The following serialized story contains explicit descriptions of sexual situations between two consenting adult homosexual men. If such content offends you or is illegal for you to view due to age or laws in your state or country, please do not continue. All persons and events in the following story are fictional. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This is the first installment in what I hope will be a continuing erotic comic book story. While this first part is a little light on the "erotic" side, I promise later episodes will feature much super-hero sex.
I'm fairly new at this (this is my third story), so comments and criticisms are welcome. Enjoy.
The Spectacular Quark
Episode One: Creation
The moon loomed like a giant interrogation lamp over the skyline. I sat in my apartment, looking out over the rainswept streets, seeing glints of moonlight flashing up from the puddles and cars, like hints of guilt playing in the eyes of the city. I stared at the skyscrapers, reaching high into the night, seeming to be pulled up toward the light and out of the dark. As the events of the night fled through my brain, I laid back in a stupor of newfound knowledge...
"Good evening and welcome to the City City News." I read energetically from the TelePrompTer, feeling the dozen products in my steel-hard hair sinking into my scalp. "First for you tonight, Dyzeman Chemicals has announced the closure of their City City factory. We go to Jenny Swenson at the Dyzeman Plant with the story."
My producer nodded to me and I looked in the monitor to see Jenny, with her pert blonde dye-job, was now on air. It was my first time anchoring the evening news and I was nervous. I knew they were looking for a reason, any reason, to replace the lead anchor, a doddering fool with shocking white hair named Al Doherty. It was commonly known he was half-senile and a notorious letch, but he was an institution and firing him meant a maelstrom of bad publicity. They needed a replacement the audience wanted more then even Al. If this went well, if they liked me, I could be made senior anchor, which at the age of 31 was a huge accomplishment. Plus, I knew we could all do without the contracted weekly segments called "Hal's Corner" where the old coot would blather on about rowdy teenagers and how bad he had it in the Depression.
As we hit the first commercial break, everything was going well. Rita, my co-anchor, was a stately black woman who was way too smart for this room. She seemed more relaxed than I had seen her in months. I think knowing I wasn't going to accidentally refer to President Truman or make a lame joke about kids and their computers was reassuring to her.
"You're doing great," she said, placing her hand on mine.
"Thanks," I said, smiling at her.
"Mr. Miller, I have some new copy." I turned to see Charlie Swenson, a newswriter and Jenny's brother. He was nervously clutching a clipboard and his thick black glasses were slightly askew.
"Thanks, Charlie," I said, taking the papers from him. I smiled at him. He stood for a second, his head ticking like a canary. Then he turned and shuttled off.
"That guy needs to get laid," Rita whispered to me. I chuckled silently and reviewed the copy. An accident victim had died a few minutes ago, which would change our story. The producer gave me a signal and counted us down and back on air.
The show went well. I didn't made any major screw-ups and my hair hadn't moved. The latter, of course, was the important thing. As I packed up in my dressing room, Rita popped in to tell me that I was great that night. I thanked her. I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed out to the hall. Charlie was standing there.
"Mr. Miller." Charlie seemed nervous, more than usual.
"Charlie, for god sakes, call me David," I said, a little tired, but trying not to be snappish.
"David, what do you know about the Dyzeman plant closing?"
"Nothing but what was in the news tonight. They're closing it." I really wasn't in the mood for a discussion of current events at that moment.
"But do you know why they're closing it?" He seemed to know something.
"Cost-cutting, I guess."
"I don't think so. There was some kind of accident there last week. We couldn't get confirmation, so we didn't report it. But something happened, I know it." He seemed determined about something.
"Well, I'll keep my ears open,"
"I think we should go down there," he asserted quickly. "I think we should check it out."
"Um, Charlie," I said, slightly amused. "I don't think the two of us are going to be able to break into a chemical plant in the dead of night. I'm not that kind of reporter. Besides, the amount of gel in my hair could set off some sort of cataclysmic reaction with the chemicals in there."
"I think there's a story there," he was agitated, he really wanted my help.
"Look, I'll talk to Larry, maybe we can investigate it, but not right now. You wanna go for a drink or something?" His brown eyes flashed a bit, but his shoulders slumped and he looked up at me.
