Mojo - 12. Chapter 11: Tre-Princely's Happening

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Part Four – "Will there be food at this event?"

Chapter 11: Tre-Princely's Happening

The question just asked about food and our next event was followed by Assauer stating: "Because I'm starving!"

'Too much physical activity this afternoon,’ I brooded silently.

Neil and Napoleon, sitting opposite us in the back of the limousine, exchanged sly glances. "Oh, there'll be food all right," said the Australian, "but you may not want to eat much of it."

'What does that mean…?' I wondered.

The car took a few gentle curves as it ascended a hillside and eventually slowed. We pulled into a torch-lit driveway just as it was getting dark.

Someone from the outside opened the doors, and the five of us piled out.

The first sight that caught my eye was the guy holding the door for me. He was a dark-haired muscle stud, dressed like a Vegas Caesars Palace extra. A helmet with scarlet plumes glinted in the flame light, while the metal flaps of his centurion armor clanked above the hem of a red tunic – and his hairy knees.

I gave the guy a little smile and nod, eying the plastic sword he held erect in his free hand.

"All hail the guests of Tre-Princely Knight! Welcome to my master's event."

"Thank you," I said, moving onto the sidewalk with my companions.

The building we stood before was generally Mediterranean, but not that special looking. A long set of columns along the ground floor supported an open-air terrace with trellises and flowering vines above. Red roof tiles played peek-a-boo from behind the foliage.

"What is this place?" Gordon asked.

"The Getty Villa," explained Neil. "This used to be the Getty before they built their modernist Frankenstein in glass and stone."

"Looks sorta weird," Assauer observed in his typical hold-no-punches manner.

"It's a recreation," said Napoleon, "of the seaside crib of Julius Caesar's father in law."

"Oh, cool!" Gordon yelled out.

The other guests, who had all piled out of similar limousines earlier, were now on the move, slowly being guided by a smiling Mrs. Knight, although Tre-Princely was nowhere to be seen. Including our little gaggle of friends, there were only about ten others who had filtered down from the public event and photo-op to this, the V.I.P. happening.

Just when we got under the shelter of the overhang, the pair of massive bronze doors opened as if by magic to our hostess' approach. A large hall was inside, and beyond it, a two-story atrium.

Strolling in, the sound of water appeared for us, for in the very center of the room was a rectangular fountain set in the floor. I glanced up and saw it aligned perfectly with an opening in the ceiling/roof. A couple of stars already twinkled up in the heavens.

Motion attracted my attention from deeper in the space, for several women of the party were laughing and pointing phones and tablets at one another. One said "Here we are, live-streaming from Tre's event." Another added "OMG. I can't believe I'm actually here! Gonna be totally awesome."

In the meantime, our host's wife was chatting with the male guests and leading everybody through a wide opening at the opposite end of the atrium. I lagged behind but followed.

This second space was a fully colonnaded garden, again two-stories high, but much larger and nearly breathtaking. Four fruit trees in massive terracotta pots marked the corners of the manicured greenery, while a long rectangular reflecting pool shot up quiet jets in arches between five Grecian goddesses in bronze. Each one was slightly different, but all stared placidly into the rippling water as if lost in thoughts of the timeless. I noted five of them, for the sixth, the central one on the right, was absent.

Something made me turn to my left and enter one of the museum galleries.

It was a rectangular room, beautifully clad in marble panels. On one long wall was a mural. I strolled along it, recognizing the subject was the storm-tossed wanderer, Ulysses. He had to sojourn ten years after the Trojan War as the plaything of the gods…for some reason his plight felt very real to me at the moment.

A sensation like static-cling prickled the hairs on the back of my neck. I slowly rotated my torso to locate the source, and was led through a low doorway into a darkened display area.

This room was round and domed. Mosaic tiles slathered the wall, and recessed niches behind glass exhibited smaller-sized precious objects.

One of these cases gradually drew me to it like a magnet. Some totem-like statues were there bathed in spotlights, but they were weird idols for sure. Some woodland man, with a staff in his hand but no clothes, sported an enormous erection. Another was of the same person but he wore 'city duds': a long tunic, the front hem of which he held up like a skirt. In the basket created by this, an abundance of fruit overflowed, while oddly enough, more produce appeared under his clothes on either side of his engorged phallus, curving upwards and in insistent need of attention.

