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.

Win? Lose? Tie?

Mark sucked the last driblets of cum from Justin Bieber's urethra, then met the boy's lips with his own, their tongues twirling with fury until all that was left in their mouths was saliva and the sweet taste of each other's cocks. Justin finally pulled back and took a deep breath that wasn't a sigh. "Next weekend, Mark," he said.

Mark sat up and smiled. "Until next weekend then-" He opened the door to the tinted Escalade and jumped out, his eyes never leaving Justin's. One more peck on the lips and he shut the door to, the last image in the back of his mind's eye Justin's chipmunk smile. He waved as the SUV spun off, then skipped up to the door in the light of the morning sun, his cock deflating under his waistband.

Sarah was sitting on the couch, her legs curled up under her. She flicked off the TV as Mark waded into the living room and patted the cushion next to her, the smile on her face growing wider as she met Mark's grin. "So?"

"So what?"

"How was it?"

"What?"

"Mark!" Sarah put a hand on his leg and began rubbing up and down the inside of his thigh as soon as he sat down. "The concert?"

"Oh, it was good-"

"Just good?"

"Great!"

"And everything else?"

"What do you mean?"

"Jesus Christ, Mark, you just spent the night with Justin Bieber! What the fuck happened?"

Mark smiled, his tiny, razor-sharp teeth glinting in the light from the lamp on the end table. He lay back, stretching out his legs, and Sarah's hand moved to his crotch, where it began methodically massaging his genitals. "It was...good-"

"You don't seem too happy, hon-"

"No, no, I am-"

"Then what is it?"

Mark shook his head.

"Oh, he's not gay?"

"Oh, no, he's definitely gay. Uber-gay-"

"Then what's the matter-"

"Nothing-"

"Come on," said Sarah, squeezing Mark's balls tightly, "you know you can tell me anything-"

Mark looked to the ceiling, then to Sarah, then straight ahead. "I don't know, it's weird-"

"How so?"

Mark ran his fingers through his spiky hair. "Hmm, you know how you see a movie with great special effects, then you see, like, a 'Making of' movie about that movie and it kinda-"

"That's what happens when you put someone on a pedestal-"

"Um, no, it's not that. No, J's great-"

Sarah squealed. "J!"

"Mom-"

"Yeah?"

"Don't-"

Sarah fake-pouted as her hand slowly gained speed. "Okay, sorry-"

"Nah, it's all right. It's just weird. I mean, the entertainment aspect of it."

"Yeah-"

"And there's something else-"

"Yeah-"

Mark shook his head. He ground his crotch forward into Sarah's hand, then let out a trilling sigh. "I don't know-"

"Does he have a little dick?"

"Oh, no, not at all. For somebody his height and everything, he has an amazingly large cock-"

"As big as Dick's?"

"My God, no-"

"You don't believe in God-"

"It's an expression, goddamnit-" Mark laughed. "No, he's got a really nice, big cock on him, and he knows how to use it. But no, he's no Dick Cox-"

Sarah's other hand inched up her nightie, where she circled her clit slowly with her middle finger, in time with her other hand, which could feel the small wet drop of pre-cum soaking Mark's khaki shorts. "So what's the problem?"

"I don't know, nothing really. I mean, I know he had to be joking when he said this one thing. A joke's a joke, right?"

"Definitely. Unless it isn't a joke. What did he say?"

Mark rifled his hair spikes once more with his lean fingers and pushed his crotch forward again. "Nah, it's nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Okay-"

"But you know what?"

"What?"

"He's one kinky fucker-"

"Yeah-"

"Talk about tossing a salad-"

"Mark, you've been rimmed before-"

"Not like that. When I say tossing a salad, I mean tossing a salad." Mark flitted his tongue around the contours of his teeth and looked into Sarah's eyes, which were blurring with her masturbation. "I think I've still got some lettuce stuck in my teeth-"

"Oh, my God!"

"You don't believe in God-"

"It's an expression, goddamnit." Sarah laughed. "So are you gonna see him again?"

"Yep. Next weekend." Mark raised his eyebrows and smirked. "We're boyfriends-"

"Yay!" Sarah squealed and her hands became more taut as she worked her and her son's genitals even more deftly, with more speed and force.

"Um, mom-"

"Yeah-"

"I'm about to cum-"

At which Sarah removed her fingers from her clit and stuck them in Mark's mouth. Then unzipped his pants and fell face-first into his crotch, inhaling his cock and balls into her mouth in one gulp.

Biebz in Da Haus (Or, Aesop's a Fucking Bitch!), Part III

Mark stared at his knees, which were still stinging since he'd fallen on them after crossing the finish line. Slight criss-crosses of quickly coagulated blood looked back up at him, mocking his every thought, whether it was Harry Papp's address, which he'd memorized weeks ago, or the semi-hardon he still sported as he caught whiffs of Justin Bieber's cologne as the boy walked onto the far side of the podium. A loud cheer exploded as Justin grabbed the microphone, a small, fake-gold trophy in his other hand.

"What's up, my Cedarville peeps?!" the singer yelled. Another cheer deafened the pops of Pamela Pohanka's out-dated camera as she snapped photos for The Cedarville Gazette and Dustin Rexford's mumbled questions as the reporter stood next to Harry Papp for a brief interview. "All right, yo, I gots to say, that was one def race yo. Let's hear it for these boyeeeeesss!" Justin waved the trophy towards the race's winners, Harry Papp for the overall title, Rad Eichenbocken for the mentally-handicapped title, and Mark and Bo Digglio, the respective runners-up. All bowed and clapped, except for Mark, who was still too ashamed even to glance at the boy he'd been wanting to get raped by for the past several months.

