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Beta'd by Erin.

Go Straight to Hell, Boy - part 6/17

by Ralu

Almost a week and a half later, unseen and mysterious forces had turned the 'ugly fuck' into just another wooden box shipped to grieving relatives, and Schillinger was practically drooling like the Big Aryan Emperor that he surely is , seeing Keller walking towards his pod (--'fucking wild cat'--), carrying his stuff in one hand and something that resembled a...Kleenex tissue(?!), in the other.

(--'Oh, don't tell me he's *sick*!'--)

Behind him, Beecher, moving in with O'Reily...

Well, this is going to be one mighty serious motherfucking roller coaster ride!

"What the fuck's wrong with you?," Schillinger growls, visibly pissed at Keller, as the man walks into what's now *their* pod.

(--'Well, *hello* to you too...Afraid I'm gonna start coughing my lungs out and FAIL to swallow, tonight, dear?! Don't worry, never happened - *pro* - remember?'--)

"Got a cold"-- Keller's voice, ragged, red eyes moistened, his nose running.

And Schillinger doesn't seem to ever remember seeing Chris sick, ever! The man's strong like a fucking ox. But his running nose and those eyes of his surely do bring back memories...and not just related to Keller.

"Great fucking timing! Just be careful, you hear me, don't wanna get *that* from you."

Mumbling a bit slower, for himself:

"Fucking slut, you never get sick around other people..."

Keller, wiping his nose, watches the older man for a couple of moments, silent. Smiling just a little:


And THAT - the tone, the smile, the whole fucking *gesture* throws Vern back into one of those weird flashbacks he keeps having lately: Chris - so much younger, skinnier, *frail*...smiling like that, his running nose turned bloody, his lower lip splitting under Vern's powerful blow, a deep painful moan. That wince. Bending. Licking his blood-stained teeth, gently sucking that split lip. And...biting it. Hard. Repeatedly. Deep enough for the wound to re-open at the most *inappropiate* moments, and make Vern shiver (and not in the good way) at the sight of that narrow trace of blood slowly having an affect on his hardened dick, (barely) visible... Smiling again, (barely) perceptible, painful, teeth soaked in blood and cum. Those fucking dark, dark, darker than ever eyes of his --...and, oddly enough, Beecher's feral-spoiled-toddler sneer, superimposed over Keller's over-the-edge smile.

(--'Fuck, you sure can pick'em! Or maybe...you're the one that made them like that.'--)

And that single particular thought makes Vern both feel mighty proud of himself and scared shitless. 'Cause he knows he's got the power to do *that* to people...and that's sometimes a bit too much, even for Vern.

But he can't slap him down now, not right the fuck now.

(--'Not ever, Vernon! 'Cause it seems so stupid to slap a grown fucking man...Maybe this was a mistake.'--)

*Not with the fucking hacks around.*

Still, that doesn't stop him from throwing the usual shit he feels he has to, just to reconfirm his new pod-mate's status:

"Yeah, well, I sure hope that's gonna be *gone* by tonight."

A bit bored, suddenly, getting off his bunk and stepping out of the pod, leaving Keller all by himself. For a second.

"Hey, Christopher, said something about watching my back...well what the fuck are ya waiting for?"

And Keller follows him down the stairs (like a puppy...not exactly a new or surprising image), his hand still holding the tissue. Crumpling it. Still fucking smiling. A little.


The usual crowd of morons, half-breeds, shitheads; willing and *not-so-willing* cocksuckers sprawled all over in front of the TV, headphones on, watching the usual 'Up Your Ante!' shit. Fucking re-runs.

(--'Lame, lame, God this is so fucking LAME, no wonder some of the idiots in here go crazy on a regular basis, with only shit like this to occupy your brain!...'--)

Some niggers; Pancamo; *Miguelito* and that fucking freakshow Torquemada, both of them looking stoned to the eyeballs; O'Reily (--'that shithead'--) and Beecher (--'that fucking slut'--), standing so close to each other they could practically be holding hands and nobody would notice.

(--'And wouldn't that be a looovely picture?'--)

Obviously, Schillinger picks the perfect spot to display his new (well, not so new, but still...) *acquisition* to his former prag. Near Beecher, but not too near, Keller dragging a chair for Schillinger, waiting 'til the older man sits down, and then dragging a chair for himself, right next to Vern. Everybody staring, some black guy making some stupid joke Keller can damn well hear, since he's not wearing his headphones. Hesitating, for a second. Rubbing his face with his hands, wiping his nose again, not looking in any direction but the TV. Hesitating again.

