The Curious Misadventures of M and R, Part II

"Dude, what the fuck? This is it?"

Ripley smirked. "I didn't say we were a huge organization-"

"Jesus." Mark reached out and shook the hand of the only other member of FAG, a young, string-bean hippie of a man, who looked more suited for running The Burning Man festival than thwarting the demonic plans of the world's biggest racist organization, The Beliebers. "So you're a FAG-"

"Your mom!" said Dustin Schute.

"Hey! Don't talk about my mom-" Mark squeezed Dustin's hand till the latter was finally able to pull it away, shaking it out to his side.

"Dude, it's just a joke-"

"Not a very funny one-"

"Jokes are just jokes, man, nothing more-"

"True. But they're not all funny." Mark looked around the room, then at Ripley and sighed. "Dude, I'm really having some misgivings-"

Ripley looked at his wrist, which wasn't wrapped with a watch. "Now? Misgivings? It's a little late in the game-" He stepped a foot away from Mark, punched him in the shoulder with a laugh, then put his arm around him. "Look, true, mate, we're not that big of an org-"

"You're two fucking people!"

Ripley squeezed Mark's shoulders. "Three-" He smiled and cocked his head against Mark's. "Listen, fella, we've got all we need, believe me. Anything larger and they'd be onto us-"

"Anything larger and you may have decent info-"

"Oh, we've got info all right." He turned Mark around to look at Dustin, who was on the other side of the room running his hands over the flowery wallpaper. "This guy right here, mate? 'e used to be a Belieber. Now 'e's one of us, a FAG-"

"I heard that," said Dustin.

"Fucker's got great hearing, too." Ripley chuckled. "Though 'e's a FAG, 'e's not really a fag. Likes cougars, this one. Can't get 'im away from the oldies. The older, the better for 'im-"

"Ewww-"

"Tell me about it, bloke." Ripley shuddered. "Me, I prefer 'Its'."

"What-"

"You know, you can't tell what they are-"

"Oh-"

"But anyway, old Schute there, 'e used to be a Belieber. Actually played keyboards in the band a while. Till he realized what they were on about, mate-"

"I don't really care about the Jew part," said Dustin without turning from the wallpaper.

"Yeah, 'e don' care for the Jews much-"

"Or the blacks!"

"Or the blacks. But 'e does about everyone else, mate." Ripley nodded. "So before 'e left, 'e installed tracking devices, microphones, and cameras on all Biebz' hardware - guitars, drums, picks, drumsticks, keyboards, lip synch machine, microphones-"

"Why doesn't Biebz just get new ones-"

"Superstitious. That's how these Nazi racist-like blokes are."

"That doesn't make sense-"

"Of course not. Goes along with everything else that doesn't makes sense about 'em." Ripley let go of Mark's shoulders and pranced across the hotel room, his trench coat flopping around his knees. "So we've been privy, mate, to everything that little fucker's been up to these past three years-"

"And what's your stake in this? Why are you so concerned-"

Ripley looked straight up at the ceiling. He grinned so wide it seemed his skin would rip over his sharp cheekbones. With a quick curtsy, he rose up on one pointy-shoed toe and pirouetted. "Let's just say that someone had to teach ol' Biebz how to toss a salad the correct way-"

"No fucking way-"

"Yes fucking way, mate." Ripley looked to Mark, narrowed his black eyes at him. "And he dropped me like a bad habit once I'd given him the best salad tossing orgasm of his life. Because 'e knew it'd never happen again. Or 'e wasn't willing to let me have that control over 'im-"

Mark sat down on the lush sofa, his head in his hands. "Unbelievable."

"Believe it, mate. Ask me anything about that boy's body-"

Mark raised a flat palm to Ripley. "No, I believe you-" He leaned back and spread his lean, sinewy arms across the back of the couch. "So what's the plan?"

Ripley almost jumped out of his trench coat as he hopped onto the sofa next to Mark, flinging an arm around him. He giggled. "So me and the Professor over there" -Ripley nodded to Dustin, who, if Mark hadn't known better, seemed to be humping the wall- "that horny fuck, we're gonna go up through that air conditioning duct there, mate" -Ripley pointed to the ceiling just above them- "and make our way to Biebz' room. Okay, bloke-"

"Okay-"

"Then we'll poison all the food in his room that he's got set up for his little after-concert party. His rider, so to speak-"

"Fucking preposterous-"

"Oh, fucking no, it isn't, fella. Dustin's got this whole fucking hotel mapped out, mate. Innit right, mate?"

Dustin peeled himself from the wall long enough to grunt a yes, then fell back to it, his hairless cheeks and voluptuous bottom lip lapping at the paint. Ripley leaned back and raised an eyebrow at Mark. Mark laughed. "Jesus-"

"No, Ripley at your service-"

"Your mom at your service!" shouted Dustin from across the room.

"Fuck both of you." Mark ran the fingers of his free hand through the spikey spikey-ness of his hair. And sighed. "Well-"

"No well's about it, mate. We've got it all figured out. You just go to your concert and make googly eyes at that little son of a bitch. We'll take care of the rest." Ripley stood up, put his hands on his hips. "You think we could order room service before you go, mate. For fuck's sake, I'm hungry as a whore in a nursing home. I need me some brussel sprouts, fella-"

*******************************************************************************

Justin didn't smile once as he lip-synched his way through "U Smile." And he never looked lonelier than when he mimed "One Less Lonely Girl." Worse, he never once looked at Mark, who was in the front row, nudged between several fan club members in identical brown outfits, as he stumbled poker-faced through "Never Say Never," "Baby," and "Somebody to Love." Even when he came after a long, wet 69 with Mark backstage after the concert, his sweaty balls drying in Mark's sucking mouth, Justin didn't say a word or move a muscle in his face.