But he no longer had any choice, for Justin was suddenly standing in front of him, his chipmunk cheeks pushed up by his toothy smile. He patted Mark on the shoulder, then gently raised Mark's chin with his free hand, his dark-brown eyes glinting into Mark's. "Hey, man, chin up," said the singer. "You'll get 'em next time." He winked.

Mark's 4 inches of trouble strained against his waistband, wanting so badly to be 4 and 1/2 inches that he thought he might pass out from lack of blood to his brain as it all puddled into his crotch. He shook his head violently, finally regaining his composure. But he was too late: Biebz had already moved on to congratulate Harry Papp. However, while the tiny pop singer's mouth paid lip service to Harry, his eyes were resting on the man next to him-

A shout went up from the crowd - actually, it was more of a bark - and everyone on the podium looked out to the middle of the mass of people where two men were locked arms in arms, a circle instantly forming around their struggle. Detective Jorge T. Vinos quickly spun Mark's boss, Mike, who was naked from the waist down, around and applied a rigorous choke hold under his chin. "I'll ask the questions!" screamed the detective as a collective gasp at Mike's micro-penis flailed up from the crowd, hovering in the air just above it-

But before anyone could make sense of what was transpiring, the sirens of the ambulance at the back of the congregation screeched into full blazing, blinding, strobing, red-and-white lights as it took off with the one runner who had succumbed to a devastating Achilles tendon injury. All heads turned towards the ambulance as it kicked up rocks into the faces of those just behind, several of whom fell to their knees, their hands wiping their bloodied eyes-

And through all the ruckus, Mark heard the hammer click back, felt the wind of the arm as it raised the gun up, and saw the trench-coated man's finger confidently pull the trigger. Without thinking, Mark jumped on Justin, his heartbeat in his ears and the searing flesh of his shoulder drowning out the pop of the .45 that sent a bullet off Mark's deltoid and into Harry Papp's chest just behind him.

Mark looked down into Justin Bieber's eyes as he lay on top of him, the heavy breathing of the two of them the only sound they could hear. Finally, Justin smiled. "Is that a bullet in your pocket or are you happy that you just saved my life?" he said. Then winked.

Biebz in Da Haus (Or, Aesop's a Fucking Bitch!), Part II

Mark glided up alongside the table and grabbed a plastic cup of water on the edge. As he began to drink, the woman coughed. "This water's for participants in the Cedarville 10K only."

"I'm in the Cedarville 10K-" Mark finished the water and set the cup back on the table.

The woman looked at her watch - a Racemaster 3000 just like Mark's - and huffed. She crossed her arms, tipped the bun of red hair on her head to one side. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah-"

"Where'd you start, just around the bend there? Because there ain't no way-"

"I started at the starting line with everyone else-"

"Then you must've drove-"

"Do you see a car?"

"Rode-"

"Do you see a bike?"

"Or cut-"

"You saw where I was coming from." Mark held up the number pinned to his tank top: 666. "I'm in the race-"

"You're barely sweat-"

"I don't sweat much-"

"Well, then, where's my husband?"

"Your husband?"

"Harry!"

"Harry?"

"Harry Papp! He wins this cotton pickin' race every year! And he's gonna win it this year and we're gonna meet Mr. Bieber!"

Mark pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "He's back there somewhere. Haven't seen him for miles-"

"Okay, Mister, you've gone far enough." Mrs. Papp's face was as red as her hair, as if a bucket of menstrual blood had been dropped on her head. "I'm just gonna make a call-" She reached for the walkie-talkie behind her.

"Can I use the Port-a-Potty?" Mark asked. He nodded to large rectangular shit-holder.

Mrs. Papp turned around and glared at him. "That's what it's there for, cheater!"

Mark opened the spring-loaded door and let it flop back with a smack. Jesus Christ, the woman had actually put a damper on his boner. "There's a dead animal in there," he yelled.

The chubby woman jerked the walkie-talkie to her hip before she could speak in it. "It's a cotton pickin' Port-a-Potty, for crying out loud! What do you expect it to smell like?"

Mark shook his head with emphasis. "No, ma'am, I mean there's a real dead animal in there. A possum or something."

"The runners!" The woman jumped in place, threw the walkie-talkie to the ground, and hopped over to the Port-a-Potty, her triceps flapping like the wings of a condor. As she opened the door, Mark eased up behind her, his cock stiffening, and threaded his fingers quickly through her tight, auburn curls. He held her small, fat face in the bottom of the toilet until her limbs ceased jerking and her back no longer heaved for air. At which he pushed her fully into the Port-a-Potty, clicked the lever to "Occupied," pushed the door to, and snagged another drink of water.

As he pulled up to the second -and last- water station, he looked at his Racemaster 3000. Way ahead of time. The station was empty but for about a hundred plastic cups of warm water. As he grabbed one, his eardrum grabbed a slight rustling from inside the lone Port-a-Potty. He gulped the water, then grabbed the door to the john. Which pushed out as he pulled, revealing a boy of no more than 14, a rolled magazine in his other hand, the head of his cock peeping above his waistband just as Mark's was.

The boy looked down and giggled. Then rolled his eyes. "Just taking a break. Are you with the Club?" he said.

"I'm in the race-"

The boy looked at his own Racemaster 3000. "No fucking way, dude-"

"Yes, fucking way, dude-"

The boy grabbed Mark's wrist and flipped it over. A few clicks of his thumb and he studied the distance clocked. He pulled back. And looked around. "How-"

"I'm kinda fast-" Mark grinned back at the boy. Then pulled up his fanny pack just high enough to expose his cummy cock. The boy looked, then turned his head, his blonde bangs beating against his squinting eyes. "Here," he said and handed Mark the magazine. "You can use this-"

Mark unfurled the magazine and his grin burst into an ass-eating smile: Justin Bieber - and only Justin Bieber - adorned the latest issue of TeenBeat. He laid the magazine on the table and pointed at the boy's waistband. "Can't I use that?" he said and watched as the boy's cock pulsed upwards against the elastic.