‘Talk about fruit of the loon….’

This case had a card: "Roman Priapus Cult Objects, 1st Century C.E."

I peered in closer, drawing myself almost by compulsion, to examine this nature spirit's face.

Elfin ears stuck up in front of a ribbon wrapping his disheveled bush of hair. His attributes were strength and a commanding confidence in the prime of his potency.

And then inexplicably, those features seemed all too familiar; my skin went clammy; my heart rate thready. It almost felt as if suppressed recollections were forcing their way to the surface, but what they could be, I did not know.

I knew something had happened—

"Kohl?"

I started, flipping around and standing tall.

Gordon stood there as beautiful as ever. "You all right?"

"Yeah, okay. You?"

He grinned at me like I was being silly.

My response was to hug him. I mean, really hug him, hoping my trembling didn’t transmit through my touch too strongly.

He appeared not to notice, for a moment later he took my hand, saying, "Come on. Wait till you get a hold of this setup. You won't believe it."

It was a relief to let my boy lead me away from this Priapus person, god, creature – whatever it was.

I heard the cheering sound of cocktail shakers.

Around the garden with the ladies’ fountain we went, along the pillared walkway to the other side. A large room was beyond another pair of columns, but lined up across from them were a dozen reclining chairs from a salon.

Tre's wife directed the activities, taking drink orders and telling us to disrobe our feet.

The other guests were getting mani-pedis by what I took to be Australian Aboriginal young men in skimpy cargo shorts and unzipped walkabout vests over bare skin.

Me and Gordon joined them, kicking off our shoes and stuffing the socks inside before sitting down.

While our tootsies got manipulated, filed and shellacked, more boys arrived to collect our foot apparel for storage somewhere.

I started to relax once my vodka-cranberry appeared, and the young man working on me freely flirted as he went about his flesh-kneading. Normally I'd get in trouble with Gordon by my side and my cock straining to get out and into a handsome boy's touch like this…but…I didn't have to worry.

'Still overly tired,' I told myself.

The earlier guests were getting finished, and stood up to be presented with golden slippers, complete with Tre's monogram on them.

By the time me and my boy were polished up, we walked into a grand room full of people chatting boisterously.

Three tables formed a 'U', leaving an open staging area in the center. The head table was positioned in front of several columns leading out to an unbelievably immense garden on the other side. It stretched back five hundred feet or more. Another central water feature reflected the freshly emerged stars, and this garden was again completely enclosed by Doric columns.

"This way," Napoleon called, and me and my boy sat at our places with them and Assauer at the table off to the left.

A quick scan of the room told me our dinner companions appeared to be mostly of the crude Tre hangers-on types – middle age douchebag tools for the men; plastic-surgery marred ex-pornstars for the women – and I could tell few if any of the guys were Gay because they clearly acted 'not interested' in me or my boyfriend as we walked in. Instead they generally eyed our table of 'outsiders' with hostile questioning, wondering what was our purpose here.

Tre-Princely was still conspicuously absent, but once we had been settled for a few minutes and enjoying our drinks, weird South American flute music started from somewhere back from where we had come.

A leprechaun-looking Irish dude in chef whites arrived on the scene. As he strode into the central staging area, one could tell he was a rough-n-tumble scrapper if ever there was one. He sported IRA tattoos and a shocking-red goatee; his head though was completely bald.

He cracked his knuckles and announced through a shimmering brogue: "I'm sure ya know I'm Cory O'Shay, celebrity chef, TV host, et cetera, et cetera, but I’m here because Tre-Princely asked me to serve up you fine lot of people a mess o'vittles. To that end, ladies and gents, the first course will be a real gastro-treat! I've got foie gras tacos on a bed of refried natto beans and a julienne of raw dinosaurian kale. It's all tied together with a topping of Model Negra foam gastrique. Enjoy!"

He cracked more knuckles and disappeared back into the shadows. I turned to Napoleon on my left. "Dark beer foam, on French liver tacos…?"

"Yep. You lucky boy."

Neil interjected, “Chef O’Shay is a real gas-treek freak! It’s all the rage these days. Anything can be made into a foam.”

“But not all foam can be made edible,” I wryly observed.

Just then, the flute music grew very loud, punctuated by castanets and tambourine rattles.

