Part XXXI
"Enough," Chris says, wrenching me out of Zane's ass. "No worming your way out of this one, Zane."
"WORMING?" Zane says, chuckling. "I'm just surprised you'd put Travis through more of my abuse. Last time the CUNDANGO almost pissed itself. My fag will be WORMING, trust me."
"You made me wrestle Calvin, now I'll make you wrestle Travis. No freebies. You don't deserve it."
Zane crouches down, whispering in my ear. "Remember last time?"
I nod.
"I squeezed you within an inch of your life. But that's not even the worst part. The worst part is the lie. Pretending to be a man, when you know you are a faggot. That's what really kills you—right?"
"Please," I say, trembling, a tear rolling down my cheek. "Please—just let me give up, Chris. Please."
Chris looks at me, expressionless, then turns to Zane. "Order Travis to try his best."
"Try your best, Travis," Zane says. "Don't make this too easy on me."
"Master," I whisper.
"The cundango just doesn't have the willpower to fight me anymore. Isn't that right, FAGGOT?"
"Yes, master."
I kiss his foot slowly.
"Make him fight," Chris growls.
"Can I really MAKE people do things?"
"Enough!" Chris says. "Wrestle him or I won't wrestle you."
"And then what? You and Calvin leave me here to capitalize on Travis's depravity?"
"Is there anything left to protect?" Chris asks.
"Well, cunt-face," Zane says. "Is there?"
"No sir," I murmur, before sucking on his big toe.
Zane crouches down and grips my cheeks, biting his tongue and leering at me. "You are so fucking pathetic."
I let my tongue hang out slightly, waiting, panting.
A sick smile spreads across Zane's face and he slaps me across the cheek.
"Don't slap him!" Calvin says. "Play by the damn rules for once."
Zane laughs, rising to his feet. "You need to fight me, Travis. That's the only way Chris can get what he deserves."
I shake my head slightly.
"FIGHT ME!"
I slowly wobble to an upright stance.
"Go on," Zane says, smirking. "You can't be much worse than last time."
I lunge at Zane, barreling my head into his chest; he twists about, gripping me by the hair, throwing me face-first to the ground.
Dizzy, plastered face-down, I jut my ass up into the air.
"I didn't say to get in the faggot pussy position," Zane growls. "Get up! Fight like a man! Or perhaps you can only manage...this sad mockery?"
I catch my breath, my ass flexing.
"GET UP!"
I rise, lumbering into Zane again, trying to tie him up with my arms. He wrenches one of his shoulders free, then grips me by the back of my neck. I gag and sputter, my face hot with the sweat rising from Zane's pectorals. I steal a glance up at Zane. He glares down at me, condescension painting his features, his sweat glowing.
He tightens his grip on my neck and my eyes bulge out.
Then he throws me to the ground again.
I push my ass up as high as it will go, humping the open air; my dick strains against the cage.
"Fight, you FUCKING FAGGOT," Zane says, kicking me in the ribs. "FUCKING FIGHT!"
"No kicking!" Calvin yells.
"Shut the fuck up," Zane spits. "We are quite far past that. I can do whatever the fuck I want. Look at this FAGGOT GARBAGE. I broke it as an ANIMAL, and it serves as a CUNT SLAVE. Don't you faggot?"
"Yes," I croak.
Zane reaches down and gropes my ass. "FAG likes when MASTER pets its pussy?" His finger grazes my hole.
"Mmn," I hum, clenching my mouth shut, wiggling away.
"Get a hold of yourselves," Chris says. "Wrestle! Stop perving."
"For a faggot like Travis, there isn't much distinction," Zane says. "Getting dominated is a turn-on. I can't help that I'm legions superior. And Travis can't either. It's written in the stars."
"Shut up," Calvin says.
Zane pulls on my hair, making me look up into his face. "Tell him I'm right."
"He's right, Calvin. He's miles above me."
"Yet you have to fight. Life's just not fair, is it?"
I contract and pounce with all my might, tackling Zane at the knees. He catches his fall, flexing and buckling to keep the weight in his upper body. Moments later, he wraps his legs around my head.
He flips me onto my back, pressing his junk into my face, sliding his filled-out, smelly jockstrap up and down across my lips.