No, it wasn't until he, Mark, and Kenny entered his hotel room that he finally became animated and spoke: "What the fuck is that stench?" he screamed.

Mark's eyes fell immediately to the leather sofa, on which sat Ripley and Dustin, the two men's eyebrows shrugging at Mark without moving. They were surrounded by several heavily muscled white men in matching brown uniforms and carrying identical M-16s. Mark let out a sigh. "Yeah, what the fuck?" he said.

A loud laugh came from the back of the room. Mark watched as a man who could be no one but Usher himself came walking through the pack of armed guards, two towels in his hands. He threw one to Kenny, and they both began wiping their faces, the brown of their skin turning Caucasoid with each stroke. Before he could say anything, Mark was pushed onto the couch, between his accomplices.

"That stench," began Usher, whose face was now almost completely white, "is how we caught these two." He nodded to the couch. "I mean, three-"

Mark looked at Ripley, who shrugged. "Sorry, mate," said Ripley. "It was the sprouts. I was sooo hungry. I ate too many, for fuck's sake. When I got in that duct, I couldn't stop farting. Guess they could smell it in here-"

"Try crawling behind it," said Dustin. "I almost passed out-"

"That's exactly how we got 'em, boss," said Usher. "And we traced their path back to Dennison's room. He's in on it-"

Justin glared at Mark, shaking his head. "Just say it isn't so-"

"No worries, boss, the other two have confessed to the whole plot. We caught 'em red-handed. Er, I guess I should say, brown-assed-"

"Jesus, you didn't shit yourself, did you?" said Mark.

"Oh, no, mate-"

"You sure?" asked Dustin. "I can still fucking taste it-"

"I don't think so," said Ripley. "Me arse feels dry, fella-"

"It won't be dry for long, asshole!" yelled Justin. He clicked his heels together with so much force that his bangs flew up, revealing a blur of etched numbers. "You know that you shit yourself when you die, don't you? Especially if it's a particularly violent death." He laughed. Then looked to Usher, who was deftly removing the last piece of his prosthetic nose. In short bursts of German, they spoke back and forth to each other and to Kenny, all the while glancing at the three on the sofa. Finally, Usher and Kenny clicked their heels together, saluted, and made their way to the bedroom. Justin looked at Mark. "So you think you're so fucking smart, do you?"

Mark shrugged. But didn't take his eyes from Justin's. "What the fuck, man?"

Justin shook his head. "Mark, I liked you. I really liked you. But you had to go and fuck it up. With those two" -he pointed at Ripley and Dustin- "vile creatures. And to think, you could've been part of it-"

"Of what?"

"My Master Plan. We could've ruled the world together-"

"What would I have had to pretend to be-"

"What? Nothing. What do you mean? There's not pretending-"

"But Usher-"

"Usher's a soldier. My most loyal-"

"He's not even black-"

"How else am I going to get the niggers' money?"

"Dude-"

"Dude you!" Justin sighed. "I get the whites' money and the fags' money-"

"But-"

"Don't interrupt me!" Justin adjusted his baggy shirt and pulled on his crotch. "You could've been part of it, and you wouldn't have had to change a thing or pretend to be anything. But no, you had to go fuck it up by associating with these fuckers." Justin spit on the ground. "This one, this limey bastard, you know how many people he's raped? And him, yeah, he's a great pianist all right, but he can't keep his fucking penis in his pants-"

"Your mom!"

"What did I tell you about talking about my mom, Dustin, you fucking traitor?" Justin stepped forward and punched Dustin in the chest, his fist instantly recoiling into his other hand. "Fuck!"

Dustin patted his shirt pocket. "My bowl." He giggled.

"Okay, that's it." Justin looked to his armed guards. "I'll be back. Get the rope, the gags, and the saws. We've got work to do." All clicked their heels, and Justin walked around the sofa and entered the bedroom where Usher and Kenny had scurried.

As the guards went about gathering items from various chests around the room, Ripley leaned over and whispered to Dustin. "You got that?"

"Yep." Dustin patted his belt buckle.

Mark looked at Ripley with raised eyebrows.

"Video. The poison didn't get him, but the video will, mate-" Ripley looked around the room. He bent forward a bit, his face contorting. He leaned back and turned his head to Mark. "How long can you hold your breath?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"I got one more in me. An SBD-"

"Oh, fuck," said Dustin.

"SBD?" said Mark.

"Silent but deadly-"

"Oh-"

"When you see me lean forward again, hold your breath and don't let go till we're across the room. Just follow me lead, matey-"

At which Ripley leaned forward, hoisted an ass cheek, and held his own breath. Mark and Dustin followed suit. The guards began gagging uncontrollably, their weapons slipping from their shoulders to their wrists and onto the floor, alongside the various supplies they'd already recovered from the chests. Ripley jumped to his feet, his trench coat fluttering like a cape, and knocked two of the men to the floor. Mark and Dustin each shouldered two more into the walls. As the bedroom door opened and Justin, Usher, and Kenny filed out coughing, Ripley snapped up a rifle, pointed it at the men, and pulled the trigger. Nothing.