To my unbelieving sight, more scantily clad young men – three Thai boys this time, wearing huge sombreros – pulled in a half-sized papier-mâché donkey on casters. The beast was harnessed to a gold-plated food truck, or ‘roach coach,’ as the locals call it. On each narrow shelf were stacks of tacos, and once the boys hauled up the vehicle, they served the food with smiles. The musicians strolled around with their portable din.

While all this went on, I leaned back and poked my ex. He glanced over, and I pulled him back to confer behind Gordon.

"Have you remembered any more of that missing time?" I asked.

"From the night?"

"Yeah."

"No. You?"

"Nope, but…things seem to be coming back, maybe."

My boy turned to me. "It’s like some weird alien abduction shit that we can’t remember."

"I know," I confirmed.

Just then, a surly-eyed man from the first table – the V.I.P. of the V.I.P. seating, I guess – cleared his throat loudly in our direction. He was short, dressed in an Italian suit, and periodically ogling the plastic bimbos half his age in the room; but I guess we were the ones being rude.

Plates were set before us: three 25¢ deep-fried taco shells from the bulk box with poop-colored chunks oozing out the side from under torn shreds of kale. Frothy brown goo was jiggled on top of the raw greenery.

Assauer had already shrugged and picked up the 'taco.'

I smelled one of mine; it reminded me of my grandmother's farmhouse – or maybe her barn.

I caught Gordon bite into his, his eyes soon telling me it was awful.

The South American percussionists traipsed out of the room just as the servers had dished up the last of the first course. The final Thai boy to depart plopped his sombrero on the burro's head…and then a funny thing happened.

The papier-mâché glint in the creature's eye jostled me back to that lost Sunday night.

While still in our Pasadena motel room, just being led out, Parthia reached for and massaged my crotch. Of course I didn’t get hard.

"Sorry," I told her, "hundred percent Gay here. You're out of luck, lady."

She cackled. "It's you, young man, who are out of luck." Then to her followers, she screeched: "Blindfold them and take them to our local holy prescient. Their passions await."

The words made my heart sink, but not as much as seeing my beloved boy manhandled by that crude, gum-popping teenage airhead, Lolita.

A startling noise made me jump and spill my taco contents.

Mariachis led the way, playing and bellowing the song You’re So Vain at full volume, with Spanish language lilts. Behind them was Tre-Princely Knight, mouthing a toothpick and humming loudly. He had effected a costume change and now wore a satin black dressing gown, à la Hugh Hefner in the Playboy Mansion. Around his neck was an elaborate aviator's scarf. I guess that was a nod to Howard Hughes.

As the band crescendoed, the man's 'friends' squeaked chairs and gave him a standing ovation – Napoleon and Neil were right there with them. Distracted as we were, it took glares from the pug-nosed throat-clearer to get me, Assauer and Gordon to stand too.

“Ermanno! You old dog." Our host slapped the surly guy's shoulder before sitting grandly in the middle of the central table. From where I sat, his toupé’d head was framed beautifully by the water feature in the garden behind him. His wife appeared at his side with a large gin and tonic, which she placed in his hand. Then she smacked a full bottle of the sapphire liquid by his plate and kissed his forehead before stepping aside.

The toothpick came out of his mouth and was discarded. "Have you all met my better-half – my Lucky Charm, my Rabbit's Foot? Prospera Texas-Ivy, ladies and gents; some of you may have seen her before."

The cameras turned on the demurring woman, but Tre forced her to take a bow.

Napoleon Trueblood leaned over and told me under his breath: "Hyphenated porn names were all the rage at one time, don’t ya know."

The mariachis struck up again and led the donkey and model food truck out with an ear-piercing rendition of La Cucaracha.

'Gott im Himmel,' I thought, already looking around for the easiest escape route.

Tre-Princely Knight drained half his glass and dabbed his mouth with his scarf. "I hope everyone is enjoying their post-Post-Modern experimental theater so far."

The response was lukewarm.

The former pornstar insisted: "It's performance art, a marriage of food and mental stimulation."

"Hear, hear," said a man in his thirties opposite us; his tone was slow and Southern for sure. "You're always such a wonderful host. It's absolutely our honor and privilege."

"Thank you, Nicholas, my dear buddy."

Nicholas added, "I am blessed, Tre."