And then looking up straight at Beecher, only to catch, at the last moment the other man turning his eyes away from him. Still, Beecher can't help himself (like always), and looks back at him, their eyes locked, glued together by the same odd, barely perceptible force swimming back and forth between the two men even when they're (supposedly) ignoring each other. Both of them feeling, thinking the same thing; that amazing, horrible sense of being completely helpless, unable to let go, flowing inside the men's bodies like hot lava. Beecher's unspoken questions floating through Keller's mind, painful: 'What are you doing? Why?'--'...riiight, *what* am *I* doing?! And why...'

Schillinger casually grabs Chris' nape, blunt fingers pushing hard, like rusted nails. Shaking him a little:

"What the fuck are you looking at, Chris-to-pher?"

Smiling - that fatherly smile - as he leans over to Keller, whispering into his ear, that mild, cold-hearted tone of his:

"Don't push me, Keller. Don't. Fucking. Push. Me. You fucking wanted this, you play by my rules. Don't have to remind you of that, do I?"

His hand still painfully locked around the back of his neck, skin turning red-white. Vern's touch, those big, squared hands of his, peasant-like roughness, all coming back, making Chris' shoulders stiff, his skin turning pale, eyes drowning in utter expectancy. Strain. Kind of...familiar.

(--'Guess that answers your question, Tobe.'--)

Kind of the *same*, 'cause he knows where he is. What he is. NOW, he knows. Not like with Toby.

And even as Schillinger's middle-age manly-man scent settles over him like a fucking sandstorm, Chris can't help wanting, just for a second, to just...go over to Toby and hug him, hold him in his arms. Just to hold him. Just to let go. (Never) For good.

O'Reily gets up, glaring Schillinger, grinning at Keller, an off-beat tone in his voice:

"Happy now, K-boy? Got what ya wanted?"


Blank, white, hollow. Simple.

Toby gets up too, not even looking at Chris.


Both men leave, providing Schillinger with the perfect exit-line:

"*Jealous*, To-bi-as?..."

General hissing, clapping. Laughing. Keller's name, half-shouted, Beecher's name too.

Schillinger - God-like above it all, gloating.

Chris looks at his fingernails, humming. His whole body slack now, untouchable. Smiling a bit. Then wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve while coughing hard, right next to Schillinger's face. Almost intentionally. *Seeming.* Swallowing.

Like a fucking 17-year old.

"Get the fuck away from me, you fucking moron! Fucking cough your lungs out somewhere else, not in my goddamn face!"


Well, if Vern actually worried even for a second that he wouldn't get to enjoy Chris' expert cocksucking abilities...

Lights out. That eerie mix of light and shadow floating through Em City again, like some kind of a semi-translucent blanket unfolding slowly, a wave of quietness - cold, sterile. Unsettling. A powerful mix of light and shadow, always seeming to keep you on your toes, like any time now shit's gonna go down bigtime or something.

This permanent state of confusion is what Christopher Keller remembers the best from all the time he's done in jail. What he hates the most, what scares the shit out of him. Because anything can happen in this pure state of limbo, and you always get to see it happening. You can't fucking close your eyes on this one.

That red light back in Lardner, like spray-painting everything in blood, keeping him awake for almost two weeks straight. Until he got used to it, that is. And, later, that didn't even matter that much, because he had something else keeping him awake...one way or another.

And now, here, in Em City, this seemingly ever-present almost transparent snowstorm...

Sitting down on the edge of his bunk, hands on his knees, shivering a little. Head spinning, swollen and hot, fever running through every fiber of his body. Feeling his sweaty nape ache, ice-cold, all bruised up where Vern's fingers had buried themselves earlier. And his fucking sore throat...like someone pushing broken glass down an ever-tightening hole everytime he swallows.

Chris can't help smiling when thinking about that particular symptom and the implications it will carry that night. And the night after that. And the...

(--'Hope it won't interfere with my meds...'--)

Looking at Beecher's new pod. No Toby, though. Just glowing darkness.

(--'Come on, come on, come on...'--)

And Vern's bunk, squeeking above his head, the older man jumping down, his crotch now near Keller's face.