He looked to Mark, then to Dustin, all three mens' cheeks filled with held breath. They shrugged at one another as Ripley shook and fiddled with the the gun but couldn't get it to fire. With a shrug, Ripley held the gun behind far behind his head, then hurled it into the nearest window, which shattered on impact. One hop and he was on the windowsill, beckoning to Mark and Dustin. Mark looked over at Justin, who was bent over with tears in his eyes, and thought of the boy's cock. Fuck, he would miss it. He looked back to Ripley. And jumped up onto the windowsill next to him. Dustin followed, and the three wrapped their arms around one another, their boners pressing together through their jeans.

"This is it?" Mark gasped.

They looked from one to the other. "This is it," all three finally said at the same time. And jumped.

Ten feet later, they were on the ground and running across the hotel's parking lot, German gibberish wailing at their laughing backs.

The End

The Curious Misadventures of M and R, Part I

Mark was halfway through his fish and chips from room service when Kenny knocked. He set the tray of food to the side on the immense king-sized bed of the "Princess Suite," then hopped up and opened the door. The gigantic, black security guard was lathered in sweat and breathing heavily. He rolled Mark's suitcase to the middle of the room, kicked it to the foot of the bed, and pulled out a handkerchief. He wiped his glistening forehead. "Jesus, dawg, what the fuck you got in there, a dead body?"

Mark laughed. "Thanks Kenny." His knuckles met Kenny's halfway. "I wish that fucking Greyson Chance's corpse was in there-"

Kenny laughed. "You right about that, yo. The Biebz would love that. He hates that little bitch." He looked around the room, his breathing steadying. "Anything else you need, M-Dawg?"

"Nah, it's all good, K. Thanks for your help, man. You're the best." Mark shut the door behind Kenny and locked all three locks, checking them twice. Standing over the suitcase, he giggled. Then bent down, quickly unzipped it, and pulled the lead-lined cover over-

Ripley popped out, his joints echoing as they cracked. He jumped up and down as he skidded back and forth across the room, his hands firmly on his crotch. "Ooooh, ooooh, oooooh," he moaned as he fell onto the bed, the rest of Mark's fish and chips tumbling out of the basket onto the down comforter.

"Dude! Calm the fuck down. You all right?"

"Ooooh, oooh, ooooh," Ripley coughed. His belt hit the floor, his pants slapped down to his ankles, and his collared feet rose up in the air. "Oooh, oooh, oooh-"

"What is it, cramping?"

"No, boil-"

"What?"

"Boil-"

"Where?"

"Perineum!"

"Where-"

"Me taint, mate-"

"Taint?"

"Yar, fella, me taint!" Ripley pulled up his ball sack and pointed to the area just below with his other hand.

Mark would've gagged if he hadn't been so turned on. His tiny, hard cock oozed pre-cum into the denim of his jeans as he narrowed his eyes and bent down, his face half a foot from Ripley's crotch. Staring back at him was a bright red, purplish monstrosity of swollen flesh, each curly hair on its surface finely pinpointed like seeds on a strawberry. "How the fuck-"

"It was so hot in that cargo hold-"

"Hot? I thought it was cold in those-"

"Not when you're stuck in the middle of a pile of hundreds of bags of clothes, mate!"

"Oh-"

"I must've had bacteria there and the heat just fermented the shit-"

"Yikes-"

"Yikes is right. Oh, fuck, it hurts-"

"You want me to call-"

"No, you can't call anyone. They'll know me." Ripley perched his head up from the bed and looked into Mark's eyes, tears flowing from his own. "Mark, I need you to pop it, fella-"

"Whoa-"

"That's the only way-"

"I don't have anything-"

"Use whatever, I don't care. Just pop the fucker before I die from the pain, mate-"

Mark looked around the room, gently rubbing his glans through his jeans. As he looked back to Ripley's crotch, the man let go of his balls and they slid back down over the boil, revealing Ripley's hard 4-incher of warts and scabs just above. Mark pushed his pants and briefs to his ankles and plopped onto his knees. Ripley's balls smelled and tasted of piss and shit. Mark lapped at them with his tongue until the sack shriveled, the balls tensing up into the man's pelvis. At which Mark eyed the boil. Then pinned his tongue to it. It was hot and tasted of iron. He worked his tongue until Ripley's moans turned into sighs. Then with a sigh of his own, he canyoned his mouth over the boil. And bit down.

Ripley muffled his scream with both of his hands, as the creamy, bloody pus jetted down Mark's throat. Bitter with infection - but not as bitter as Ripley's cum - it went down smooth as Mark sucked and gulped until he could no longer feel any of the thick, meaty discharge sliding over the tip of his tongue. With one last swallow, he pulled back and saw that the boil was gone, now just a cavity between Ripley's balls and ass about an inch in diameter.

Then he giggled: one last glop fell from the hole, half white, half red, a perfect combination of his favorite condiments. He grabbed a chip and eased it into the divot. Once it was soaked, he popped it in his mouth and chewed slowly, savoring Ripley's blood and infection. As he swallowed with a burp, Ripley's head raised back up.

"Thanks, mate. It's okay now. But I have one more favor-"

"Sure-"

"Fuck it. Real good."

London Callin'

Justin locked Mark's bedroom door behind him, giggling.

"What?"

Justin flicked his cap onto Mark's bed and shook his head, his bowl of hair falling into place like an Army drill team. "Your mom's a trip-"

Mark laughed. "Why do you say that?"

"She was singing 'Somebody to Love' all the way up here-"

"Backwards?"

Justin cocked his head. And one eyebrow. His grin cemented between his cheeks. "No. Why do you say that? What do you mean?"