The comment made another one of the man's friends – the one who looked like a mortician and sat at the main table to Tre's left – start a second round of applause. The cameras lapped it up like a kitten with a saucer of milk.

This Tre took as suitable accolades and grinned while pouring himself another big gulp. He then spoke as if to the bottle, "Oh, Rabbit's Foot, what would I do without you? You're my boulder."

Tre's wife dismissed the sentiment with an "Oh…."

"See, we are good partners. We both have sweaty pasts – that's well known – but we're different where it counts. She's frugal where I'm generous; she's a book-reckoner where I'm a 'make it rain' kinda guy."

"Now, Tre," she said, glancing around the room, adding a bit sharply, "stop."

"No, it's true," he insisted. "She keeps me on the straight and narrow, no pun intended. But seriously, if not for her…. Well, times are up and times are down; don’t they say that? Take my good friend, Gavin Coruptti here." The former pornstar slapped the shoulder of the thin, pale guy to his left. "He was a day trader, energy broker, ETF peddler – God knows what else in the make rich men richer bugger-all Bush years – but then, poof! All gone. And do you know what he does now?"

As the question seemed directed at me, I answered, "No."

"He's better off than ever in the burial business."

"A funeral director, to be exact, with a lucrative sideline in the monument biz," clarified Coruptti.

'Knew it,' I thought.

Tre-Princely briefly laughed. "If anyone needs to dole out advice to the youth of America, they should remember our graying population and tell ‘em to get in the grave business for themselves. It's where our future lies!"

"True,” the monument-maker opined with dark pride. “It’s the one and only recession-proof racket." A smirk arose. "Always money to be made in death. I'll be handing out business cards later."

Our host clapped his hands twice, shouting, "I think it's time for wine!"

As if by magic, two quinceañera servers dressed in frock coats, green breeches and powdered wigs brought in a giant platter shaped like a five-cent nickel. Smack in the center of the third president's head was a dusty old bottle.

While the girls set up the tray on a table in the middle of the stage area, Tre began to ramble in a storytelling clip, "I picked up a few of these at the garage sale Malcolm Forbes' children had after he died. Also snatched up a few fab eggs." He paused for recognition; none came. "Get it? A few Fabergé eggs!"

His cronies whinnied "Oogh’s!" and "Ah’s!"

Another round of non-spontaneous applause broke out, which Tre-Princely soaked up, along with more gin from his glass.

A little Mexican day laborer, in his jeans and flannels – but wearing a powdered wig – entered sheepishly.

Tre gestured to the bottle, and the man stepped up to serve as sommelier.

We were all pretty stunned, but the ex pornstar explained rather nonchalantly, "He's my leaf-blower from back home."

When we guests acted unsure how to react to the entire situation, Tre-Princely Knight added like it was obvious, "If a Mexican American can play Hamilton and earn a billion dollars on Broadway, why not have a real Mexican serve our Jefferson wine!"

We were still uncertain, but the man doing the work shrugged and popped the cork. "Sí."

The combination of sounds clearly made our host turn philosophical, for he drank more straight sapphire and called out: "What a fucking shame when a wine in this world can outlive a man. And this is real Jeffersonian hooch! I fed a better class of people last night, and not even they got the good stuff!"

The remark made Mrs. Schwartzbaum scowl at him briefly, peeking from behind her phone live-streaming out to the web.

"Pardon, folks. The ball-n-chain rebukes me. You lot are plenty classy enough." He nodded at his missus, like 'There. Happy now?' In the meantime, one of the presidential girls had taken off the metal collar from the bottle and was slowly parading the label so all us guests could see for ourselves. Engraved upon it was:

THOM. JEFFERSON WINE

BOTTLED IN THE PRESIDENCY OF THEO. ROOSEVELT

ONE HUNDRED YEARS OLD.

After we all had a glass of the turbid stuff in front of us, our host said, "You do the honors, honey."

Rabbit's Foot stood, and lifted her glass to the center table. "To Tre-Princely Knight: Le'chaim!"

"Le'chaim!" we repeated, and I slowly brought the glass to my nose. If musty ditchwater could cover it, let's say that was the 'bouquet.' The taste, well, if vinegar could be said to be 'girlish,' it was.

The only redeeming feature may have been the 100-proof brandy used by some Rooseveltian charlatan to fill out the wine and make it still drinkable. I did just that – drank it – and put on a brave face, which was good, for I needed fortification for the next part of the happening.