"No, thanks. I'm going to go to the library and do some research."
"Okay. But, Charlie, don't go wandering around down there. You could get in a lot of trouble."
"Yeah," he said, a little sad at being denied. "I'll see ya, Mr. Miller." He trudged off back toward his office.
As I emerged from the back door onto the wet, shining pavement, I started thinking about what Charlie has said. Was there a story there? And why didn't I want to find out. When I was in college, I dreamed of being the adventurous reporter, always being called on the carpet by my editor for my vigilante antics. But then I graduated and started in TV. Now I wanted to sit in a chair and read other people's stories. I never even really was a reporter. I had never even owned a trench coat.
I wanted a story, I realized. I wanted to break something, catch someone. And I knew, that if I did, if I reported a big enough headline, I would be made anchor. But what? And how? I wasn't a gumshoe, I wasn't gonzo. I was manicured for god sakes. And I really wasn't excited about wandering around a chemical factory at night.
What I needed was a Super Hero. That's the kind of story that makes a name. But the town had been without a hero for months, years really. Like any major population center, we had had our share of minor heroes, but our greatest hero had died ten years before and no one worthy had taken his place.
While Metropolis had Superman and Gotham had Batman, we had The Lambda. He was America's first and greatest gay super hero. Fighting crime in a powder blue spandex suit, The Lambda had routed his enemies with a fierce kick, a powerful punch and a flair for punning. Soon after his creation, t- shirts started appearing with his catchphrases like "Let's re-upholster his face!" and "You ARE going to be caught dead in that outfit". He was courageous and brave and, surprisingly, became a beacon of gay acceptance. The city embraced him, though many still called him fag behind his back. But when Dr. Squid had rigged his tanning booth with heteronite, The Lambda was defeated.
Soon a new wave of superheroes, all gay, began popping up. Master Tom had been successful in destroying Dr. Squid, but he soon turned dark and became The SlaveMaster, one of our most ruthless villains.
Dildo Dude had caught the city's attention for a while, but his choice of weapons made him ill-suited for children. Plus, he looked ridiculous. Trust me, Star Wars would not have been as successful in Luke's light saber had a foreskin.
Dyke Dame, never without her trusty black motorcycle, had seemed a ray of hope. But then she had moved on to bring safety to the bed and breakfasts on Vermont. The most recent hero, Club Kid, was no replacement. His costume consisted of white briefs and a form-fitting t-shirt. An accident had allowed him to shoot bubbles from his wrists, which was a useless talent. But he was not too bright and his lunkheaded decision to wield an actual club had left him vulnerable to the attack of super villain trio, X, T and C.
So the streets of City City had been a playground for criminals and evildoers for months. Even the super villains had become bored and moved away. The town had become as boring and unremarkable as its name. (The founder had thought it would be very meta and funny to name the town City, like naming a dog, Dog. But when the state had taken its capital for a name, the whole thing became ridiculous. No arch villain wants an address that reads City City, City. And the whole "Town so nice they named it thrice" tourism campaign had been a dismal failure.)
I stepped into my car, eyeing the oppressively cloudy sky. It was gong to start raining again any minute. I slid the key into the ignition as some tingly emotion began fingering up from my belly. What if there really was something going on at the plant? Wasn't it my duty to investigate? Wasn't this precisely what I had always wanted to do? I steeled myself and pulled out, either being a daring reporter or an idiot. Probably both.
As the apartment high-rises and commercial buildings gave way to houses and low, industrial warehouses, I began to feel scared and exhilarated. I saw the ghostly green light of the factory, filtering through thick smoke in the night. The factory stood on a steep, jagged cliff and waves from the bay were licking furiously at its sides. I part my car a few blocks from the entrance and proceeded on foot.
I saw the huge chain-link gates open as a large tanker drove past me. The Dyzeman logo, a huge black skull, loomed in front of me as it passed. This was so stupid, but think of the glory. I saw the attendant turn away as the gate closed and I hurried between the slowly swinging fences. I ran to a shadowy area next to the bay day doors and stood for a moment. Huge smokestacks rose above me with flashing lights at their mouths. There were large tanker trucks parked everywhere in front, and there seemed to be much activity as large hoses filled each one in turn. They were moving something, but what?