Mark looked back at Justin, unblinking. He shrugged. "No reason. She does that a lot. Sings songs backwards. You're right, she is a trip." Mark winked.

Justin looked away. Then fell back onto Mark's bed, kicked his shoes off, and slinked his socks over his feet. He stood up. First, the baggy T-shirt was on the floor, and then, with a pop of one button, his skinny jeans. His cock was semi-hard and hung thick between his legs, almost dwarfing both; the copious veins shone like scales as they criss-crossed his shaft. He sat back on the bed, his low-slung balls flush against Mark's New York Giants comforter and providing an adequate prop for his coiling cock, the head of which rested several inches in front of them on the bed. Justin sighed. "Speaking of trips, I leave for Europe next week, you know," he said.

Mark pulled off his shorts and boxer-briefs in one motion, his tiny cock springing forward, the hole slick with pre-cum. He sat next to Justin on the bed and grabbed the teenager's hand, weaving their fingers through each other. He squeezed. "Ah, Europe. I've never been overseas. I've always wanted to go to London. I'm an Anglophile and a half-"

"That's my first concert date of the 13-"

"You lucky bastard-" Mark returned Justin's grin. Then jumped. "Do not fucking tell me that you've got a date in Germany. That's my favorite country EVER-"

Justin nodded.

"No!"

"Yes. It's the last date. Berlin."

"Oh, my God, you lucky-"

"What's the big deal? It's just a quick little tour, just to put feelers out-"

"But Germany! Have you ever studied Germany's history? It's the richest of any country in the history of the world. The richest-" Mark lowered his head and looked up at Justin from under his raised eyebrows, a wide grin chalking his face. "I'm of German descent, you know-"

Justin pulled Mark's hand into his lap, Mark's knuckles scraping his full-fledged hard-on. He dipped his head too and looked back up at Mark from under the steady sheen of his bangs, his eyes fixed on Mark's for what may have been five minutes - or hours or seconds. Finally, one eyebrow cocked, and he sighed inaudibly. But before he could say anything, Mark's free hand reached for the curtain of hair covering his forehead, and he reared back.

"What?" said Mark, laughing.

"Nothing-"

"You have the most beautiful hair. I've never really touched it-"

"It's not you. It's the hair. And me. I've got this weird thing about my hair-"

Mark cocked his head. And an eyebrow. He laughed. "Okay, no problem-"

"You know, a lot of people hate my hair-"

"I hate them-"

Justin's voice was whisper: "So do I-"

Mark pulled Justin close to him, their bony chests snaking together, and whispered into the boy's ear: "I hate everyone who's not you. Or me."

Justin bit Mark's neck lightly, then pulled back. He freed his hand and cradled Mark's face in his fingers. "So do I-"

Mark giggled and looked down at Justin's cock, which had temporarily stained the boy's thigh with a blur of pre-cum. He giggled some more.

Justin let go of Mark's face and leaned back on his hands. "Come with me-"

"Huh?"

"To Europe-"

"Really?"

Justin nodded furiously, the brown of his eyes blacker than ever.

"Hmm-" Mark looked away. "Nah, I couldn't-"

"Why not?"

"That'd be taking advant-"

"You're my fucking boyfriend. Take advantage of me-"

"But the store-"

"Fuck the store. You're renovating-"

"I don't have the money right now-"

"I'm the fucking Biebz! I have the money. My plane. My hotel. Just bring yourself."

Mark's chin fell to his hand, and he stared at Justin's immobile, stony gaze. He definitely wasn't in love with him. And definitely wanted to taste the venom running through the boy's veins. He sighed. "You sure-"

"Dude, the Biebz is always sure-"

At which Mark reached behind himself, leaning over the bottom of the bed, and tugged up a grocery bag from the floor. He pulled out a bag of pre-packaged salad and a bottle of ranch salad dressing, both of which he promptly deposited in Justin's lap. "Now toss my salad, Biebz-"

Justin sank his teeth into the corner of the bag. "You know, you and me could make a good team, Mark-"

Lo(o)se(r)

"I'm gonna fucking cum, mate!"

Mark stood up, the neon blue dildo that had been pummeling his asshole for the past hour through the gloryhole slicking from his ass with an audible, echoing plop. He turned and watched as the dildo was replaced by a penis no longer than his own but much fatter. As he knelt down and swallowed the cock into his mouth, he suddenly realized that the penis itself was really no wider or thicker than his own: rather, it was the copious amount of warts, scabs, and dried pus and cum caking its surface that gave it its impressive girth. His own cock hardened and he gulped the diseased member into his mouth until his petite, turned up nose was enmeshed in the stinkiest bush of pubes he'd ever encountered.

The cum was several thick strings of slime bulleted against his throat and tasted of chlorine infected with shit. He almost gagged. But didn't. Instead, he flicked his fingers over his four-incher twice and came against the wall in front of him. As he swallowed the last of the bitter cum, he watched as a fistful of British pound notes and coins spilled through the gloryhole, emphasized by a hybrid Brit-Aussie-accented "For fuck's sake!"

Scrambling the bills and change into his pocket, Mark jumped to his feet, zipped and buckled his pants, and took off, the ghosty form of Detective Jorge T. Vinos flitting by him oblivious as he stepped out into the black hallway leading to the store's front. He centered himself behind the counter lazily, his elbows on the formica, his chin in his hands.