I can hardly inhale as he humps my face, laughing. Finally, I squirm my head free, gasping for air.
"I'll suck it, Zane," I croak between breaths. "Please...let me suck it."
"I know you want to, FAGGOT. I know you want it. But it's not that easy. You have to LOSE. After trying your very best. I know it's confusing...why even fight, when defeat is all you crave? Such is the riddle of a faggot's existence. You just have to find someone who can outplay you—overpower your bitch ass. Someone who reminds you—constantly—what you really are. Someone who takes PLEASURE in the game. And who better than me?"
"No one's better, Zane. You are the best. And I'm the worst. That's the point. You stretched that gulf to a breaking point—and then stretched it more. You made me your faggot...you made me come around...and now...I fucking love it."
I chuckle.
"God, I hate your faggot laugh. It's so...gross." Zane slides up me. Then he sits on my face and farts into my open mouth. I reach up to slap him weakly, and he doubles down, grinding his ass into my lips, smothering me.
I can't breathe...I can't breathe...
I stick my tongue out and lick Zane's hole. I try to pull in air, sniffing his crack, getting a mouthful of Zane's taint.
I can't breathe!
"Should we call it?" Calvin asks.
"Well—Zane's foot is stuck under one of Travis's shoulders...so it's not quite a pin."
"Yeah, but...this is disgusting to watch."
"You don't like watching this faggot—drown in my ass?"
Zane farts again, and I suck it down, desperate for any bit of oxygen that—unfortunately—is destroyed on impact.
I shudder.
"I could kill you like this," Zane says, reaching back and grabbing me by the balls. "Imagine your tombstone. Faggot drowns in Master's ass. Dies happy."
I lick Zane's hole in earnest, trying to jolt him into moving. It doesn't work.
I whine, panic setting in.
Why don't they do anything? They must really think it's just a joke. That I can fight my way out. But there's no winning this fight.
I CAN'T BREATHE.
I shiver, spasming like an insect.
"Fucking eat my ass, you piece of shit. Breathe it in."
I whimper, feeling something hot running down my jockstrap, like blood.
No—not blood.
"Shit, Travis. Are you—ACTUALLY—pissing yourself?"
Zane laughs, gripping my neck, not letting up the pressure.
"Hey—" Chris says, finally catching on. "What are you doing? Let him breathe!"
"Okay," Zane says. He moves as though he is letting up pressure—but then he doesn't.
I flail in place, my eyes bulging.
And then—all is black.
Hello.
My apologies for this seemingly sudden interruption.
You had planned on going to a funeral, but instead, your water broke. On my account, no less.
I am not a person born.
It's a bit hard to explain.
I'd like to introduce myself. It's embarrassing. We don't exactly have names, you see. I do like the idea of names. Quite like the idea of words in general. Bundling meanings into a nice neat package.
You can call me Schemer.
My life is very different than your life. What you think of as a body, an individual, I think of kind of like, well, a gas station. Or perhaps the porous, whore-strewn alleyway behind it; you know, a place that is very—pregnable.
I roam from body to body. You might think it kills me to be amended, or to be misunderstood. But actually that's life. That's evolution. Sometimes accidental--sometimes purposeful--shifts in me.
If you break down the names, there is always a constellation of things. You are like that, and so am I. Stars live and die like the rest of us.
I can move inside you now. Become a part of you. Share space under the umbrella that is your name. I am not limited to Travis's story. Do you understand? I know everything about you.
Because you tried to understand me, and you let me inside, and now a part of you is me.
Voided. Annihilated. Hollowed.
Free of what I think I am.
Formless and empty, a dark surface.
Silhouettes...
There is something here...isn't there?
What I think of as nothingness—is more of a placeholder. The harbinger of something. The crucible in which ideas brew.
The Big Bang boomed from nothing, after all. Like a match lit in the dark, it combusted.
That infinitesimal singularity convinced the nothingness there was something that did fundamentally matter.
A core something. So buried, so simple, it is somehow foreign.
Oddly enough...
There is something at the core of me that Zane cannot destroy unless he kills me. And even then, I'm not entirely sure.
"My fucking God," Zane says, laughing. "The faggot fucking pissed itself."