I crept around in the shadows and found a small metal door. I tried it and it slid open. I peered around and saw no one, so I entered the factory. Huge vats, with walls twenty feet tall were spread throughout the cavernous interior. Steel catwalks and staircases stretched all around. In one corner, I saw a windowed office, light pouring out between Venetian blinds. I could hear muffled voices. As stealthily as I could, I crept up a far staircase. I had to take care that the footfalls of my wing tips did not echo. A thick, acrid smell wended its way into my lungs and I almost coughed. The voices were growing louder.
"It's the only thing we could do, sir. The government is on to us. We have to get this stuff out of here." A high male voice, soaked with panic was explaining.
"Peterson's right, sir. It's our only option," another, more reasoned voice was saying.
"If we take this stuff out of here, no one will know," Peterson continued, his voice rising still higher. "And when it's destroyed-" he was cut off.
"Destroyed?" a deep, deathly cold voice drawled.
"Yes. We must destroy the evidence." Peterson was trilling now with fear.
"We will not destroy it," said the deep voice. "I have worked too hard."
"Yes, sir, you have," Peterson continued. "But think of what will happen if we are found out. We would go to prison."
"You worry so much about prison, Peterson. There are far worse fates." There seemed to be a laugh on the dead voice. "You agree with him, Cecil?"
"Well," the second man began. "It may be safer if all of the Cynanex was destroyed." I crept closer so I could see through the window. A tall, slender man with a sharp nose, circular glasses and graying temples was speaking. "But there may be alternatives."
"Alternatives?!" A short, pudgy bald man, Peterson, was practically shaking. He was speaking to man sitting behind a large desk. I could not see him. "There are no alternatives. We must destroy it. It's too dangerous. Think of how many lives-"
Bang! A single gunshot echoed fiercely through the giant space. Peterson slumped and fell to the ground. As he fell, my body surged with terror. I could see the man in the chair clearly now. Two glowing red eyes sat trained on the clump that was Peterson. The face was like a knotted tree, with thick gray folds of skin locked in the rigor of a scream. The cold black maw that passed for a mouth was folded in an evil smile.
"Was that really necessary, sir?" Cecil seemed impatient, but not surprised by the turn of events. "We could have disposed of him in other ways."
"Of course," the monster hissed. "But I do love to see the surprise on their faces, you know. Now let's discuss the alternatives." The thing stood, a thick purple cloak hanging off his frail body.
My breath was short as I tried to stave off panic. I had just seen a man murdered, and it hadn't even been the worst thing I'd seen that night. Even as I glanced around the factory for means of escape those red eyes were burned into my corneas. I stayed as quiet and still as I could, even though I was sure I was about to be killed. Cecil and the man continued discussing the transport of something, but I was too terrified to concentrate on what they were saying. Until they stopped speaking at all.
"We are not alone," the monster whispered. I began preparing to die; praying silently to whatever God there was to make it quick.
"What are you doing here," said Cecil angrily. I glanced over and saw him facing the opposite direction. I could not see what he was talking to. "Speak!" Nothing. I heard the heavy cloak dragging against the floor.
"I don't know you. Why are you spying on us?" The voice seemed to chill the air.
"Wha- What are you?" a small, serious voice said.
"You want to know my name," hissed the thing, smiling. "Cecil, has the board decided on a name, yet?"
"No, sir, they haven't."
"Sorry." The thing shrugged and another gunshot pierced my ears. I heard a loud, sickening splash as the body fell in to one of the vats. A loud, anguished scream ripped through the building. "See what I did there, Cecil? I saved you the clean-up."
"Yes, thank you sir. Perhaps we should get you home. Two homicides are enough for one night."
"Perhaps you're right. I am tired. Fill out a worker's compensation claim for Peterson. Make sure his wife and children get a nice settlement."
"Yes sir." The thing stepped out onto the catwalk and I heard his leaden footsteps descend the stairs. I waited for an hour or so, staying silent, while two large men came and carried Peterson's body out. Then Cecil turned out the light and left the factory.