"Fuck yeah-"

Mark bent over toilet seat as best he could in the small square they were afforded by the closed Port-a-Potty and dropped his running shorts, underneath which was nothing but his shaved balls, ass, and cock. The boy spit in his hand, lubed Mark's ass and his own dick, which wasn't much bigger than Mark's, and thrust forward. After a few more stabs, the boy pulled out and sighed. "Either my dick's as tiny as I think it is, or your asshole's huge," said the boy.

"Thanks, fuckhead-"

The boy laughed. "Nah, man, I just came. I don't think it's gonna work-"

"Then use your fingers-"

"What, all of 'em?"

"If you have to, you prick-"

Mark listened as the boy laughed again, then spit several times. Plop. Plop. Plop. Plop. PLUP! And Mark lurched forward as his asshole collapsed around the boy's wrist. Which then began turning in half-circles, his knuckles spiraling against Mark's prostate, an inverted cement truck grinding semen into his urethra.

"How's my asshole feel now?" said Mark.

"It fits my hand like a glove," gasped the boy. "Like an, an, an...Isotoner-"

Mark's head reared back, and he finally touched his cock, the cum dribbling at first, then pulsing out in strokes that shook his whole body. As he caught his breath, the boy's fist slid out of his asshole in a whisper. Mark grabbed some toilet paper and wiped himself - clean! - and watched the boy take off his shirt, wipe his cock of his cum, then his hand. He stuck the Yellow Cedarville 10K shirt in his back pocket and sighed, a smile spreading across his face in the semi-dark of the Port-a-Potty much as Mark's asshole had spread across his hand. Mark jumped. "Did you hear that?"

"What?"

"It's them-"

The boy peeked out the door. "Just one-"

"Papp?"

"No, some young guy. I can see Papp's still far off-"

Mark looked at his Racemaster 3000. "No fucking way-"

"You can catch him-"

"Yeah, but I didn't want it to be like this-"

"Just fucking catch him and pass him, dude-"

"Yeah-"

They popped out of the john. The boy picked up his magazine and put it in his other back pocket. Mark gulped down a hot water and adjusted his fanny pack. Before he took off, the boy grabbed his arm. "Make sure you go the right way at the fork. They've changed it."

"Which way?"

"I don't know. I was just told they had to re-route it."

"Fuck, that's the first I've heard of it-"

"It shouldn't be." The boy looked over his shoulder at the mass of runners, led by Harry Papp, rounding the corner of the road. "Go. Just follow that one dude."

"Oh, I will-" And Mark was gone.

Up ahead, he could see the back of the ghost he'd seen earlier in the day. He took a deep breath and increased his strides, tripling his speed. At the fork in the road, he was feet behind the man, who veered to his right. Within seconds, Mark was at the guy's side, his head turned to get a better look at the fellow. He shivered as the guy turned to him - if it wasn't Danny Raleigh, then he wasn't Mark Dennison. Finally, he said, "Hey."

"Hey."

"Haven't seen you around-"

The guy shook his head.

"You got a name?"

The guy took a deep breath, then spoke slowly in short, choppy bursts: "Dude...I'm trying to...run and win a race...I don't really...have time for...chit...chat."

Mark turned from the man, unable to feel his legs from both shock and anger - the guy sounded just like Danny except for the cadence of his sentences. But then he pulled up. And looked around. He yelled out to the guy, "Fuckface!" The fellow stopped and turned. And looked around too.

They were standing in the middle of an undeveloped cul-de-sac, skeletons of houses that would soon be occupied by families of all sorts standing at silent attention all around them, leering at them, as if about to break into laughter. All Mark could hear was the blood rushing through his swelling face - and the feet of the other runners who had been so far behind but who were now obviously way ahead of them. "You fucking dick, you went the wrong way," he said.

The guy wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "Um...yeah, I guess...so."

"You guess so? What the fuck, dude?"

"I wasn't sure...which way to go...so since I'm right-...handed...I just went right."

"Fuck!" Mark screamed. And pushed the guy in front of him. As he took off, he pulled his right leg back until his heel touched his ass, then let loose with a kick that landed square on the back of the fellow's ankle. Not even the audible pop of the man's Achilles tendon could soothe Mark as he flew on, only the balls of his feet barely scraping the ground.

At the fork, he circled right - and right in front of Detective Jorge T. Vinos - who yelped something at him - and his boss, Mike - who yelled what sounded like, "Woo hoo! Good Times!" But he didn't have time for anything except vanquishing Harry Papp and meeting Biebz. He bulleted past several more runners, who were grinding out their finishes, until he saw just ahead of him the lone figure of Harry Papp - crossing the finish line.

Biebz in Da Haus (Or, Aesop's a Fucking Bitch!), Part I

Thanks to a week-long, intensive diet of fibrous carbs and bloody protein, Mark deposited the largest turd in the history of mankind into the bottom of the lone Port-a-Potty servicing the Cedarville 10K's starting line. On top of which he added ten silky squiggles of cum like a horny pastry chef, his shit-log a double-chocolate eclair accented with his second hardy load in as many hours. He wiped himself five times, four of which were superfluous thanks to the plywood consistency of his constitutional, then popped out of the john. And would've shit his pants if his intestines had anything inside them, as he gazed upon what could only have been a ghost.

The boy was the same height as Danny. The same build. The same hair color but cropped short. He even looked around skittishly like Danny used to and wiped his brow nervously with the back of his hand the same way. Mark walked - no, glided without moving his legs - over to the boy. But before he could say a word - could he say a word? - a collective scream went up from the thousands of runners and spectators. He looked to the stage set up to the side, right next to the Port-a-Potty. And watched Justin Bieber moonwalk across it, the singer's eyes fixed on his feet as he made his way to the microphone. Instant boner.

