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.