Mojo - 14. Chapter 13: Escapism

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Chapter 13: Escapism

"My dear friends, feel free to simply be!"

Tre-Princely was all right and had dismissed the Aceves family acrobats with thanks and hundred-dollar bills. The wolf boy had smiled at him warmly and shook his hand.

Now our host sat back at his old place, devouring Chef O'Shay's disgusting agave blossoms in Godiva sauce.

Napoleon, who had practically licked his dish clean, asked, "You don’t like it?"

I grinned. "I really couldn't eat another bite."

"Mind…?"

"No." I gave him my portion and watched him scrape the brown goo between himself and Neil.

The motivational speaker said under his breath, "It may not be good, but it's the latest food trend, so you know it must be good."

"No matter what," I laughed.

"Yep," Neil chimed.

"I'm lucky he cooks for me," Tre suddenly announced. "Chef Cory's got a huge, A-list celebrity waiting queue. He's the current real-deal Mex-gastronomique hash slinger in L.A." Our host took a bite, barely hiding the grimace as the flavor assaulted his palate. "He studied under an Asian master of Oaxaca cuisine, for six months!" The man swallowed audibly. "And that was in La Joya, so you know it's authentic."

We, I mean they, ate on in silence for a few moments, but Tre-Princely Knight – apparently like Nature itself – adored a vacuum cleaner and spoke up about the recent presentation.

"It must be a hard profession to be a performer-artiest, but then again, I'd know all about that. Porn is still in business, but the circus is officially dead in this country, and worse yet, replaced by geeky twinks in blue body paint. I ask you, is that art? Is that 'experience' meant to move the mind and heart? That escapism? I don’t think so. No, for my taste give me Larry, Curly and Moe slapstick, or give me 'You're fired!' types of scripted reality TV shows. Now those are food for thought."

No one seemed to agree or disagree.

"Tell me, Napoleon," our host went on with more earnest intent. "Who would you say has the harder calling: a great trial lawyer, or a pop songwriter?"

Trueblood was confounded, the first time I'd seen the self-help guru look dazed.

"You mean," he asked for clarification, "between, say, Clarence Darrow and…Stephen Foster…?"

"Well, I don’t know who those two are, but I mean put Gloria Allred up against Burt Bacharach, or that O.J. lawyer versus Paula Abdul. Who's got it rougher?"

"I'm not sure I—"

"To me it's pretty easy. The pop-star songwriter has the harder job because they have to convince us the unnatural – mushy lyrics – are real. A good scheister legal-eagle just has to convince people the unreal is halfway plausible, and boom, they're famous, or on their way to a political career – even without a catchy tune to back 'em up."

Actually, maybe it was the wine, or the long exposure to Tre over the course of the day, but I partially saw the logic in that.

He noticed me nodding. "And you, Kohl? You're a poet like me." He paused and took a swill of straight gin. "I still haven’t forgotten you owe us a bit of verse."

Tre was right. "Okay," I said. "But in my native German.

"Das Leben gehört

Den Lebenden an,

Und wer lebt muss auf

Wechsel gefasst sein."

I glanced to Assauer, who smiled, recognizing it.

I explained, picking up my glass as a toast, "It's Goethe, and means in English:

"Life to the living,

For we to it belong,

And while we breath draw,

Change is our only song."

Applause came up – all except for Ermanno, who glowered at my ex with even more of his brooding Sicilian contempt. I guess Assauer showed too much enthusiasm for my ditty.

"Bravo, Kohl," cried Tre. "You are better than a poet. You are a writer."

"I was quoting—"

"It don’t matter! Hell, you could be channeling some 2,000-year-old piece of pulp fiction, but what matters is if it connects with people or not. And your stuff does. Like I said, escapism is all the rage today – comic book zombies, M/M vamps, toothy aliens – as long as they're teenagers and hella unbelievable, they'll be a hit with folks feeling too stressed and unhappy about the mess of a society they were too busy escaping to go out and vote for sanity and decency." He suddenly turned sad. "Nobody wants what's real anymore, that's why the old crap is best, if you ask me, like my real Jeffersonian wine. There's been such a decline in the arts; all done in the name of the mighty buck. Reminds me of a poem of mine:

"Two chickens in the pot –

A promise still long unfulfilled –

Yet excess is our lot

When with hope our belly is filled."

