straight as long as he didn't suck.
Both men relaxed and got into it. The tent was small and everywhere I turned there was a cock nearby. I was turned on when Russ lips wrapped around Brewster's cock for the first time. I was at Russ' tool when that happened and tasted him react. He shot a single volley of sperm into my mouth. I stayed still and it didn't develop into a full scale orgasm. I think Russ regretted he hadn't sampled his friend's cock before. I could tell Russ and Brewster were more than just pals.
I was milking Brewster when he popped. It was an impressive series of ejaculations. When the spurting stopped, Brewster was asleep. There was another bright lightening flash. Russ saw that I had taken Brewster's load.
Much to my surprise he kissed me and we shared his pal's sperm. It was really intense. I returned to working on his meat afterwards. He didn't last long. His orgasm wasn't as productive as Brewster's but it was more forceful. His squirts tickled the back of my mouth.
Russ dozed off. I was still fully loaded, but I figured I had done a good deed in bringing them together. The night wasn't over. Brewster woke up and we had a second session. Brewster took my load.
The next morning I was one of the guys. In some ways I'm like an old flannel shirt you see in a closet. Even if it wasn't yours, you know it would be nice and comfortable. Everyone assumed I was one of them. I seemed to be the only one there who knew about the James River and its dangers.
Some guys were gung-ho and wanted to get a high-powered boat and storm the island. I was feeling uneasy about the White Legion. The men I met there were a sad group of jerks, deluded into thinking they would share in the Confederate treasure. I knew Billy-Boy wasn't into sharing. Con men don't share. I wondered if Billy Boy wasn't the brightest bulb in the hardware store himself. I began to think it was all fantasy. I was afraid someone might be hurt, but if that happened it would probably be due to bad aim.
They were all losers who thought they were due more than they received. As far as I could tell they weren't into earning wealth, only getting what was due. The Confederacy had been cheated out of victory and it was their job to get what they had lost. Their grip on the basics of American history and on reality was marginal. Some were mean and nasty, but not smart. There was no way they could plan a scheme to get the gold.
There was a big meeting in the house. I was invited in since I knew Richmond. Billy-Boy appeared and prayed for a long while. It was odd. His god was a Republican, probably a hedge fund manager. The essence of the prayer was that God gives to those who take. After that, his right hand man, Major Frederic told us about his plans. He was dressed as a Confederate officer complete with a sash. He said he based his approach on Stonewall Jackson's strategy. He had a map of the city.
Frederic was an expert on the Civil War. I thought it would have been better it he used a modern map of Richmond not a 150 year old one. Curiously he seemed completely unaware of the problem. The other men in the room were becoming uneasy. They weren't intellectual powerhouses, but they knew something was wrong. Billy-Boy didn't seem concerned.
Billy-Boy wasn't going to win a Nobel Prize, but he couldn't be that stupid. He was a con man. If he was that stupid, he would have been in jail. I needed to talk to Jarvis. I needed to know more about Billy-Boy's scams. He made money somehow. It wasn't with $50.00 memberships.
The meeting with Billy-Boy and the Major was not a success. The men were after gold, not a sermon and a lecture on Civil War tactics. The meeting turned into a shouting match between the Major and some of the more aggressive treasure hunters. Billy-Boy vanished.
The idea of slipping a boat down the river and making an attack in the island was a bold one. It had the advantage of surprise, but oddly no one had considered combining white-water rafting and para-military attacks before. I wondered why Eisenhower didn't consider that when he invaded Normandy. The Germans wouldn't expect him to invade during a gale.
I told Russ and Brewster I needed more Old Crow to get through the day. They understood. They needed more beer. I left and got my cell phone out to call Jarvis. I asked him about Billy-Boy's scams. I wasn't too surprised to find that inheritances played an important role in maintaining his lifestyle. That confirmed a suspicion that had been growing in the back of my mind. Older men and women without families were his unusual prey. There had been lawsuits, but once he inherited the cash, it vanished into off shore accounts.
Our reclusive millionaire's secluded house was now surrounded by a bunch of suspect and slightly deranged Civil War whack jobs. The police were all focused on the media circus in downtown Richmond. I thought there was no way this was a serious effort to get the gold. "I wonder if the gold Billy-Boy is after is in Elliot's will?" I asked.