It was almost pitch black, with only a few traces of moonlight sinking through the dirty windows. I listened, but heard nothing, so I crept from my hiding place and started down the stairs. The something gripped my stomach. Damn curiosity, again. I walked back, past the office to the edge of the vat. A thick, blood red liquid roiled and lapped at the thick walls. It smelled of sulfur and something I could not place. Then I saw something on the other side of the pool that made me lurch.
A large, rigid hand emerged from the slime. It's fingers wiggled and then it was followed by an arm. The light was very dim, but I could see ragged, scorched clothes hanging off what I could now see was a man. His slow-moving, ashen fingers gripped the edge of the vat and he hoisted himself up with remarkable strength. He stood, his body dripping down from his matted hair. Suddenly, he turned and looked straight at me. My mouth was slung open and my heart seemed to have stopped beating. I did not know what to think. Was this a victim or some new villain? His shoulders slumped and I could hear his breaths get sharper. I stepped toward him.
"No!" He whispered hoarsely. "Stay back." I obliged.
"Are you all right?" I peered at him, trying to get a sense of his features, but the light only gave me a dull profile.
"Don't follow me." He heaved himself, limping, into the shadows. I stood, terrified, then turned and ran down the stairs, out the door and back, through the opening gate. Anyone could have seen me, but I had to get out of that place as fast as I could.
I drove home in a fugue. I had seen too much. That horrible thing, with it's drawn, moaning face. Peterson slumping over in a lifeless heap. The man, or whatever it was that had emerged from the chemicals. What was that? How had he survived? And what exactly was he now?
I got home and sunk into a chair. Should I call the police? But would they believe me? And what could I tell them when ever I didn't know what I saw. "Yeah, officer, you know the Munch painting `The Scream'? Yeah, he looked like that." No, as much as I hated the idea, I needed to know more before I said anything. And as lucky as my escape had been tonight, I knew I probably would not get out of this alive. I would make anchor, all right. I'd be a lifeless lump at the bottom of the bay.
I barely slept, but I went in to work the next day full of fire. I was going to find out everything I could about Dyzeman. And I was going to start with the person who turned me on to the story. I asked Jenny where Charlie was, but she told me that he was with their mother. She had been diagnosed with terminal cancer and both kids were spending as much time with her as possible. She had apparently taken a turn for the worse when Charlie was visiting her the night before.
I wasn't anchoring that night and it was a slow news day, so I spent my time researching the factory. The company was owned by Leland Brandt, a reclusive millionaire who was rarely seen in public. The CEO, Cecil Travers, ran the company for him. I remembered Cecil, his gaunt profile and sharp nose from the night before. But what was the thing he called sir?
The reasons for the plant closure were given as cost cutting. But I found that odd when I read that similar plants in Seattle and Houston were staying open. Property values and taxes were much higher in both places, so this plant seemed an odd choice. And there had seemed to be something they were trying to hide. Something in those tanker trucks.
I went home straight after work and puzzled through what I had learned, but I knew I needed more. I couldn't risk another trip to the factory so soon, and I was exhausted. I fell into a deep sleep within minutes.
The next day, Charlie was back. His mother had gotten a little better. He seemed to avoid me during the day, but I cornered him after the broadcast.
"Charlie," I said as he walked down the hall toward
the door. "Wait up." He halted and turned around.
"Ye-yes?" He was a little flustered.
"Can I talk to you? You were on to something."
"What?"
"The plant. Look, I don't want to talk here. Do you want to come back to my place?" He eyed me nervously.
"Um, okay." I gave him the address and told him to follow me. When we got to my apartment door, I opened it and let him in.
"You want something to drink?" I asked him, taking my coat off.
"Water." He looked around, like he felt out of place.
"Relax, Charlie. If you start out this tense you'll never make it through what I'm going to tell you." I went to the kitchen and poured us each a glass of ice water. I saw him pacing around, looking at my furniture and d‚cor. It was a rather eclectic apartment, with hard wood floors and brightly painted walls. It was not the typical, modern home of a news anchor. But I like the whimsy of it. Besides, it had huge bay windows that looked out on the city and a nice balcony off the kitchen. I handed Charlie the water and sat down.
