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-"