The door creaked open. And out stepped a strip of a man smeared inside a black trench coat, a beaten brown leather satchel strapped over his shoulder and across his chest. His cheekbones were sharp as ice, as if the slick, porous skin had just been poured over his skull and gelled. The man's hair was oily and thick strands swooped over his protruding brow. Mark's ears boiled with his blood as his eyes narrowed in focus. "Jesus Christ," he said, "I can't believe I just sucked your dick-"

"I can't either, to be quite frank," said Rapin' Ripley. "It's quite the nasty thing, innit?"

Before Ripley could reach inside his trench coat, Mark was over the counter, snatching the pistol from the man's hand with one fist as the knuckles of his other fist landed square on his rival's mouth. Ripley's ass stomped the floor of the Dennis Cooper Reading Room for Youngsters with a crack. He put his hand to his mouth and shook his head as he wiped blood from his teeth. Mark cocked the pistol, jamming the barrel flush against Ripley's bony forehead.

"For fuck's sake, mate, don't kill me," said Ripley.

"Give me one reason not to-"

"There's another bloke in the back-"

"I'll kill him too-"

Ripley moaned, the blood gushing from both his lips. He bit down on both, then sighed. "Okay, okay, listen." Wiping the blood on his sleeve, he looked up the gun's barrel at Mark. "For fuck's sake, man, I need you-"

"What?"

"I need you-"

"For what?"

"To stop him-"

"Who? Detective-"

"No. Him-" Ripley's thin eyebrows met his bangs.

"Dude, what the fuck?"

"Bieber-"

"What about Justin?"

"I need you to help me stop him-"

Mark edged the gun another fraction of an inch into thin skin covering the bridge of the man's nose.

"Listen. Hear me out, fella. Just give me a couple minutes. Then, if you don't agree with what you hear, kill me. I don't care. All I can do is try-" Ripley slowly reached for the bag at his waist. "My computer. I'll show you."

Ripley extracted the smallest computer Mark had ever seen from the satchel, opened it, typed furiously with two fingers, then handed the tiny machine up to him. Mark balanced it in his free hand, his eyes widening:

A large auditorium, crammed with hundreds - thousands? - of cheering men, women, and children, all dressed in the same garb: brown uniforms - tight jackets, pants that billowed outwards at the thighs, knee-high black boots. The camera focuses, then zooms in to the podium, upon which stands...Justin Bieber. Similarly clad, Bieber speaks loudly into the microphone in fluent German. As the crowd quiets, Bieber raises his arms. Then when there is total silence, he's off, his voice deep and barking, arms swinging, fingers pointing. At the end of every paragraph, he pauses and the crowd rises, their right arms flung straight into the air before them. They sit, and he launches again-

"Yeah?" said Mark, looking back to Ripley and uncocking the gun.

"He's fucking evil-"

"There's no such thing as evil. Or good-"

"Yes, there fucking is. And that's it right there. There's right, mate, and there's wrong-"

"There's no such thing as right or wrong, either-"

"Really?"

Mark nodded.

"Your parents still alive, mate?"

"My mother, yes. My father died in the war-"

"Sorry about that." Ripley dipped his head. Then just as quickly regained Mark's eyes. "Well, take your mom, for instance. You walk in your house one day, there's five guys brutally raping her-"

"Hey!"

"Let me finish, fella." Ripley shook his head as Mark pulled the gun from between his eyes. "So you walk in on this horror. Do you just go on walking by or leave, just throw your hands up in the air and say, 'Oh, there's no right or wrong, there's no good or evil?'"

Mark shook his head. And stared into Ripley's eyes, which were almost as black as Justin's. "What's this?" He nodded to the computer, which still displayed the screaming brown suits and his boyfriend. "What's evil about this?"

"Mark, can I call you Mark? Okay. Mark, this is evil incarnate. Justin Bieber, your boyfriend-"

"How do you know he's my boyfriend?"

"My organization knows everything about Bieber-"

"Your organization?"

"Yes. Fighters Against Genocide-"

"FAG? How nice-"

"Just a coincidence, that. Besides, we're Brits, and we're all smokers. Though not of the cock variety necessarily-"

Mark's eyes rolled, and he shoved the pistol into the front of his jeans as he made his way back behind the counter, setting the computer down next to the cash register. Ripley got up slowly, adjusted the big blue strap-on in his satchel, tapped at the dried blood on his lips a few times, and skipped - Mark almost laughed at this - over to the counter. He leaned against the glass case that supported the counter and which held the store's most expensive items - stainless steel anal retractors and cadaver skin covered fists - and looked at Mark. "We need you, Mark," he said.

"For what?"

Ripley spun the computer around, whipping his fingers around the keyboard and mousepad so fast that his hands were a blur. "Listen," he said.

A few pops and cracks, then Justin's voice over and over, interspersed between cacophonous whistles, shrieks, and burnouts:

I AM LORD I AM YOUR GOD KILL ALL NIGGERS, FAGS, AND JEWS

"What the fuck?"

"Play any Justin Bieber song backwards and that's what you get." Ripley leaned in. "Eeeeeeeviiiiiiiillll-"

Mark's brain captured clearly and in full view the moment he'd been trying to extinguish from his mind but couldn't since he'd met Justin: the boy's correcting his diction in regards to the word "niggas." Getting the shit-streaked pieces of lettuce out of his teeth had been easier than trying to get Justin's words that night out of his head. "So he's a racist?" Mark looked at Ripley. "But you're a rapist, who are you-"

"Don't believe everything you read in the paper, fella-"

"So you didn't commit all those rapes and murders-"

"Oh, I did. But I didn't discriminate. Black, white, Asian, retard, handicap, legless, it didn't matter to me." Ripley tapped the computer. "This bloke, however, is fucking evil. He's the leader of the largest-"

"Neo-Nazi?"

