"Gracias."

Jumped from the truck, can't believe that fucking dumbass didn't recognize Miguel Alvarez, escaped convict and menace to society. Guess this face ain't hot enough to plaster any more tvs and phone poles. Fifteen minutes o'fame, didn't mean the cops wouldn't get their man. First time he stopped looking over his shoulder.

At some type of motel. Miguel stumbled along the pavement, stomach roaring. No way he had walking feet for more'n a few minutes. Been dark for so long, only time it wasn't dark was those times he closed his eyes, saw faces laughing, crying, howling. Same old fucking mugs, wished they'd leave him alone already. Even they weren't coming around as much as they used to. Not enough jizz to make his own head give a shit, pretty fuckin' sad.

Made it to the outside of some door, crumpled in a heap. Hitch a ride, take a nap on a welcome mat, must be as crazy as ever. *Do you wanna get caught?* Maybe he did, anything had to be better than this.

*****

Cramer stepped out of his car, a few beers buzzing through his lithe frame.

*Bitches.*

He just wanted a few hours of fun, fun denied as soon as he walked into the bar. Was it his fault he didn't have the money to relocate to another town? Did they put out an all fags bulletin after his release? He was acquitted at retrial. OJ dated a string of blonde bimbos. Cramer had his hand.

The looks on their faces were so condescending. A community trained to stick together shunned him because of one little decapitation. Completely ridiculous. Hiss-hiss, let's ride him out on a pink rail. Like anyone listening to the Buttfuck Boys had a right to judge. And the bouncer, what kind of bouncer refuses a hum job in an alley! What was happening to this country?

Lost in thought, he almost tripped over a lump near his room. Too dark outside to get a clear picture, but the guy looked cute.

*What if he's a serial killer?*

"Wait....I'm a murderer. We can swap stories." Among other things.

Fumbling with the key, he dragged this man inside. Tossing him on the bed, the first thing that came to mind was a view of bachelor #1's puss.

Slipped off the hood. Looked familiar. Be really hot if he weren't so grungy. What the hell, he was still hot. Cramer ran a hand through the man's dirty hair, lifting his arms to yank away the sweatshirt and T underneath.

Nice bod, probably ripped not too long ago. Shoes went next, dirty, filthy socks followed. Cramer couldn't suppress a smile as he unfastened the cotton wrapping, pulling them down and off.

Not bad.

Rolled the tan skin around, eyes drawn to the round cheeks. Bubble butt just wasn't the term for these beauties. Even more familiar.

Yet another lookover (such a sacrifice) and he saw ink. Stained on his arms and a little on his back. He'd masturbated at the thought of those arms, soft on his body, begging him for head. "Por favor..."

Miguel. Miguel Alvarez. That tamale he danced with in the ring. This was a fantasy come true. Alvarez had been on the lam for like three or four months. Everyone expected a body bag or recapture by now, since the boy couldn't resist a shank coming or going. He had the scars and rap sheet to prove it. But this was only second-hand from the gossip mill, Cramer never had the chance to really get to know him.

Cramer shrugged off his leather jacket, not sure what to do with the body splayed out on the royal blue bedspread. At any minute he may wake up and give "scratch your eyes out" a whole new meaning. Running out the door was another option, leaving his savior with nothing but a sore back as a memory. Unless....

Thank God he still had that camera. It practically leapt at him from a nearby cabinet, warm in Cramer's hands as he looked at the body. Too curled up, who wanted to jack off to a fetus? He propped the angelic face on a pillow, finger running over a faint scar.

Circling around, he snapped a few photos. First snap, that face, so chiseled and angst-ridden. Second, the torso, just enough chest hair for a fiber-y diet, nipples to tempt a cannibal, abs, Christ those wannabe six-pack abs, top of the pubes. Cock came third, running down a thigh, as asleep as it's har...her...four years of Espanol, and the language was gone like shit after an enema.

What was Cramer going to do? Call the police? Throw him behind the dumpster? Tie him up and fuck him like Spacey on Cruise?

Miguel's malnourished muscles flexed as he turned. Poor boy was on a fast track to anorexia or whatever hungry fugitives get. Miguel had to eat. The mama hen in Cramer demanded it. And if Cramer forced some Oedipal action into this family bond, even better.

The leather brushed against his hands as it passed through a few belt loops. S&M *and* Mexican take-out...livin' la vida loca indeed.

***

Open up eyes.

NO!

A'ight, a'ight, fuck you then.

C'mon hands....nada. Hospital ward. Fuck.

"Dr. Nathan?"

"Not even close."

Snapped the lids open, running over the room. *Must be the hotel I passed out at.*

Fag from Oz too? Sittin' in a chair not too far from the bed.

"Where are my clothes?"

Pointed to a bag. Didn't ask for laundry service.

Arms wouldn't budge. No way to move 'em, legs kicked at anything. Heard his own voice cracking, wrists starting to bruise.

"Please let me go. We ain't ever seen each other...just go 'bout our business."

Crossed his arms across his chest, smirking.

"We both been kicked in the teeth man. Minorities, prison, all 'at shit. Need to stick together, not play games."