Mark looked back to the doppelganger, but the boy was gone - Mike, his boss, was in his place, his pasty, orange-haired legs dangling from his well-worn black shorts. Mike waved. Mark shook his head. Then nodded. And readjusted his cock in his running shorts so that it was vertical and lay behind his fanny pack. He quickly swiveled his head once more at the sound of a bark behind him. But it was just Detective Jorge T. Vinos, who quickly ducked his head behind his short, fat hand.

"Yo yo yo, what up Cedarville?" Justin yelled, his perfect bowl of hair unmoving in the slight breeze that pushed the heat through the crowd. "Now, boyeeee, I was supposed to sing The Star-Spangled Banner" - the crowd booed - "but I gots somethin' better for yous playas" -the crowd cheered- "Hit it, Scrappy!" And he broke into an acoustic version, played on the electric keyboard by his right-hand thug, Scrappy, of "One Less Lonely Girl," which, of course, for all the world reverberated through Mark's ears as "One Less Lonely Mark."

The men, women, boys, and girls jumped up and down, bobbing their heads, the pavement growing slick with their joyous pubescent and elderly tears. Mark jumped along with them, every hop higher and higher, his eyes fixed for Danny Raleigh's reincarnation. But to no avail. So as Justin hit the last run-on chorus, he slid his way between this fat girl and that old guy here and there until he was at the front of the mass of runners. Feet from Justin, he froze and watched as the singer hit his final note, then bowed to the roar of the audience...and threw a wink his way? Mark pushed his fanny pack against the head of his tiny cock, wetting his waistline.

"Yo yo yo, Cedarville in da house!" yelled Bieber, who then gave the microphone to Harry Papp, the Cedarville Runners Club Chairman.

As the man gave his thank-yous to various organization, individuals, and parasites, Mark watched Justin in the background as the singer got a drink, punched Scrappy in the arm a few times, laughed with his mom, adjusted his baggy jeans several times...and threw him another wink?, all without his hair moving one iota. Until a girl next to him read his mind: "He's so hot!" she screamed. "Yeah," yelled Mark, "I'd eat the corn out of his shit!"

He watched as those nearest him recoiled, their faces scrunched up, mumbled "Ewwww's" escaping their throats. Before he could say anything else, Harry Papp was at his side, jumping up and down. The tiny old man pushed his taped glasses up his nose and laughed. "See you guys at the concert," he said. "Oh, wait, no I won't - I'll be in the front row!"

"Dick!"

"Fucker!"

"Arrogant prick!"

Harry nudged Mark. "Like any of you have a chance." He laughed.

But Mark said nothing. Instead, he watched Justin Bieber tip-toe to the front edge of the stage, hold aloft the starting gun, pull the trigger...and throw him yet another a wink? "See ya," he said and took off, his cock harder than it had been all morning.

A Good Run Munged

Mark's nosehairs vibrated with the scent of the limping animal half a mile away, its odor wild with blood as it foraged on the forest ground, unable to climb. He looked down at the Racemaster 3000 on his wrist, then kicked his jog into the next gear with one powerful stride. In seconds, he hovered over the squirrel, his eyes steady as he watched it stumble to and fro over last year's dead leaves. With a whip of his right arm, he seized the creature, brought it up to eye level, and punctured its swollen belly with his razored fingernails. The thing squirmed, then shuddered, then calcified into death as its entrails poured from its abdomen.

Mark licked the length of the squirrel's hanging intestines before throwing it deep into the woods; its insides tasted not much unlike those of a blue crab. He wished he hadn't been so hasty in getting rid of it as he returned to the trail vivisecting Cedarville Park and his stomach grumbled with hunger. But he grinned - he could see lunch up ahead.

The woman was alone but for her walker. Dressed in a worn housecoat and slippers, she ambled along slowly, as if re-living her eighty-five years one tiny step at a time. Mark overtook her in a matter of seconds, shouldering her into the woods with a bump of his lean hips. He grabbed the walker and threw it in behind her, then descended upon the silent, wide-eyed woman as she lay unmoving fifteen feet from the trail and behind a flurry of dented bushes.

He pulled his razor from the fanny pack that sagged just above his hard-on, dropped to one knee, and ripped open the housecoat, exposing the woman's naked, dilapidated body. As he sliced off her left tit, he felt her heart stop with a noiseless stammer under the right one. With a laugh, he mashed the bloody breast, which hardly bled, into the woman's face, then proceeded to do the same with the other breast.

Mark re-fannypacked his razor, then positioned himself at her blank head, his feet on each side of her thinned, blood-smacked, gray hair. He fell forward and caught himself on his hands beside her hips, burying his face into her cunt, which smelled of urine and leather. Opening his mouth wide, he placed it over her pussy, then slowly raised himself up into a handstand. With all the force his hips could muster, he slammed the soles of his Adidas running shoes into the woman's swelling belly. And in one gulp swallowed everything that flooded from her cunt in a single swoosh of mung.

He stood up, the blood falling from his head into the rest of his body. And burped. He almost gagged, which surprised him for a second. Until his belly was warmed, almost full. Almost. He looked to his Racemaster 3000, estimated the remaining distance to time in his head, wiped his mouth, and took off in a flash, his hard-on bouncing wet and slimy with pre-cum in his thin running shorts.

Sports Briefs

Bieber to Officiate Cedarville 10K

By Dustin Ruxefjord
Evening Gazette Staff Writer

Cedarville - Critically-acclaimed international pop star Justin Bieber will officiate this year's Annual Cedarville 10K in downtown Cedarville, Maryland, The Evening Gazette has just confirmed. Bieber, 15, will fire the starting gun of the yearly event and hand out trophies to the winners of all age- and gender-related competitions, including the Open 10K, which is open to all competitors, except those who race professionally.