"Worse. The largest racist organization on the planet. They hate everybody. Even whites. They only love one thing-"

"Power?"

"No." Ripley looked around, then leaned into Mark and whispered: "Bieber-"

"Huh?"

"Why do you think all the marketing, mate? Music, videos, books, movies, interviews, internet, iPhone apps, blogs. He hates everyone who is not him. Which is why he's over-saturating the global culture with everything Bieber. He wants everyone to be like him. Or as he says, 'in his image.' Just watch, politics will be next-"

"This is fucking insane. You've got all these Muslims running around bombing-"

"Oh, they're on the radar. But with them, at least you know what you're dealing with. This Bieber is a smart fella, his organization is very insidious. They're extremely subtle blokes and cunts, mate. They won't be running up to you with a bomb. No, they have other means-"

"Mind control-"

Ripley snapped his fingers. "We have proof that 90% of all murders worldwide, whether isolated incidents or as part of war, can be traced back to Bieber's organization-"

Mark shook his head. "Dude, this is crazy-"

"What's crazy is that no one will do anything about it. Not the US, the UN, the EU, China, Russia, no one-"

Mark stared at the image on the computer, Justin standing behind the podium, his arms stretched out straight in front of him, his eyes singing black with evil intent. "Okay, let's say you're correct-"

"I am, mate-"

"How does a kid like him get so much power?"

Ripley flicked his bangs with his dirty fingers.

"His hair? Who is he, Samson?"

"It's what's under the bangs. It's what he's hiding. There's a mark-"

"Jesus Christ, you are insane-"

"It's not me who's insane, mate. It's your boyfriend. I've shown you the evidence, fella. And I've got tons more where that came from-" Ripley stopped short and looked into Mark's eyes. His own eyes widened and he shook his head. "Do not, for fuck's sake, tell me you've tossed his salad-"

"How do you know-"

"We know-"

"Oh-" Mark giggled. "Well-"

"Hmm." Ripley bent over the counter, put his face up to Mark's, an inch away. Mark could smell Ripley's cock on his own breath as it bounced off the sharp angles of Ripley's bony face and back up his nostrils. Before he could inhale another deep draught of the musky, pungent odor, which was hardening his little dick, Ripley pulled away. "Okay, you seem all right, bloke. Probably no need for de-programming. That's one of the ways he gets you: salad tossing-"

Mark didn't know whether to laugh or pull out the pistol and shoot the man between the eyes. So he just stood there and they eyed each other for what felt like hours but must've been only a few seconds until Ripley cleared his throat again while dabbing at his bruised mouth with the tattered cuff of his trench coat. "So can I depend on you, Mark?"

"What do you need from me?"

"Access. Nobody can get near him. The few we've tried have been killed-"

"Great. What if I get killed-"

"Mark, you don't fool me." Ripley laughed. "Lift up your sleeve on your left shoulder." Mark did as requested. "You don't even have a scar. Or a scratch. That bullet practically bounced off you into that poor wanker next to you. I knew right then you were special-" Ripley giggled. "You know, me and you could make a good team, mate-"

Before Mark could respond, the door to the video rooms opened. Mark and Ripley turned. Detective Jorge T. Vinos stood on the threshold, his hard cock in his left hand. Upon seeing Ripley, he yelped and reached for his shoulder holster with his free hand. But his hand didn't make it: another yelp and he grabbed his chest. His lifeless body fell flat on the floor and rolled over onto its back, the man's face a portrait of screaming horror, his hand in a death grip around his oozing cock.

Ripley turned to Mark. "Can I get one set of anal retractors?"

Tossed Salad Days

Mark's asshole throbbed with the memory of the ten or fifteen times Justin Bieber had fucked him earlier that day as they'd ridden around Washington, D.C. in the back of Justin's armored, tinted Escalade for hours as part of Mark's prize for "winning" the Cedarville 10K since the unfortunate but timely demise of actual winner Harry Papp. Problem was, Mark wanted to fuck again. The good thing, though, is that Justin had shown an insatiable appetite for fucking him that in no way could be diminished by one of the worst concerts Mark had ever witnessed and a tidying shower afterwards.

The door to the bathroom opened and out of the flooding steam Justin appeared, a towel wrapped around his naked body at the waist, his hair, though wet, neatly in place. "Ta dah!" He threw his arms out wide and grinned, his slight chipmunk-cheeked smirk nothing less than venomous as he eyed Mark from under his bangs.

Mark laughed. His eyes unconsciously flitted to the prominent bulge - was he actually still hard?! - under the towel, then back up to Justin's black eyes. "And there he is-"

"And there he is!" said Justin, releasing the towel from his waist. His cock, which snaked semi-hard halfway down his thigh, audibly sprung up as it was released from its cotton prison, then hung, bouncing, between his slight legs. "Dinner time-"

"What's for dinner?"

Justin walked to the small refrigerator in the corner of the ritziest hotel room of the ritziest hotel - a Clarion Inn - in all of Cedarville, Maryland. He bent over, his hairless ass smiling vertically at Mark, as he rummaged through the bins at the bottom of the fridge. In one motion, he stood up, kicked the door shut, and held up two items: a bag of salad and a bottle of ranch dressing. "What say we have a salad?"

Mark looked around the room quickly. "Um, okay?"