He gropes me, then squeezes my mouth, pushing my own piss up my nostrils.
I convulse, writhing till I'm out of Zane's grip. I crawl forward, and Zane grabs the back of my head, shoving my face into the carpet. My cheek burns. I look up at Zane with one wide eye.
"How are you so lame?" Zane asks. "How is it even possible? People have actually lost to you. Can't they just get out of the way and let you beat yourself?"
I smack Zane's arm off of me, then roll away from him.
"That's a new one," Zane says.
I stand up, chuckling.
"SHUT UP."
Zane steps toward me, sidestepping to get behind me, before trying to lock up my head, but I twist and bat his arm away. He envelopes me in his arms.
"I'm growing bored of this," Zane says, blowing in my ear.
He digs his knee into my thigh, releasing me in an awkward pose, breaking me down and bringing me crashing back to the carpet.
He grapples with me, trying to get a hold as I hump and wiggle around.
I slither out of his grasp.
He's right. All that training getting tied up IS paying off...
I laugh openly.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP, FAGGOT."
I thrust my ass into Zane's abdominals, knocking him off balance.
The look on Zane's face is so terrifying I almost cum right then and there.
He snarls, gripping me at my midsection; my piss coats his hands; I slip out of his grasp like a snake.
"Fucking gross," Zane roars. He grabs me by the back of the head, pulling my face into him, smashing it between his pectorals, cutting off my airflow again. He wraps his other arm around me, constricting me...
The cage compresses my expanding dick again; my ass clenches...
Introjection.
That was one of the words that Hiro scrawled in the Escher book. I'd scoured the many conflicting definitions, finding basically nothing.
But nothingness is just a container, after all.
I know what Hiro means.
The idea is that sometimes, to express pain, a person becomes the pain that happened to them. They reflect that pain onto others.
Zane says that our perception of the world around us—of the things we claim to hate—is a reflection of the parts of ourselves we are working hard to fight down.
And when I open my mind, I think there is some truth to that.
But sometimes it's our perception of what already lives inside us—that we know on some level we want to give into—that will help us invert our secret—and embrace the horror inside we have to love.
The cipher of a fucked up desperado.
People are shielded from knowing themselves fully, but leave the truth dangling.
When Zane hollowed me out, he made the space to pour a bit of himself into me. And in that space, I know a bit of Zane that he doesn't know about himself.
In that space, I became a bit of Zane.
And I know him. Oh fuck, do I know him.
And I hate myself for knowing him. For the things he's done.
But mostly, I hate myself for becoming him, if only bit by bit.
I chomp down on Zane's nipple, just as he did to me, when we lay by the fire.
Taking a leaf straight out of his book. Borrowing a bit of the soul of my idol. I never hated Zane. I yearned for him. He reflected my desires—making them real.
But he also tortured me. He branded me like an animal. He burned my flesh. He made me think I was going to die.
On several occasions.
And the pain hurt me. The pain broke me.
But given time, a broken bone heals thicker than before the break. And my cavity of a soul, strung out and zeroed, did what things do—it got filled in.
So I bite him like he bit me, refracting what happened to me.
Zane understands, doesn't he?
I bite his tattoos, one after another, as Zane shrieks in pain.
They always did look a bit—odd. Like scars.
Because they were more than tattoos. They were a mask.
Zane said that his father smoked cigars when he got angry. But he did more than that, didn't he? Zane's father—when he got drunk--pressed the flaming cigars into Zane's chest.
And that's why Zane's tattoos looked like scars up close. Because there WERE scars. From the dozens of flaming cigars that chewed his flesh. And Zane got those patterns branded into his chest—to hide it.
He could mask what had happened to him, but he couldn't kill it.
He annexed what happened to him. He gave it to me. And it lives melded with me, too.
Zane forged me. He minted me into a bargaining chip—and he'd gambled and profited off of me to no end.
But here's the thing about coins.
They flip.
I slam my weight into Zane, crunching on his chest.
His shoulders clap against the ground.
"Is that three seconds?" Calvin asks.
"I think so," Chris says. "Yeah."
"No it isn't," Zane says, snarling, throwing me off of him. "It was barely one. Wouldn't count anyway; his pissy body is slippery as fuck. And he bit me."