"This is quite a coup for the Cedarville 10K," said Harry Papp, the race's organizer, as well as one of its most feared competitors. "To have someone of Justin's - nay, Mr. Bieber's - stature and talent officiating our little race is...wow, I just can't put it into words."

But the events' combatants are not the only ones excited by Bieber's appearance - the ultra-talented singer is a major sex symbol to pre-teen girls, desperate homosexuals of both sexes, and pedophiles the world over. The turnout for this year's event is expected to exceed those of the race's entire 215-year history combined. Especially as there will be a special incentive for those who show up to compete, according to Bieber himself.

Reached by telephone this week, Bieber had this to say: "Yo! What up, Cedarville! East side! Thank you for having me and thank you to all the fans. And just to up the ante, the top 5 finishers in each category will receive free front-row tickets to my concert the following night, with the winner of the Open Category receiving the privilege of hanging for the day with yours truly. Peace out, my Cedarville homies!"

The Annual Cedarville 10K will be held on June 19th, weather permitting. The starting gun will go off at 8:03 a.m. after a performance of "One Less Lonely Girl" by Bieber. Competitors and spectators may sign up for the event at the Cedarville Community Center; fees are $25 for runners and $15 for spectators. Good luck to all who participate.


Pamela Pohanka contributed to this report.

Event(ful(l))

Mike walked quickly back from the door, cracking his neck left and right so hard that Mark thought the gigantic, beige mole on the side of his nose was going to fall off. "They're lined up around the corner! Woo hoo! Good times!" he squealed. He glanced over at the basket full of hundreds of ebony dildoes. "Though I'm not so sure about those-"

"Relax," said Mark. "You're going to sell more of those black mambas today than you will your beloved comics in the next ten years-"

Mike sniggered. "We'll see. And we need to get this place back in order-"

"For crying out loud, Mike, relax! It'll all be taken care of." Mark looked around the store, which was empty but for the table towards the back, the basket full of dildoes, two chairs, and two small stepladders. The store's inventory and shelves were neatly stacked and pressed against the walls. "Ladies!" Mark called. "Are you ready?"

"Just another minute-" a voice sirened from behind the door that led to the booths.

"Let 'em in," said Mark.

At which Mike went back to the front door, his elbows and wrists popping all the way, and turned the lock. He stood by and collected and inspected all 70 tickets from Cedarville's most perverted men, all regular customers and known either by name or face or both to both Mike and Mark. As the last customer made his way into the throng breathing heavily into what little space was left, Mike locked the front door, pulled the shade, and reclaimed his spot by Mark. He looked at the table. "I sure hope that thing doesn't break," he whispered.

"It's tested for a metric ton, there won't be any problem." Mark jumped down from the register stand and stuck his head through the door leading to the booths. He shut the door and turned to face 70 smiles of all ages, races, orientations, widths, and varying stages of toothlessness. He'd never seen so many debauched men in his life and was suddenly thankful that he didn't have to look at their faces as he sucked them off through the gloryhole of Booth 3.

He cleared his throat. "Gentleman, BJ's would like to thank you for coming today. In just a minute, you will be treated to a live performance by Miss Jane Sheckleton and Mrs. Dana Callahan of their now-famous double-headed double dildo mutual masturbation scene from their acclaimed production, Nasty, Dirty Anal Cunt Sluts, Volume 18. And as I can see from the bulges in your pants-" a collective laugh went up from the group of jostling men - "you're more than ready. Well, so are they. Without further ado, I present to you Miss Jane Sheckleton and Mrs. Dana Callahan."

The back door opened and out squeezed the two morbidly obese porn stars, who didn't look so morbidly obese squeezed into two of the largest teddies - or were they slender tents? - known to man. A sonic holler and whoop rose to the ceiling, shaking BJ's very foundations. The women bowed and asked for silence.

"Thank you," said Dana. "Before we begin, we'd like to introduce our assistant, Miss Katleen Werner. Miss Werner is the newest addition to the roster of DoubleStuff Productions and will be making her debut this fall in Ginger Clit-Lickers from Mars, the Planet Almost as Red as a Ginger Girl's Period. Miss Katleen Werner!"

A hush settled over the crowd of men, their mouths agape as a petite, auburn-haired girl, who couldn't have been more than nineteen years old, stepped stark naked from the behind the back door. After another minute of cross-eyed ogling, erecting boners, and crotch self-massages, the men cheered. Katleen bowed and laughed, her enormous breasts, which almost hid the rest of her body, jiggling up and down like two mini-planets hit by comets simultaneously.

"Are those real?" a man yelled.

"100%!" said Mark. And he wouldn't have believed it himself if Katleen hadn't let him put his taut 4 inches between them until he'd come in her mouth earlier that morning, just before Mike arrived. They were almost as squishy as the fat rolls on Jane and Dana's backs, which he'd also fucked several hours earlier. "And no touching!"

The men laughed and hee'd and haw'd until their boners were almost extinct. As they quieted down, Dana removed her glasses and gave them to Katleen, who held them in her left hand, as her right hand was already occupied - by a small knife. Dana looked to Jane and nodded. Then both ladies removed their high heels, took to the step ladders, and after several grunting attempts, stepped onto the large padded table.

Slowly, they removed their teddies one button at a time, their bodies grinding the air around them, the waffled, stretch-marked flesh underneath springing out with audible sighs. They threw their teddies into the crowd of jumping men, then turned and bent over, revealing two of the largest combination dildo-butt plugs in the history of mankind. Each half measured at least eight inches in diameter, from what Mark could tell; his asshole ached with jealousy as the women moaned in unison and poop-queefed the sex toys out onto the table beneath, their holes momentarily black, breathing, inviting tunnels.