"Who's this?" he asked, holding a photograph of me and another man.
"That's my ex, Steve. He lives in Cincinnati now.
"You-you're gay?"
"Yeah. That okay?" I was shocked he didn't already know. I was fairly out at the station.
"What? Yeah, of course it's okay."
"Sit down," I offered. He sat, still looking a little flushed and nervous. His clothes were wrinkled a bit, and his sandy brown hair was out of sorts. "I went to that factory last night."
"Uh, what?" he asked, very surprised. "You went there?"
"Yeah, I don't know why, but I just had to. It was..." my voice sunk from under me and trailed off.
"What happened?" He leaned in, his voice hushed.
I proceeded to tell him the story, of the trucks hurrying out and the three men, the horrible face of the lead man.
"He looked like that painting, you know, just moaning," I described.
"You should call him The Scream," he said, a hint of authority in his voice. Charlie is cute, I suddenly realized.
"The Scream? Okay," I said, starting to look a little deeper into him. He had a smooth, pale face with soft, pink lips. He had a bit of a natural pout. And the thick glasses set off his face in a cute bit of geekiness.
"Then what happened?" He was enthralled now, or giving a reasonable facsimile of it. I told him about Peterson, and the other man whose face I never saw.
"He fell in?" Charlie asked. "What was it? What was in the vat?"
"I don't know. I don't know chemicals. But, that's not the important thing. He got out. Like an hour later he just hoisted himself out."
"Wow," Charlie said, darkness in his voice.
"Then he just ran off. I couldn't see his face." I tried to read Charlie's reaction.
"So you have no idea who he is?"
"No. I ran the Hell out of there," I said, a little guiltily.
"You should never have gone there. It's my fault, I'm sorry." He rose from the couch, agitated.
"It's not your fault, I went on my own. And I'm okay. Scared shitless, yes, but okay." I moved toward him, reaching out a hand to comfort him. He pulled away. Suddenly his hands shot to his temple and we wrenched his face in pain. "You okay?"
"Headache," he said through intense pain. "I should go." He stepped quickly to the door and grabbed his coat. He was through the door before I could say anything. I ran to the door and opened it to call after him. I looked up and down the long hallway. He was gone.
I walked back in, a bit confused. I sat down. Charlie blamed himself, but I was fine. And the way he ran out, I thought I had really hurt him. And, most confusing of all, I suddenly found myself thinking about how cute he was. How sweet his lips looked. How much I wanted to see beneath those rumpled, illfitting clothes.
Charlie avoided me the rest of the week. I wasn't sure why he was so upset, but he seemed to be afraid of even looking at me. My thoughts increasingly turned to figuring out who the purplecloaked man, the one we had dubbed The Scream, was. I decided that if I could get a sample of the strange chemical, a friend of mine could analyze it. If I could identify it, maybe I could figure out why they were so desperate to hide it.
On Sunday night, I called Charlie and told him I was going back to the factory. He was not home, but I wanted someone to know in case anything happened to me. I had no idea where this sense of bravery was coming from. But I thought of Peterson's dead body hitting the floor and the fourth man's screams. I had to solve this before anyone else died. I also thought about the soft tufts of hair on Charlie's earlobes, but I tried to shake that image out of my head.
The plant was quiet, still, hovering above me like a dark, sinister cathedral. The trucks were gone and there seemed to be only a couple guards. The gate was closed so I wandered along the perimeter. I found a hole in the chain link and climbed through. At six feet, it was a bit of a squeeze. I slunk in the shadows to the same doorway and entered. The light was off in the office as I slowly ascended the metal stairs. I looked around and listened. Nothing. I had purchased a vial and some thick gloves to get a sample of the chemical. I reached the edge of the vat and looked down. It was empty. The thick iron sides were scrubbed clean. How had they cleaned it up so fast?
"How did you get in?" The voice immediately froze my blood to ice. I couldn't say a word. I heard a cloak drag against the floor with a sick, deep rustling. "This is private property."
"I'm sorry," I said quietly, moving a foot to walk away. "I'll just be going."