(--'What took ya so long?'--)

The whole pod filled with so much tension, so much anxiety, expectancy, it seems it's about to explode.

The whole of fucking Em City, watching *breathless*, Chris could take a bet on that. Except Beecher. Maybe.

Vern closing in on him, letting out a low, barely detectable, animal-like grunt. Over-pumped, bursting with sheer will to fuck and humiliate and beat and kill - Keller can smell that all over him. And, God! Doesn't this feel familiar!

Waiting just a little longer.


(--'That's it.'--)

Going down on his knees, slowly unzipping Vern's pants. Looking up to meet the older man's burning gaze, to suck in all that power.

To welcome it, again. Pragdom.

And to reward Schillinger with that particular feeling of *reassurance*, the one an owner never quite loses, not even when his property slips from under his thumb.

(--'Or goes ballistic and cuts your face to shit and takes a crap on you. But that's another story... A story about someone else. Someone different.'--)

Shit!... *When you make someone your prag...you own him for life*, right? Apparently. In some cases.

Keller trying to force out one of his bullshit smiles, but managing only a sour grin, while - weirdly enough - trying his best to hold back something growing inside his throat.

A scream.

Or maybe just one of those deliciously delirious, insane laughs he had to fight back really, really hard, back in Lardner.

Whenever he had to listen to Vern rumble about the Great White Race and America-goin'-straight-to-hell 'cause of... well, guess you can fill in the blanks by yourself.

Or just hearing that barked order,

(--'On your knees, do your fucking job, bitch. And don't spit, hear me?'--- 'Yeeesss, SIR! *Never*!'--)

like he was fucking Zeus or something, thundering from those mighty skies of his, that no prag could ever get close to, let along fuck up.

Making Chris associate the whole thing with a quasi-religious, Old Testament-type of experience, feeling deep down - instinctively - that Schillinger actually made the same association. And enjoyed it.

Because it all meant POWER. Ritualistic. Power in the purest form. Stripped-to-the-bone. Honest.

One above and one below. So fucking Biblical it hurts.

Knowing already what would happen, how he'd have to just give way for Vern's need to control.

(--'Just try and catch the rhythm, match the thrusts and suck hard. And swallow. 'Cause that's how *Daddy* likes it, 'member?'--)

Knowing already that this, right here, THIS will HURT.

(--'But, fuck it, Chris...you *need* that, can't help yourself. Getting like that, getting hurt. 'Cause you're not eating a girl's pussy, here, you're blowing a MAN. And that requires submission and hurt, humiliation, you fucking well know it.'--)

Just the rules of the game, ways of the world...whore to paying customer, prag to owner. Child to Father.

A simple game of putting out for the stronger man in the picture. And Vern surely does know how to make a *spectacle* out of that.

And everybody's fucking watching... Just like in Lardner. (Just like with Toby.)


And, yeah, everybody's watching, trying to get their best view.

(It's still night time and people are supposed to be soundly asleep. 'Cause it's *almost* dark...)

Schillinger's black boots, blurry movement; Keller's knees on the concrete floor, pale-white, hurting. His hands, shaking, fingers gripping his own thighs. Like wanting to strangle someone. Gagging.

"Jesus, he's really going through with it!"

O'Reily's voice a bit shaky, like what he's watching is just too much. Looking over at Toby, who's hugging himself on his bunk, pretending to be asleep.

(--'You don't wanna see this...well, I don't think anyone can blame you on that one.'--)

"Fuck, he's kicking him! Hey, Beecher! Schillinger's kicking him, what the fuck just happened?"

(--'*What the fuck just happened* is Vern's I-ain't-no-fag-you-fucking-cocksucking-prag routine... Shit, Ryan, forgot so fast?! Or, maybe you weren't watching, back then.'--)

And, for that, Beecher's actually grateful. If it ever happened.


Across the quad, Keller's leaning against the pod wall on his hands and knees, expressionless. Wiping his nose. Coughing. Blood in his mouth.

(And definitely something else, too...--'Welcome home, Christopher! Like you ever really went anywhere...'--)

Keeping his eyes still, a bit lowered, like he's gone blind. Red-rimmed, watery. Darker than the darkest sea. Not watching anything. Not seeing anything. Biting through his lower lip. Humming.

"...clear as winter ice, this is your paradise..."

---end of part 6/17---

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