"And whose fault is that?" Chris asks. "What about when I hit my head on Calvin's chandelier? Wasn't it part of the STRATEGY? Part of the GAME?"
"Travis," Zane says, "Tell them you lost."
Was it just a voice in my head? Was it me?
Is there a ME anymore?
What am I?
--
My balls tingle. "I lost if he says I lost."
"That's not how it works," Calvin says.
Calvin and Chris zero in on us now.
"What are you doing?" Zane spits.
"Eduardo's not going to save you, nor is anyone else," Chris says. "It was easy to see you were going to use him as some kind of bulldog, in case you lost. Luckily, Damerae and Hiro were more than happy to deal with Lalo if it meant freeing Travis from you." Chris splays out behind Zane, putting him in a headlock. Calvin grabs one of his legs.
Zane kicks out like a horse. "My bulldog was never Eduardo, you fool. He's just a distraction. My secret weapon is right in front of your eyes. Isn't that right, puppy?"
"Don't help him," Chris says. "He told you to try your best—and you won. He doesn't own you."
"No more screwing around, coin," Zane says. "Don't give them an inch. If you do--they won't let you be with me. They'll take you away. You know they will."
"It's up to you, Travis," Chris says. "What will it be?"
A single drop of rain at the peak of a mountain could roll any number of ways.
The slightest gust of wind can change where the river starts; it can guide the path the river digs into a mountain; it can select which layers of history to uncover and fertilize, to give life to.
The slightest push can change the entire course of reality.
I can walk over there, throw Chris off Zane, suck his balls, and let them know that I'm Zane's faggot through and through. Calvin and Chris won't be able to stop us. If they try, and push comes to shove, I will beat Calvin again, and Zane will handle Chris.
I can serve Zane now—give him a little push of help—in order to be under his intoxicating dominion—forever.
My dick pulses painfully at the thought. Then, my pussy clenches.
They won't even bother trying to save me again. Not after this. It will be over. I'll be a hopeless faggot. Utterly friendless and classless, nothing more than Zane's cocksucker, fuckhole, and slave, at his service, on my knees between his legs, all-in, where I belong.
Did they really think I would do anything else?
I lie facedown, jutting my ass up.
"NO!" Zane shrieks. "NOT the time for faggot pussy position. Get up! Get these shitheads off of me."
I lie in place, motionless.
"You are going to lie there and do NOTHING?" Zane asks.
But I wasn't choosing nothing, and Zane knew that.
I can't even explain why. I can't explain where this moment of playful insanity came from.
It didn't feel right, making me fight a man's battle. But if Zane does that, he needs to destroy me. That's...the only thought that interrupts the anxiety flooding me.
It doesn't totally make sense. But I'm not supposed to think anymore, right?
Calvin shoves the ballgag into Zane's mouth, locking it in place. Zane tries to yell, but all that comes out is a muffled moan as he rattles his head. Calvin picks the leash and collar off the ground and fastens it around Zane's neck, testing it out with a tug.
Zane, still under a headlock from Chris, gets drawn in two directions, flexing his entire musculature in protest till Chris and Calvin let up the tension. Chris chuckles, releasing Zane's head, and Calvin lurches the leash again, sending Zane careening to his hands and knees.
"I'll be back in a minute," Calvin says, tossing Chris the leash. "I brought something—just in case."
Calvin hurries across the room, opening the front door, and not even bothering to close it fully behind him.
"Don't get any ideas," Chris says, pulling on the leash, making Zane stagger to the side. "I could get used to this," he says, his half-smile curling.
Zane looks at me, wide-eyed, and I read his mind.
Calvin left us alone with Chris.
Could he have really been so foolish?
I look into Chris's eyes, and a touch of fear surfaces.
"Travis..." He says.
"I don't really go by Travis anymore." I walk slowly toward him.
"Well then—whatever the fuck you are," Chris says. He flexes his arms, his pectorals rising.
I face him, eye to eye.
He smirks, gripping me by the back of the head, and guiding my face into his armpit. "This is what I should have done, the day I found you out, isn't it?"
I nod slowly, sweat soaking my face.
"What do you reckon, then?" Chris asks, building an edge in his voice, tightening up his chest. "Care to join me for a championship round—back where it all started?"
