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.