The Writer and the Fan

Lining the plate-glass exterior of the bookstore were ten members of The Family, eleven counting the baby suckling at the youngest daughter's tit. At the end - and nearest the door - stood the pseudo-infamous patriarch, holding a large square of pink cardboard that contained some variation or other of the theme on all The Family's posters: GOD HATES FAG AUTHORS.

Mark recognized and locked eyes with the old man, taking in his simple, bloated form in his first glance: the small cloth baseball hat that just barely covered the over-large, liver-spotted head; the puffy eyes full of hate, anger, exasperation, and boredom; the ruddy, wrinkled jowls that hung as low as the pointed chin; the dirty, holed overalls; the muddy sneakers that strained to keep what must have been 10 of the biggest, grossest toes in check. He stopped at the door, his head turned over his shoulder, and adjusted his bookbag. One final roll of his eyes, accentuated with a flick of his spiky head, and he was in the store and in line to get his favorite books signed by his favorite author.

The writer looked up as Mark finally approached the table and removed a mess of plastic bags from his book bag, from which he removed four mint-condition hardcovers, laying them neatly stacked before him on the table.

"You've got a lot of fans outside," said Mark.

The writer shrugged.

"You should put them in your next book-"

"Oh, the things I would do them-"

"Tell me about it." Mark grinned. "You know, you're even cuter in person-"

The writer rolled his eyes, shaking his head, and smiled. He opened the book on top. Then looked back up, his white cheeks pink. He blinked his baby blue eyes a few times. "And to whom should I inscribe this fine piece of literature?"

Mark folded his arms. "Hmm." His grin developed into a wide, shit-eating smile that perfectly displayed his white, razor-sharp teeth. "Put, 'To my Number One Cutest Fan. Lovingly, The Maestro.'"

The writer blushed again. "Jesus Christ, man." He laughed.

"Or you can just put, 'To Mark Dennison-'"

The writer's eyebrows jumped to his hairline, and he stood up. "Come around here, man!"

Mark dropped his bookbag to the floor and made his way around the table, his hand outstretched.

"Fuck that," said that writer as he wrapped his arms around Mark. "Dude, so glad to finally meet you." As he let Mark go, he sat down and leaned back in his chair. "You are just like your letters-"

"Thanks?"

"No no, that's a compliment-"

"Thanks!"

The writer set to signing Mark's books, inscribing each with a doodle and some barely decipherable words. As he handed them back, he looked past Mark to the line behind him. "Can you stick around about half an hour?"

"Sure."

"I shouldn't be any longer than that. We can get coffee or whatever. You up for that?"

"Fuck yeah." Mark grabbed his books without looking inside them, his giddiness quickening his pulse. As he turned around, his eyes met those of the man from outside as the old fart entered the store. He continued glaring back at the man, following his trek to the back of the store. When the man disappeared through the bathroom door, Mark re-bagged his books and his plastic bags in separate compartments. Then took off for the bathroom.

He scanned the john as he entered. Once he was sure it was empty, he jammed the rubber stop under the door with his foot and made his way to the lone occupied stall. He shut and locked the door behind him, hung his bag on the hook, and turned the man around by the shoulder. Before the man could say anything, Mark's tongue was in his mouth, the old man's stench and rough whiskers no obstacle.

Mark pulled away and looked into the man's blurry eyes. He reached up and removed the man's hat, surprised that the man seemed to have even less hair without the hat, and tossed it onto the toilet's tank. He unsnapped the straps on the man's overalls, then unzipped his own jeans, both pieces of clothes falling to their ankles simultaneously. "Suck my dick," said Mark. To which the old man replied by sitting on the toilet seat and slurping all four inches of Mark's hard-on into his mouth in one motion.

As Mark got close to coming, he pulled back and looked down at the man, who looked back up at him, his lips puckered and gesticulating, asking for more cock without saying a word. "Stand up, turn around, and bend over, you faggot," said Mark. To which the old man replied by standing up, turning around, and bending over.

Mark spit-lubed his dick. Then spit-lubed the man's asshole, weeding the jagged nail of his middle finger through two rolls of fat that were the man's buttocks and a matted jungle of white, black, and gray dingle-berried hairs that probably hadn't been washed in weeks. As Mark pushed his dick into the man's ass, the man let out a sigh and pushed back into Mark's hips with enough force to knock a weaker man down.

He reached around and grabbed the man's half-hard cock - which wasn't so bad, by the way - and stroked him in rhythm with his angry thrusts. When the man told him that he was about to come, Mark let go, reached into his pocket, and slipped out his trusty, rusty razor. He pulled the man back into him, all four of his inches lodged inside the man's rectum. Then leaned over and reached under the man's chin, circumscribing a neat, perfect arc with the razor from ear to ear, the freshly sharpened metal slicing through neck, esophagus, and trachea just a little easier than its effortless pull through the vertebrae and muscle at the back of his neck. Mark pushed the top of the man's torso into the open toilet and held the head above it until it was fully bled, pumping his ass until he finally came inside the corpse.

He rested the man's head on his cooling, hardening back and pulled his pants back on. Then carefully wrapped the man's head in the plastic bags, and zipped it up in his bookbag. After capping the man's neck with his baseball cap, he slipped the bag underneath the stall door and climbed under after it. Pausing at the bathroom door, he took a few breaths to keep from laughing, then opened the door slightly, the stop barely out of the way, and jerked out into bookstore sideways, his bookbag dangling from his right hand.

As he approached the signing table, the writer looked up from his conversation with the store's manager and nodded to him. Mark winked. Another minute and he and his favorite author were outside. As the writer lit a Camel Light Wide, Mark shouldered his bookbag. "Coffee?" he said.

"Fuck yeah," said the writer, with a glance at the nine members of The Family ranged along the bookstore's front, ten counting the baby suckling at the youngest daughter's tit. "Let's get the fuck out of here."