"Hey! When Justin Bieber gets his salad tossed, he gets his salad TOSSED! Literally." And again, another sly, dimpled grin. Then a leap over the loveseat on which Mark was splayed and Justin slithered his smooth body over the cushions until his ass was flush with the edge of the sofa. He handed the items to Mark. "Take off your clothes," he hissed.

Mark's clothes were off in his seconds, his tiny dick zigzagging, pre-cum streaming from its tiny hole. "Now what?" He smiled.

"Knees-"

Mark complied. Then cocked his head interrogatively.

"First, the lube-" Justin handed the dressing to Mark "-then this-" He handed Mark the bagged salad "-then this-" He squirmed up quickly and stuck a finger in Mark's mouth. He raised his eyebrows, the onyx of his irises glinting.

Mark bit through the plastic bag and unscrewed the cap. Slowly, he lathered the tiniest, reddest asshole he'd ever seen with dollops of the dressing-

"No, put it in-"

At which Mark put the top of the bottle to Justin's hole, pressed forward as the boy moaned, and squeezed until he couldn't squeeze any more-

"That's good. Now the salad-"

Reaching a dripping hand into the bag, Mark pulled out a couple leaves of chopped lettuce-

"No, a handful-"

Mark cupped a veritable garden into his hand, then began massaging the vegetables against Justin's ass-

"Inside-"

Mark shuttlecocked his hand and fingered the whole handful into Justin's rectum several pieces at a time, his eyes growing wide as Justin's cock engorged, standing up on its own. If he'd touched his own cock, he would've cum. Instead, at Justin's urging, he grabbed handful after handful and inserted it into the boy's ass until the bag was empty. Finished, he reached up to Justin's cock-

"No, don't touch my cock. Or yours. Just...eat-"

He watched, suppressing an urge to laugh - and an urge to cum - as the salad slowly reappeared from the slight, hot-pink hole in small lurches, slathered with dressing and rectal mucous-

"Eat it-"

Mark buried his face between the perfect mounds of Justin's ass. And gulped. And gulped some more. And still more. Justin's large ball sack hit against the top of his face as he pushed his mouth tighter against Justin's asshole while the boy worked his cock. Until he was almost gagging and his cock screamed for relief-

"I'm gonna cum-"

He swallowed the last bits of salad - and what could only have been a small turd; it tasted of nothing but bitter dirt and was grittier than a crushed egg shell - and looked up just in time to catch the last three strings of Justin's cum in his mouth. Jerking his own cock twice, he came on the floor, his body a shuddering mass of flesh that he threw up next to his new boyfriend. Justin looked over at him and smiled. "Now, that's how you toss a salad," said Justin and threw a quick, thin tongue into Mark's mouth. "That's how you end a day-" He laughed.

"Yeah," said Mark. "Tell me about it-"

"Don't worry. I'll fuck you again before we go to sleep-"

"So I'm staying?"

"Of course, you are. You're my boyfriend, aren't you?"

Mark grinned.

"I'll drop you off in the morning. Then it's off to Philly-"

"Another concert?"

"Yep. Gotta give the niggers what they want-"

Mark froze. He turned his head and looked into the boy's eyes, unsure if he should laugh or not. "Oh, the niggas?"

"No, man, the niggers. They're black-" Justin grinned, his plump cheeks squinting his eyes. He raised his eyebrows up and down three times.

Mark continued looking at him until the boy sighed. Finally, he shook his head and laughed. Justin laughed too. Then sat up, his ass smearing the couch with salad, dressing, cum, and a slight streak of shit.

"Let's get a shower. I'm ready to fuck again-"

Mark was in the shower within three seconds.

Lo(o)se

"Rapin' Ripley" Escapes, Has the Last Laugh

Unpopular Undecorated Officer Dies in Related Unrelated Tragedy

By Dustin Ruxefjord
Evening Gazette Staff Writer

Cedarville - Alleged notorious, deviant criminal Saul Wuffleman, also known as "Rapin' Ripley," escaped Saturday from Cedarville State Prison. Wuffleman, a British citizen, had been incarcerated since his alleged assassination attempt of international singing sensation Justin Bieber at the awards ceremony for the Cedarville 10K almost two months ago. An All Points Bulletin was issued for the capture of Wuffleman minutes after he escaped. He is considered armed and extremely dangerous.

Wuffleman received the nickname "Rapin' Ripley" after his alleged involvement in over 200 rapes, murders, and possible mungings over the span of the last five years in the United Kingdom. Though there is no evidence that Wuffleman was involved in any of the crimes, Scotland Yard said that it is obvious that he is guilty. When reached for direct comment, Scotland Yard had no comment.

Wuffleman's alleged attack on Bieber came as a surprise to many. The beloved singer, whose fans range all ages, genders, sexual orientations, and religions, was believed to have no enemies. Questions still surround the motive for Wuffleman's alleged assassination attempt, which, had it been successful, would have gone down in history as probably the most devious assassination of all time, just ahead of those of Presidents Lincoln and Kennedy and that of DJ Jam Master Jay. The motive may never be known until Wuffleman is recaptured. But that will be a difficult task, according to Detective Jerry Wead. "He's a very slippery character, a chameleon, very much like a video game character who can shed identities and weapons willy-nilly. We'll be lucky just to get a glimpse of him," said Detective Wead.

This is the first escape from Cedarville State Prison in its 20-year history. And it is the first major incident since the several unsolved murders that took place there a few years ago. According to Detective Wead, Wuffleman will be charged with those murders as well, since, as he said, "It's obvious he's involved, even if we don't have any evidence."