They rose up and embraced. Their tongues found each other in a messy kiss of over-applied lipstick that smeared their faces as they ground their humongous rolls of belly fat together. They made their way down into a simultaneous squat, the table creaking as they sat back on their asses facing one another, their legs spread, the soles of their feet glued one to the other. Katleen suddenly appeared, four 24-inch, ebony, double-headed dildoes in her polite, little hands. But before inserting them, she hunched over the table and went to work on each lady's clit, snarling and growling as she attacked each, biting, sucking, and clawing with her tongue.

When Jane and Dana's cunts and assholes were sopping wet with Kathleen's spittle, the young girl took her time and smilingly inserted two dildoes into each of the women's holes. The shiny black mambas were defenseless and quickly devoured by the stunningly muscled orifices of the two porn queens, who slid back and forth on the dildoes, their crotches kissing briefly, until they picked up so much speed that their cunts were never untouching for more than a half-second.

The men were silenced with awe. The only sound to escape from them were muffled grunts - actually, this came from only one man, way in the back - and the scratching of hands against jeans and khakis. Until someone finally called out, "Can we jerk off?"

Mark looked to the crowd and met 140 eyes pleading with him. He looked to the man grunting in the back. "Detective Vinos!"

"Detective Jorge T. Vinos!"

"Detective Jorge T. Vinos! Do you think it'd be-"

"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison!"

Mark looked at Mike, who looked back at him and mouthed, "What the fuck?" Mark grinned. Then looked back to the detective. "Well, we're all consenting adults here and no one can see us-" Detective Vinos was nodding approval "-so yeah, go ahead."

"Where do we come? On the floor?"

"Hmm-"

Jane and Dana stopped abruptly, their thick cunts mashed together and hiding the stuffed, suffocated dildoes. Dana whispered something to Katleen, who bounced over to Mark and whispered in his ear. "No problem," said Mark. He ran through the back door and reappeared moments later with a bucket. He handed it to the man who had asked if they could jerk off. "Use this bucket. Just pass it around as you need it. And when you're done-" he nodded to the table "-give it to Katleen. The ladies have a surprise for you-"

"Oh, fuck!"

"Oh, shit!"

"Hell, yeah!"

"Cum on dem bitches-"

"Bucket, please!" And it was passed back to the fellow who'd come in with Detective Vinos, a rather short, stocky man in a baggy plaid shirt and khakis. He made the first deposit and passed it to the next hand to be raised.

Dana and Jane began where they left off. Their sweaty rolls squeaked louder than the table with every lightning-quick thrust that seemed it would be the death of them - or the table. Mark thought he could smell burnt latex wafting from the friction between their cunts and assholes. And could've sworn that the two gigantic black mambas were smoking. But before he could confirm either sensation, he was distracted by a sight he wished he could unsee: Mike had dropped his shorts to the floor and was furiously working the smallest cock Mark had ever seen between two slender, red, cracking fingers, a cock so tiny that it re-defined micro-penis and buoyed Mark with the confidence of a multi-million dollar porn star.

The bucket began to change hands quicker and quicker, a plastic crowd-surfer, as the porn queens picked up steam - yes! that was a slight stream of smoke emanating from the burning mambas - and Katleen dropped the knife and glasses and joined in, her hands working her clit, her mouth working each woman's cunt in turn. Until the whole store was thrown into a mist of sweat, cum, cunt juice, ass juice, and a cacophony of moans and grunts that ended only when Jane and Dana let out two orgasmic howls that sent the last drops of semen - from Mike! - into the bucket. The men hollered and yelped and jumped up and down and pushed each other, briefly creating a miniature porn mosh pit that quickly subsided into ooh's and aah's as the bucket passed finally to Mark, who'd been giggling too much to get hard and shoot yet another load that day.

Katleen grabbed the bucket and ran over to the ladies. Gently, she turned the bucket over and spread its contents on the heaving bellies of her leading ladies, rubbing it between the flabs of skin until it was dry and they had regained their breaths. Katleen picked up the knife and carefully sliced the four dildoes in half, the four now eight and all lodged tightly in their respective holes. The ladies rolled over and pulled the chairs up to the table. They sat down and accepted ice-cold bottles of water from Mark. They placed the towels Katleen had retrieved around their necks and opened the markers supplied to them by Mike.

Mark stepped to the front of the table. "Well, how'd you like that?" The men applauded and yelled out obscenities that made the ladies blush with gratitude. "Now, Miss Sheckleton and Mrs. Callahan have been kind enough to agree to sign autographs on these here-" Mark pointed to the large basket full of hundreds of black, double-headed dildoes, each neatly wrapped in cellophane "-the price for each is forty dollars-"

Some of the men booed. "Why so steep?" yelled one.

"I'm glad you asked." Mark smiled. He picked up one of the dildoes and held it out in front of him. "Each dildo here has been used personally by Miss Sheckleton AND Mrs. Callahan. And the forty dollar price includes the signing fee-"

"Bullshit!"

Dana pushed her glasses onto her face and stood up, grabbing the dildo from Mark. "It's not bullshit. Every single one of these dildoes has been in both of our cunts and assholes. Both ends. We got here early this morning and fucked each and every one of them. I guarantee it." She sat down and handed the dildo back to Mark.

"Gentleman, this is a collector's item. No one else in the world except you men can say that they own an authentic double-headed dildo used by both Jane Sheckleton and Dana Callahan. And when you get your hands on one - or when you get it home and look over it closely - you'll see for yourself that each one is lovingly layered in these fine ladies' cunt and ass juices." Mark squeezed the dildo in his hand and it almost slipped out onto the floor.

The men rumbled, but this time their grumbling was accompanied by energetic shrugs and nods. Hands suddenly went up in the air, requesting 70 dildoes. "Now, listen," said Mark, "I'd suggest you buy two or three at this great price. Keep one as a collectible and the others you can use in the bedroom on your wife or your girlfriend or-"

"Or ourselves!"