"If the will has been changed to Billy Boy's benefit, a couple of hundred armed and crazy men would provide a good smoke screen for an accident, wouldn't it?" Jarvis mused.
I called Captain Miller and told him of my suspicions.
"You think the White Legion is a red herring?" he asked. We talked a little and he came to the same conclusion that I did.
"I'll call the Goochland Sherriff and tell him to be on guard. He knows Elliot. Apparently, they get four to five calls a month from him," Miller said. "The Goochland police have caught several trespassers and Elliot trusts them."
When I returned to the farm laden with Bourbon and beer there was a lot more grumbling. Billy-Boy went off to meet with his patron Elliott Howell. The Major remained at the camp trying to build up enthusiasm for the rebirth of the Confederacy financed by the gold that currently sat in the middle of the James River. I wasn't sure who the Major was in reality, but in his fantasies he was an old time Southern gentleman of the old school.
As for the members of the White Legion. They were either good ol' boys looking for gold, or paranoid racists looking for gold. Neither group had much use for the delusional Major. The Major babbled on about spirit and bravery and he seemed to believe that the most ill-conceived plan was fine when brave men set their minds on victory.
The major's standing took a nose dive when he admitted he had never been to Richmond before. He was a native of Las Vegas and he had not traveled west of Texas. He was a Major in a private Militia. We had a number of Gulf War and Afghanistan vets in the group and they were not impressed. That night things were boozy and rambunctious as the men realized they were deceived. I was afraid things would turn violent when we had another big storm. My explanation of the flood problem in the James had spread among the men and they knew that heavy rain would postpone any effort to reach the island.
I was in the tent with Russ and Brewster. It was hot and we were naked. It was hot and stuffy, but that wasn't why we were naked. A voice outside said, "Can you let me in? I am soaked." Russ let the man in. It was the Major. The farm house had been locked up and apparently Billy-Boy was with Elliott. The Major was locked out. He saw that we were naked, and I saw that nudity didn't bother him one bit. He looked like a bear that had just fallen into a vat of honey. He stripped off his wet clothes.
"Thank you, no one would let me in," he said. "I hoped we would be in the field by now, but that's not going to happen. I wish I knew where Billy-Boy has gone. An army needs its leader." He paused and then whispered, "You men look relaxed."
"We're all country boys here," Russ said. "There is no need to be over dressed." The Major sat next to me. I touched his leg. He didn't seem to mind. I moved my hand to his crotch. He was already half hard. His hand was on my cock a second later.
A flash of lightening made all visible. "Damn it Catfish, you get down to show and tell quickly," Russ said.
"Major, do you mind providing some entertainment for the boys here?" I asked. "We were hoping to dissipate a lot of sexual energy."
"I like the bottom," he whispered.
"There are three of us," I said. "Our balls are filled to the brim."
"That is okay," he replied. Russ and Brewster had never fucked before, but they learned fast. I don't think the Major was that experienced. He later told me that he had a long term monogamous relationship with an older man who had recently died. Luckily he discovered his inner slut. His partner had stopped fucking years earlier, but he Major's hole hadn't become rusty. If anything, it was needier.
The storm lasted all night, and we all had a good time. We all took turns in the Major's ass. You could nap between sessions.
The next morning the farm was a bog. The storm had dumped three inches of rain on the area. Billy-Boy was gone. His cars, trailers and his assistants had vanished. He was no fool. His followers who remained at the farm were not the forgiving type. He left before there was trouble. Everyone went home. Russ and Brewster returned to West Virginia happy. They didn't have any gold, but they had a vastly improved sex life.
I returned to my office and called Miller. He said Elliot was in a very expensive sanitarium in Switzerland. There had been a will, but the Sherriff arrived in time and it was not signed. Billy-Boy had not returned to West Virginia. He was on a Caribbean Island with no extradition treaty. It was not clear if he was avoiding a fraud investigation, or the disappointed members of the White Legion.
The gold was still on the island, and the medical examiner had concluded the sneaker clad body had been murdered. I had wasted my time on the White Legion, but the sex had been good, so it wasn't a total loss.
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