In an unrelated yet related tragedy, Detective Jorge T. Vinos died of an apparent heart attack at a local book store Saturday while investigating a series of missing persons cases. The unpopular detective, who is the only officer never to receive any sort of award or commendation from the Cedarville Police Department, was more known to criminals and the community at large for his flashy pens and annoying barking than his actual police work. However, Detective Vinos was the arresting officer in the case of Wuffleman, providing the department with a rare double-arrest when he also took in the notorious exhibitionist Mike Tennyson, who allegedly exposed his incredibly tiny micro penis to the crowd at the Cedarville 10K awards ceremony, on the same day. Tennyson was released on personal recognizance and a hearing for his alleged criminal conduct is still pending.

Detective Vinos died at Mark's Books, Videos, and Toys, a popular book store frequented regularly by the city's teenagers and children, where the detective had stopped in to inquire about several missing persons. "We were having a nice chat," said Mark Dennison, the store's owner and a local hero who is credited with saving the life of Bieber. "Then all of a sudden, the detective barked out loud, screamed, 'I'll ask the questions!,' grabbed his chest, and fell over." By the time paramedics arrived, Detective Vinos was already dead.

Detective Wead, the partner of Detective Vinos had this to say about his fallen comrade: "Um, who?" he laughed. "Oh, yeah, Jorge. Well, um, yeah, he was an interesting guy. Could never get a word in edgewise with the fellow. Especially if you asked him a question. But he was happy to have finally made an arrest when he manhandled that deviant Tennyson and slapped the cuffs on him. It's possible he may have gotten a compliment from the Captain for that."

There will be no service for Detective Vinos, per his request and because the city does not have funds to provide one. Donations can be sent to The Tourette's Association of America in his name.

Pamela Pohanka contributed to this report.

Mike(ro)

Mark looked around the empty store -his store- and fingered the check in his pocket: that wall would be devoted solely to the videos of Dana Callahan and Jane Sheckleton; this one would be all gay videos, right at the front, since they sold second best; behind the counter would remain the toy section; three of the walls would be the rest of the videos, arranged by subject - straight, lesbian, bisexual, tranny, scat, BDSM, barely legal, midget, cleft palates, handicapped, mentally retarded, animal, and foodstuffs videos; classic literature and the latest porn mags would decorate the remaining space; and in the corner, cordoned off from the rest, would be the new Dennis Cooper Reading Room for Youngsters, in which he'd hold weekly meetings with the area's youth to discuss his favorite author. But first, business had to be done.

He opened the door to the back, where the video booths would remain, and slipped into the darkness. Down the hall to his right, in the light from one of the booths, he could see Mike's uncovered legs and crotch - and that horrendously tiny penis - sticking out from the same booth. He coughed, watching Mike's legs jump, the man's incher bobbing amongst the much-longer pubes. "Mike, I'm here-"

"Um, okay," Mike growled, "just a sec."

Mark made his way back to the front of the store, which was still empty, and waited until Mike appeared, the man's auburn goatee, which was much too long and shabby, flecked with splinters of wood and dried flakes of cum. Pulling the check out of his pocket, Mark handed it to Mike with one hand while he shook hands with the other.

"All here?" asked Mike.

"Yeppers-"

Mike held the check up to the fluorescent lights overhead and eyed the check for a minute before folding it and shoving it into his back pocket. He brushed past Mark and stepped behind the counter, his head disappearing under it. A large ledger plopped onto the counter, then Mike reappeared, shuffling quickly through the pages inside the dusty binder. With a pen he marked several X's on several pages, then turned the ledger around to Mark. "Sign on the X's and it's done-"

Mark grabbed the pen and quickly found all the X's. When he was done with his last signature, he closed the large leather book and placed the pen on top. "So it's done," he said and looked into Mike's eyes, which were glistening. "Aw, I'm sorry, Mike-"

Mike shook his head and rubbed his belly, half of which hung out of his T-shirt, which was two sizes too small for him. "Nah, don't worry about it, man." He looked around the store and sighed. Then wiped his eyes. "I had a lot of woo hoo! good times! here," he said. "Huzzah!" His finger automatically pointed straight up in the air, as usual, when he said this last. "I just have no choice, Mark. The legal bills-"

"Yeah, it's fucked up, dude-"

Mike shook his head, his eyes fixed on the ledger. "It's like a dream. I still can't believe it. One minute, I'm standing there, watching that Bieber onstage; the next, that crazy man's pantsed me and that crazy detective's choking the life out of me." He popped his elbows and his neck with three loud cracks. "I'm facing 12 years for indecent exposure!" He slammed a limp fist on the ledger.

"Dude, it totally sucks. And that detective, he totally sucks. He's a real cunt-"

Mike winced as he looked to the door to the back room, which had just opened as Mark's last word had jumped to life from his mouth. Mark looked too: Detective Jorge T. Vinos stood in its frame, the darkness behind him reverse-silhouetting his huge frame. "Oh, Mister Dennison-"

"What are you-"

"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison!" barked the detective. He looked to Mike. "Mike, how long you gonna be?"

"Just a minute," said Mike, his face reddening. The detective nodded to the air and retreated back into the video room. Mike looked at Mark and shrugged. "One more time for old times' sake?"

Mark laughed. "Sure." As he watched Mike drag himself back through the door to the video booths, he rounded the counter and leaned his elbows onto it, his head propped in his hands. And surveyed the small empire that was now Mark's Books, Videos, and Toys.