While the rest were still choking back the ghost wine, oddly sad music arose from out on the peristyle behind Tre.

Opposite that, at the main entrance, appeared a tall figure, robed and hooded entirely in black.

This Grim Reaper actually freaked me out for some reason as he slowly strode up to the now-empty coin-top table.

He bowed to our host, who had a knowing glint in his eye, and the Reaper slowly opened his robe. He had been hiding a silver skeleton on a set of fishline strings. This marionette appeared accurate down to the tiniest of articulated bone.

The Grim puppet master made the white metal skull of his toy look at each and every single guest in turn without the man moving an inch, and then slowly placed the skeletal feet on the tray like a stage.

The music started again, and the marionette performed a hair-raising dance of the macabre.

It was hard to describe how something so un-lifelike could act and move in a way that seemed more naturalistic than any living thing.

Transfixed, Tre began reciting. "As the great William Burnaby once wrote:

"Unhappy we mortals,

Who on so fine a thread,

Find our lives but depend,

Know like this puppet man

We will all be soon dead;

Therefore, live ye merry,

Or fake it while you can."

The wine, the music, our host's voice, the sight of Death himself working our strings, it all cast me into a blackness of memory and lifted a horrifying veil.

I gasped for air, suddenly coming to, but I was still blind. In another moment, rough hands ripped off my blindfold.

I was lashed with my wrists behind me to a wooden post, and what I saw was weird. A mass-market birdbath trickled; shelves were piled high with bags of fertilizer and soil; houseplants and potted flowers were everywhere; checkout counters were off to the side – was I in a…Pasadena garden center? How nuts….

Looking up, I saw a skylight open to the night air and stars.

Motion drew my attention. The husky devil-chin guy who had just ripped off my blindfold went to the column to my right and did the same to Assauer. My ex was bound to a post just like me.

I was tugged by a different sound, for under the ripples of moving water was a softer, sadder riffle. Gordon was sitting on some steps, his forehead in his palms; was he crying…?

Just at that moment he glanced up as if to come to me, and tears were in his eyes. He jumped up, but the muscle-bound Eros slapped a hand on his shoulder and pinned him in place. "Stay put," he told my boy, which made me flush with anger. Gordon in physical distress crosses the line.

"Let me go!" I commanded. "You've had your twisted fun. Time for this to end, now."

The two goons, who currently stood next to one another by Gordon's side, said nothing. They did sneer however, before suddenly, emerging from the shadows, appeared the three females in charge.

Parthia strode up to me wearing some sort of Dominatrix-slash-Nurse-Diesel bustier in black, garter, fishnet stockings and high heels.

Behind her right-hand side was Eros' girlfriend wearing a teddy and a long, gauzy robe with faux trim.

Lolita, I guess as the madwoman's pet, was attired more modestly in a short-short cheerleader's outfit – and bunny slippers.

The cray-cray cult leader paused in a position where her sight could access both me and my ex.

I repeated myself calmly: "You've had your fun frightening us. Now let us go."

Parthia said, "You two volunteered to work The God's physic upon me. There's no backing out."

"Then do it so we can get out of here!" Assauer blurted.

I wanted to know something more important. "Why is my boyfriend crying? What have you done to him?"

"Nothing." Parthia farted a laugh. "In fact, as he was not a witness to our sacred rite, and thus not a defiler, he's free to go."

"I'll stay," Gordon immediately affirmed.

My heart swelled with pride.

Assauer guffawed. "Touching, but will you two shut up and let the woman get on with it?"

Lolita nodded, and added, "Gordon's in no danger." Her lingering look took on an edge that made my boy uncomfortable. She popped her gum.

Parthia walked to Assauer, stroking his cheek maniacally as she explained, "The God relayed to me the process you must endure to work my bodily cure. First, the pair of you must be offered a shot at redemption."

"And if we fall short of this 'shot'?" I asked.

The woman came and stood before me with a glazed expression. "Then I pity your youth. Life is burden enough if short and fancy free, but woe betide one long and saddled with the Blue One's displeasure." She glanced at Psyche, gesturing to me. "Him first."

The priestess stepped aside with Lolita following.

Psyche undid the tie from her long hair, coming close to my face in order to shake the locks out seductively.