The room grew so quiet one could've heard another butt plug drop. All the men turned to the man who had shouted: Detective Jorge T. Vinos!

"Faggot!" shouted someone. And the men howled, their laughing vibrating the hardwood floors of BJ's. Mark watched Detective Vinos shrink back in horror, his grunts audible amongst the jovial laughter. He shook his head.

"Fellas! Fellas!" Jane Sheckleton stood up. When all were quiet, she continued: "For an extra ten dollars, you can crawl under the table and get a lick or two of our cunts and assholes, including Miss Werner's." The men cheered at this, looking at each other in giddy amazement. "But you have to buy at least two dildoes. And please, when you're eating our cunts and asses, do not bite or nibble on the dildoes inside us. Or you'll get a golden -and brown!- shower that you'll never forget."

Within minutes, the basket was empty, each man holding several dildoes. Mark's pocket was full of bills, and he and Mike looked on as the first two men in line made their way under the table. Katleen sat on the floor at the end of the table, her legs spread and wrapped around the table legs, the knife coyly dangling in her fingers. "Well," said Mike, "you did it-"

"You certainly did, Mister Dennison-"

Mike and Mark looked up. Detective Jorge T. Vinos stood next to them, his pants stained with cum, at least five dildoes in the crook of his arm. Next to him was his companion who'd accompanied him, his pants also stained with cum. And ketchup. "Mr. Vin-"

"Detective Jorge T. Vinos!"

"Detective Jorge T. Vinos!" Mark yelled. "Do you know Mike?"

"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison!" Detective Vinos switched the dildoes noisily to his other arm. He cleared his throat. "Yes, I know the proprietor of this establishment."

"And who is this, your boyfriend?"

"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison! I'm not a homosexual!" Detective Vinos looked to his companion, who was giggling, his cheeks flushed. "I'd like to introduce you to my partner, Detective Jerry Wead! He's been assigned to the missing persons cases, along with yours truly, of your friends, Dick Cox and Dill Doublepound-"

"Are those really their names?" whispered Mike.

"Oh, yeah, I tried calling Dick's cell phone the other night, but I got nothing-"

"Oh, did you, Mister Dennison? That's very suspicious behavior, Mister Dennison, calling missing persons-"

"Why is it suspicious that I tried my friend's phone because I want him found just as badly as you do?"

"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison!" The detective looked to his partner, just catching a roll of the man's eyes and a shake of his head in his peripheral vision, and let out a series of almost completely uninhibited grunts and barks. He shifted the dildoes to his other arm and leaned in towards Mark. He looked around sheepishly. And whispered, "How much for those butt plug-dildo thingies on the floor?"

Biebz

"Mark." Sarah stood at his bedroom door, her arms folded under her bra. "What the fuck?" She nodded to the hundreds of posters and cut-out magazine pages on his walls.

"What?"

"You like Justin Bieber or what?"

"Not his music." Mark grinned over the top of his blanket as he lay in bed. "But since he's gonna be my husband someday-"

"Yeah, right-" Sarah shook her head. And laughed.

"You'll see-" Mark giggled. Then slipped his hand under the elastic of his boxer briefs, his hand encasing his hard-on. He closed eyes, two little slits over the wide slit of his shit-eating grin.

The concert's over. Mark's finagled a backstage pass from security - by deepthroating the fat guy's short, half-limp cock in one of the 20 stalls in the bathroom just outside his section of the arena. He watches all the girls as they take turns posing for pics with Justin, sitting on his lap, their little cunts wet in their skinny jeans and panty-less mini-skirts. And as he's staring at the boy without blinking, he gets hard as the boy stares back at him without blinking the whole time.

The last girl gets her autograph on the back of her concert shirt, her ass plumped into Justin's face, which he totally ignores because he's only looking at one thing, one person, in the room. As she leaves, passing Mark giggling like a schoolgirl who's come for the first time - and she probably did because she's wobbly and because Mark's almost come himself just watching Justin watching him - the room's finally empty.

Just the two of them. Staring at each other. And smiling with a well-known secret. Justin finally sighs and lays back on the couch, stretching out his legs in his skinny jeans, his inflated cock a rumple next to his zipper. He looks down at it. Then back up at Mark, who's standing over him. He puts out a hand and pulls Mark onto him.

Straddling his new boyfriend, Mark pulls back, removes the boy's cocked hat, slowly rifles his fingers through his messy mop. He caresses one smooth cheek - as soft and hairless as his own - then falls forward, buries his tongue into the boy's mouth and is met halfway by a tongue even more urgent than his own.

Clothes rip, flying to the floor. Justin's on his knees over the back of the couch, Mark's face ensconced in his ass, which smells of soap and sweat. Mark reaches down, grabs his cock, which is now no less than a good foot of thick rope, and puts the tip to Justin's hole. He enters as he hunches forward, chest to back, his arms wrapped around the boy's slight, moaning frame, their mouths entwined in hurried exchanges of lips, tongue, and spit.

Mark pushes in until he's flush with the boy's ass. And feels it tear, top and bottom. He pulls back, pumps, and watches as it splits in half, soaking his pelvis in blood. And all he hears is the boy begging for more.

With one last thrust, he shoots three gallons of semen into Justin Bieber's guts, and they collapse, one upon the other upon the couch. And continue kissing, between giggles just like those of the girl who came earlier.

Sarah coughed. Mark opened his eyes. Then pulled his hand out of his underwear and wiped his cum on his New York Giants blanket, on the same spot hardened by months of ejaculate. He looked at his mom and shrugged, grinning.

"You're a mess," she said and shook her head.

"I know-" Mark giggled.

Plying

Mark had sucked and fucked more cock in the last week than he'd sucked and fucked in his entire life. So much so that his throat and cock throbbed with delicious hunger when he thought about it. And craved even more. That was the thing with cock, though: the more you got, the more you wanted.