"STOP!" The voice boomed like a cannon. I froze. "Turn around!"
Slowly I felt my body turn, as much as I tried to fight it. I closed my eyes. I could not see that thing again.
"Look at me," it growled. I opened my eyes to find those horrible red eyes inches from my own. But I felt no breath from the gaping mouth. The deep ridges of his face curled up into a horrifying sneer. He cocked his head like a feral dog. "I know you," he hissed breathlessly.
Bright light exploded all around us, illuminating the factory with fire. The Scream constricted his face and collapsed at my feet. I looked up and saw a profile emerging from the shadows. It was a man: tall, lithe, but muscular. Everything but his mouth and eyes were covered with a thin layer of dark, wine red fabric. His muscles were defined and hard. His eyes were intense. He walked toward me, his muscles working visibly beneath the material. He reached out a gloved hand.
"We need to get out of here," he commanded, his voice deep, but pragmatic. I took his strong hand and stepped over the bundle of robes that was The Scream.
"What about? Is he...?"
"You can't kill something that's already dead," he said sternly while he led me past the office. I suddenly felt remarkably like a damsel. It was not an unpleasant feeling.
As we ran toward the staircase, two bulky, black-clad men appeared at the top. We stopped as they advanced. They drew large rifles and, cocking them as they rose, pointed them straight at us.
"Get down," my rescuer yelled, pushing me to the ground. As he stretched out his arms in front of him and opened his palms, I heard the guns fire. At that moment, thick, bright streams of light shot out of his hands. Like straight, soupy orange bolts of lightning, the streams collided straight into the bullets, exploding them each in a tiny pop. Each stream of light hit one of the men square in the chest, sending them flying backwards. I looked away from the brightness to see a tangle of purple velvet rising behind us.
"Look out!" I screamed. The hero turned, sending a ball of bright orange light toward the advancing figure. The light hit his chest and sped through him, sending his robe-covered body into intense convulsions, like a speeded-up film. He stood, rigid, still quaking, his red eyes dulling over, like he was suspended in space.
"I wondered what that would do," said the man, I
think to himself. We looked down. There were more
thugs advancing. Whoever this monster was, he seemed
to have a private army of black-clad bouncers.
"How do we get out?" I asked, begin to panic again.
"Hold me," he said.
"What?"
"Just grab hold of me!" I threw my arms around him, feeling the contour of his chest pressed against mine. I could feel his heart beat and I'm sure he could feel my own. I felt his gloved hands at my back as his mouth drew close to my ear. "This might hurt, just hold on," he whispered.
Suddenly everything was a peachy orange light. I felt our bodies pressed together at a sub-atomic level, as if we were amoebas undoing mitosis. The world spun and I stared into his eyes to keep from getting dizzy. They were deep, brown and they stared right back at me. I had no idea what was happening but I felt the ground melt beneath me and I had the sudden sensation that I was falling, then flying. After a few seconds, solid ground froze up again under my feet as the light died away. I began breathing again as the man let me out of his grasp.
"What was that?" I asked, breathless.
"I can move through space. I'm not sure why." He was a little out of breath himself. I looked up to see familiar surroundings. I was outside, but the view of the city was my own. I was on my balcony.
"How did you know where I-" I felt a finger on my mouth, quieting me.
"You'll be safe now. Go rest." There was caring in his voice. I exhaled a bit, I wasn't quite ready to stand on my own.
"Who are you?" I asked, peering into his eyes.
"Call me... Call me, Quark. It's a little geeky, but..." I think I saw an eyebrow raise slightly under his mask. As a breeze kicked up on the patio, I felt his strong hand at the back of my neck. He tilted his head and I felt his breath on my face.
His lips touched mine and I felt light shooting through every vein in my body. As his warm wet tongue slid gently into mouth, my own mouth responded, taking him in. I felt his hands leave my body. I closed my eyes and a warmth waved quickly through me. Swirls of heat wrapped around me, caressing my skin, turning my body to gooseflesh. I felt the heat die away, the soft lips finally leaving my mouth. I opened my eyes and he was gone.
To Be Continued.