I did a 'phut, phut' to spit out a stray follicle or two.

Then she opened her robe, thrusting her boobicles out and started smearing them on my chest and tummy. The whole time her hands rubbed me up and down and she had this 'cum hither' stare in her eyes.

It was all I could do not to giggle.

After she ground on me for a few minutes, she started forcing her wet tongue in my mouth. Needless to say, I closed my eyes and thought of Prussia.

Psyche relented, and Parthia ordered something I did not hear.

Next thing I knew, Eros was roughly grabbing my crotch and hate-squinting deep into my eyes. He turned and responded to his boss: "No good."

Parthia, pissed, barked to the men: "Hold him down on the floor."

I was untied, then carried hand and foot to the very center of the space where there was a massive metal grate in the floor.

Eros restrained my hands above my head, while Satan-Stubble pressed down on my ankles. Oddly, I stared up and realized what a beautiful starry night it was.

"Now it's his turn," Parthia said.

I rotated my head and watched as Psyche went into super sexy mode, sloughing off her outer covering and slinking her way up to Assauer.

I could see my ex swallow hard, a breath hitching his Adam's apple.

He began to moan as the woman did the old bump and grind on him, and then panted excitedly as she Frenched him.

When she pulled away, he looked hungry for more, and Psyche's hand on his privates easily confirmed for Parthia that Assauer was game.

This reaction pleased the cult leader, but only for a moment. She directed Psyche back to me, and horror upon horrors, the nearly naked chick straddled me, forcing me to glance up into her crotchel region. I wanted to scream, but I couldn't….

She squatted, hands landing on my chest to caress me, her ass rubbing my trash.

Again she kissed me, and this time, believe it or don't, I recognized the taste of Assauer's saliva. The absurd nature of the whole thing caused me to peal into sheets of uncontrollable laughter.

"Enough!" screeched Parthia.

Psyche retreated away from me, and the priestess turned to my boy. "You, strip him."

"Me…?"

"Just do it," Assauer said.

Reluctantly, Gordon came to me and kneeled.

"It's okay, honey," I told him.

He slowly unbuttoned my shirt, and Eros ripped it off me – I wasn’t wearing any underwear.

Gordon stroked my belly, making his way to my fly, and undid my jeans. Chin-Hair Guy yanked them down, revealing a tent pole in my briefs; I could not help my reaction to my boy's touch.

"All of it," Parthia commanded, and Gordon tugged my shorts down to my ankles.

I glared at the madwoman. 'Was this what she wanted?' But it was not; my erection for my boy made her look furious.

"You dare to defy The God?!"

Assauer laughed, most unhelpfully.

"Tie him to the post again!"

Parthia's order caused Eros and his biker buddy to lash me back in place next to my ex. In the meantime, Lolita and Psyche had stripped him down to his socks too.

Something I hadn't noticed until right then was a red curtain straight in front of Assauer. I didn’t notice till Parthia went up to it and drew it back. Inside the little niche stood a weird statue-column. The upper part was a wild man's bust with elfin ears, a be-ribboned head, curly hair and handsome face.

But starting below his chest, his 'body' was a square plinth, yet square was not the enormous and fully erect dick and balls sticking out from the column where it would be on a man.

Parthia mumbled something foreign and picked up a small bottle of olive oil. She greased her fingers and did obscene hand-job things to the marble member.

Trancelike, she turned to me and my boy and approached us. "Your lots have been cast. The God forgives me and heals my malady, but has more in store for you."

She walked up to Assauer, latching onto his goodies with her slick hand. He stiffened right away again, in fact got really super large, for him….

"For you," she said, "The God has these words to impart:

"For as long as you thrive, then live in hope:

I, the Rustic God will stand by your side

To gird your loins with priapic favor.”[1]

 

She stroked his member like it was the statue’s. "There, young man, blessings from The God, and soon you will be endowed with his full bounty."

The priestess left him and came to me. Parthia took ahold of my stuff too, but I naturally stayed limp; she grossed me out.

"And for you, He says:

"Ut subiceres imperium meum,

condicio fixum est,

tuos omnes misirabiles dieres."

 

She released me and stepped back, filling the Pasadena garden center to the rafters with her shrill cackles.

Glancing at the cold stare of the statue, I felt a chill seep right down to the very marrow of my bones.