My mind flits back and forth between Zane and Chris, the idols who have infested my dreams for so long.
Chris tugs the leash, sending Zane flat on his stomach.
I swallow Chris's pit sweat down, rolling my tongue around.
"Enough," Chris says at last, pulling my head free. "Any last words for Zane?"
"How about—a kiss goodbye?"
Zane looks at me, his eyes still wide, trying to catch mine.
I can't bring myself to look at them.
I sink down and crawl over to Zane, slowly massaging his backside. "I'm sorry, Zane," I say. I nibble on his pert ass cheek. "I'm going to miss you..." I whisper.
I spread his ass cheeks apart and start making out with his hole in earnest. I breathe in the flavor, knowing full well it might be the last time I ever do. Leisurely, I drag my tongue up his crack, sucking on his hole, before prodding my tongue inside. I hold onto his ass for dear life as I bury my face deeper.
I reach under Zane's jockstrap and grip his cock, which is soft to the touch.
Perhaps now, he has a taste of the fear I'd had.
But the touch of my palm is too much to bear—I feel his cock harden at the mercy of the faggot he'd trained for that purpose.
The sword of Damocles hangs always over those tethered to power, ready to swing down and sever the connection.
The leash Zane kept me on no longer ensnares my neck.
I tongue greedily on Zane's ass.
Marie Antoinette. A silver guillotine looming above, a basket full of human heads to the side, her last thought knowing that the blade would drop, her skull would pop clean off and roll into the basket to join the others.
Saddam Hussein. Choking on rope, looking out at a sea of people he'd once ruled, not a single one of which would raise a finger to stop his fall; consumed in powerlessness, hated into oblivion.
Adolf Hitler. A gun barrel pressed into his own lips. He thought winning—rising--proved he was right. Which meant his whole life, according to him, must have been a long-form proof that he was wrong.
Did he think anything else, as the trigger sounded?
I pull off Zane's jockstrap.
Then, I take one final sniff of Zane's cock and balls, burning it into my memory.
I must confess that just the smell of him is almost enough to get me to change my mind.
But it's over now.
It's over.
I crawl away from Zane, curling up in the corner of the room, refusing to look at him, instead draping his jock over my face, so I can barely see through the stitching. Calvin walks by me, wobbling, carrying the coffin Halloween decoration in his arms. He slams it down on the floor, opening the lid. "Get in, Zane."
Zane glares at Calvin, still gagged and collared.
"GET IN!"
Calvin grabs Zane by the Mohawk; Chris clutches him around the waist, and together, they heave him inside.
Zane moans in pain or disgust, I can't quite tell.
"Does it still smell in there?" Calvin says icily. Calvin waltzes over to me, ripping Zane's jock from my grasp, bringing it to his nose, and slowly inhaling the flavor, closing his eyes. "That's right, Zane," Calvin says. "You didn't forget that it was ME—did you? As awful as I think you are—as awful as it's made me feel—I've never stopped craving something from you. I've tried fighting it—but now I think I'm going to try a different tactic. Now I'm going to make some DEMANDS."
Zane stares up at Calvin, knowing better than to move.
Calvin barrels on.
"Last time, we were prisoners in our own house. This time—you are a prisoner in your own house. And even if I don't have the heart to discipline you—Brett sure as hell does. He's on his way."
Zane's eyes bulge out; whatever noise he tries to make is drowned out by the gag.
Calvin picks up the leash, lashing Zane's head around for good measure before slamming the coffin door shut. "I'm not taking that gag off--or even opening that damn lid--till Brett gets here. I don't want to hear you Zanesplain anything to me." Calvin turns to us. "So? What are you waiting for?"
"Calvin..." I say softly.
"What are you still doing here? Don't you owe each other a wrestling match?"
"We'll see," Chris says.
I reach out my palm. Chris smirks, shaking his head, grabbing me by the wrist instead.
The last sound I hear as we leave—the one etched into my memory--is the BANG, BANG, BANG of Zane fighting against the coffin lid.
--- The last three parts should be released fairly rapidly; they just need a bit of editing. There are 34 parts total.
Feedback always appreciated. email: krazytop@gmail.com tumblr: krazytop@tumblr.com