And he'd made more money in the last week than any time in his life, even when he'd been selling weed with Donte and Delonte - oh, fuck, he'd like their huge cocks about right now - and none of it was even in his paycheck. That was the thing with money, though: the more you got, the more you wanted.

He blinked in the dark cubbyhole that was partitioned off from the now-famous booth 3 in the back of BJ's Videos N Toys as the video screen in the booth blasted on, shooting a laser of dusty blue light through the glory hole. Another minute and an average, familiar cock peeped through the hole, a garden snake sniffing out its surroundings as it bobbed back and forth, up and down. With all the strength in his forearm, Mark tightly curled his middle finger, then flicked the jerky cock under its head. At which it retracted immediately, accompanied by a muffled "Oof" from the other side of the wall.

Mark put his mouth to the hole. "Fifty-" A pair of odd-shaped yet not unfamiliar lips met his in the center of the hole and he recoiled, spitting and wiping his mouth. "Dude-"

"Sorry," said the pair of lips poking through the hole; in the dark, they resembled nothing more than a chicken's asshole. After a pause, in which a tongue darted out and licked the lips and a number of grunts issued forth through the hole, the lips opened again: "What do you mean?"

"Dude, you know the deal. Fifty bucks for a suck."

"Oh, I thought that was just for the first time-"

"You mean, for the first ten times?"

"I'll ask the questions!"

"Because this is, like, the tenth day in a row you've been here. The second time today actually-"

"I've never been here before-"

"Then why did you say-"

"I'll ask the questions!"

Mark sighed. "Dude if you want your dick sucked, it's gonna be fifty bucks. If you want me to ride it, then it's a hundred and fifty."

"Eww. Anal is nasty."

"Whatever floats your boat."

The lips disappeared, and after what seemed like years, a number of bills appeared through the hole. Mark counted it: two twenties, a five, and two ones. "You're three short-"

"I know, I know. Hold on-"

Several more minutes, during which Mark heard about forty grunts and about two hundred coins rap the floor, and he finally cupped his hand under the hole as three hundred pennies were deposited in his hand one at a time. He stashed it in his pocket with the crumbled bills, then swallowed the cock that appeared once more through the hole. Five or ten - or was it one? - full-length strokes down the shaft and three drops of cum dribbled onto his tongue. The cock deflated like a balloon animal in his hand and slowly withdrew. Before he could hear a zip and any more grunts, Mark dashed out the back door of the cubbyhole, along the narrow passageway that led to all the cubbies, and took up his position behind the counter, where he began dusting the new stock of 36-inch dildos that had come in that morning.

He turned around upon hearing the first grunt. The detective was in the 'Chicks with Extremely Tiny Dicks' section, leafing through one after another of the magazines. When the man turned, his hands full of magazines, Mark saw that the ketchup stain on his rumpled tie was almost as big as the cum - or spit or piss or whatever the fuck it was - stain on his pants. Mark smiled as the man laid the magazines on the counter without looking at him and fumbled in all his pockets for his wallet. "Mr. Vinos!" said Mark.

Detective Vinos looked up, a grunt so loud escaping from his throat that it seemed it came directly through his trachea and not through his closed mouth. Mark almost jumped; instead, he laughed, grabbed the magazines, and started ringing them up. "Detective Jorge T. Vinos!" said the man.

"My bad. Detective Jorge T. Vinos!" Mark yelled. "Will this be it?"

"Yes." The detective's affirmation was a mumbled growl.

"You know, if you buy two more today, you can get any of the items on the wall behind me at fifty-percent off." Mark pointed to the rubber pocket pussy that was actually a rubber pocket mouth. "I think this'd be right up your alley."

"No thank you. I'm getting these for, um...the vice squad. They're in the middle of a very important investigation-"

"Really?"

"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison!"

"Then go ahead, shoot-"

The detective leaned over the counter and looked side to side before finally targeting Mark with his narrowed eyes, the caterpillars of his eyebrows about to fight one another they were squeezed together so tightly. "Where were you five minutes ago, Mister Dennison?"

"Right here-"

"You're lying. No one was here when I came in five minutes ago-"

"Sorry, I was right here-"

"I can take you in for lying to an officer of the law-"

"Wait a minute. You asked me where I was, and I told you. What's the problem?"

"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison!"

Mark sighed. "Okay-"

The detective looked around the store quickly, his neck turning like an owl's left and right. "Listen, Mister Dennison, I know what goes on here. I'll have this place shut down-"

"I know what goes on here, too. We have security cameras everywhere. I mean everywhere." Mark's eyes narrowed as he leaned, smiling, towards the detective. "I can send them to the vice squad, if you'd like me to, Mr. Vinos-"

"Detective Jorge T. Vinos!"

"Detective Jorge T. Vinos!" Mark drew back from the counter. "I can send them the originals or what's backed up permanently on the server-" Mark slipped his hand into his pocket and jangled the three hundred pennies stretching it to his knee.

The detective straightened up and began a search of his pockets again, finally alighting on his wallet in his front right pocket. After a series of tugs accompanied by slight grunts and barks, he handed over his credit card. Mark completed the transaction and bagged the magazines, which he handed to the detective. "Let me ask you something," said Mark.

"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison-"

"Okay, let me posit something then. I bet that if somebody sucked somebody's dick and that somebody came in that other somebody's mouth and that other somebody didn't swallow but spit it out and saved it, I bet that other somebody could give that to the state forensics lab and they'd be able to tell whether the semen was that somebody's or that other somebody's-"

"Good day, Mister Dennison-" The detective barked, slipped his wallet into the bag with the magazines, put his head down, and made for the door. "We shall meet again, I assure you."

Mark grabbed the rubber pocket mouth, and as the detective opened the door, yelled after him: "You sure you don't want one of these?"