Didn't budge.

"C'mon man, least let us fight fair. We both boxers, right?"

Thought he'd taunt about kicking spic ass, but nothing.

Sat in that chair, staring, leering, drooling like he's got some prime sirloin. Saw the hard-on in his jeans.

"YO, COCKSUCKER, I SAID LEMME GO."

Still nothing. He think Miguel Alvarez is gonna beg to some maricon, after all that's happened over the years? Crash on the streets, lose friends, family, rep, nothin' left but pride. And that pride'd been bottled away ever since El Cid. Almost forgot about it 'til now.

Miguel matched the fag's all-fire stare, daring him, licking his lips with a slow tease.

More time passed, every once in a while he heard grunts and growls. At first Miguel thought it was a dog or cat, but it was his belly.

*What have I got to lose?*

"Wanna kill me? Go on. If you got the balls. Nothin' I can do."

Cramer laughed, light chica chuckle.

It is kinda funny. You cut a guy's eyes out, then get killed by some fag who cut his boyfriend's head off.

Miguel laughed this time, full of madness, pushing it over the edge a little. He forced himself not to jump at the hand on his thigh.

"I like your laugh. Slow and dry. Very sexy."

"Yeah, thanks. Can I eat, take a piss, get some circulation?"

"All at the same time?"

Fucking smirk. Never met a fag who wasn't full of himself.

"Ain't jokin' around man, I gotta take a leak."

Was more serious now.

"You need a place to hide out, don't you? I need eye candy. Let's compromise and see how long we can buddy up before we kill each other."

'Bout to say he never killed nobody, then he remembered Carlo Ricardo. Piece of shit, good for nothing except another nail in Miguel's coffin.

"If I don't get food soon I'm gonna get sick."

Cramer actually stood up, going for his coat.

"Get me some smokes too."

Turned at the door, spreading his arms out.

"Your wish is my command."

No smirk that time.

After a minute to make sure the fag was gone, Miguel fought with the leather again, pulling and pushing. Liquid dripped on his forehead....blood. His own blood. Just a drop at a time, but he still wasn't any closer to freedom.

Cramer finally got back, throwing the stuff on the table as he shook his head, taking a first aid kit from the night stand. Grabbed bandages and antiseptic.

"You have any training fag?"

Long, deliberate spray of peroxide. He wanted Miguel to scream. No fuckin' way, he'd faced down a lot worse.

"Boy scouts."

"You ain't a troop leader, are you?"

"Believe it or not, I've never met a fag who had any lust for little boys. Grown men dressed as little boys.....every once in a while, but we don't like the fruit too ripe."

Thought about asking him why it was OK for him to say fag, but not Miguel. Didn't, cause it's obvious. Every group has it's own language, what you can say and what other's can't.

"I can do this myself, I was an orderly in Oz."

His skin flushed at the fingertips gliding up and down his chest, real soothing, but also patronizing.

"Nice try Miguelito."

Finally, some freedom when the cut arm was released. He bit his lip to hide the pain at the burning medicine.

Cramer patted his hand.

"All done Miguelito."

"D-o-n..don't call me that."

"Why not? Miguelito."

Mocking voice, different, but not too different from that gorilla. Enough of this intimidation shit. Juiced up by rage, Miguel ripped the other hand free, putting his hands around Cramer's neck. Choked with one, ready to punch with the other.

Cramer blocked his punch, rolling them both off the bed. His hands were all over when he tried to pin Miguel. Groping, pinching, and then the punch. Almost knocked Miguel out, so tired from the wandering and being chained like a dog.

Cramer gave him this weird look, horny, pissed off, insane. *Wonder if he had that face during the beheading.*

He was hard as a rock. Miguel was getting there too, not sure why. Must be the body movement.

Managed to get out from under Cramer, grabbed his face and slammed it into the nightstand. Cramer sputtered, but didn't get up.

So easy to just grab his gear and go. Too easy. He'd ran and ran from El Cid, why was Cramer any different? He was even worse. Psycho with a dick addiction. He wanted Miguel to stay around, he'd get what he wanted.

Grabbing his smokes and a bag of chips, Miguel headed for the bathtub. Turned the water on, waiting for it to heat up, he went back to the other room. Fag was trying to sit up, dazed.

Took a few more steps to the dresser, knew what he had to do. Miguel grabbed his cock, pointing it at Cramer. A stream of piss came out, noise muzzled by the water, but it felt great to let it go. All in the fag's hair, his face, chest, everything. Shook his meat a few times when it ended, getting out the drops.

Grinning like he hadn't in a long time (even looked at himself in the mirror), Miguel didn't feel one fucking ounce of guilt. Spent so much time feeling remorse, crying, wailing, not today. 'Sides, when he looked at Cramer, the lust and fire churning inside the fag went even higher. Sick fuck got off on it.

Water was almost ready, checked with his hand. Cramer was still on the floor when Miguel went back in. Miguel grabbed matches from the bedside drawer, lighting up his smoke. Blew a puff in the other guy's direction.

"Told you I had to take a piss."