He paused for ovation, and somehow, I found myself leading the rest, smiling straight into the live-stream cameras.

"Thank you, thank you, my friends," he said, touched. "I've been down recently, and your good efforts warm me. But like I started to say, after pop-song-writers-singers, the next hardest job is doctor cuz he must look at a man's true heart, then hedge fund manager-slash-pyramid-builder because just like a cardiologist he must assess the true heart of wealth." He glanced at Gavin Coruptti. "No offence."

The newly-minted mortician gave his best, professional-grade nod. "None taken. I'm more fulfilled building houses of death than houses of cards anyway." He crossed himself.

Tre-Princely continued, unfazed. "But after them, the poor tollbooth operator has it about the worst."

None of us knew what he meant.

"Think about it. All day long with the coins, but still he has to know – like the doc and banker – when a flash of silver is enrobing a core of base-metal worthlessness."

Ah. That sort of made sense….

"But as I was saying," our host exclaimed, "the very hardest job of all is being a writer. They have to spot 'rotten at the core' people and situations and call them out like the others, but God forbid they can't do it in a way that makes people roll in the aisles, cuz if they are too serious, or fail to entertain while exposing the truth, then they are crucified by the everybody's-a-critic mentality, or worse yet, pushed over a cliff like some closeted Cat-on-a-Hot-Tin-Roof Tennessee Williams character. They either succeed or have to die with their art."

The mood had grown a little dark and my wine seemed to sour; I guess no one feels comfortable with the idea of puffing up authors' egos….

As if reading the vibe of the room, Prospera Texas-Ivy jutted her chin at her ex-pornstar husband.

The man clapped his hands pertly several times.

A moment later, a dozen attendants appeared from the flanks of the peristyle behind him. Dressed like Paris Hilton wannabes – with short skirts and oversized sunglasses – each 'girl' sported a large blue Tiffany's shopping bag.

"Red-carpet takeaways!" Tre said giddily, while each shiftless heiress impersonator placed a bag on the table before a guest.

Like greedy grownup kids on Christmas morning, there followed the sounds of rustling paper as we dug in.

Me, Gordon and Assauer compared identical Patek Philippe wristwatches, and vials of Himalayan jatamansi cologne. And there were many more pawnable things in the bag too.

The women had strings of natural pearls, Hermes mouse pads, and something that looked like diamond encrusted pill bottles.

When I remembered my manners, and looked up to thank Tre-Princely, he had a weird expression on his face.

He held up his hand to stop me. "I'm pleased with all my guests' sicko-fancy. It's the way it should be – toss a dog a chunk of red liver and he'll love you as long as you have more. As they used to say, money always keeps the best society."

"But still," growled Ermanno, "you are too generous, Tre, to strangers and hangers-on like these foreigners." He was a drunk, a mean one.

"So what, Ermie?" Tre-Princely retorted. "You know – I know, everybody knows – the current so-called First Lady is a wetback illegal just as much as my leaf-blower. Everybody knows she overstayed a tourist visa, so if she's cut some slack, then everybody deserves the same – Golden Rule, my friend."

"Sure, no one's shouting 'Lock her up,' Tre. But look at that intellectual, goon-faced Kraut over there." He pointed past me to Assauer. "He's probably laughing up his superior Euro sauerbraten panties at you."

"Heeeyyy…" Assauer stammered.

"I'm sorry, Tre, but goddamn it, I'm mad, and you of all people know I'm slow to anger, but look at 'em! Lord knows it's easier to make an AK-47 cartridge loader out of a sow's ear than get invited to one of your events, and yet there they sit like judges at Nuremberg, long noses and all." His confounded ire turned on Napoleon. "It's bad enough you let that leech of a motivational sham and his Aussie pathick use your good name—"

Here, my ex could not keep his damn mouth shut. "Way to play the ugly American card, Ermie. We've never seen that one before." He chuckled out loud.

“You laugh…? You great gorbellied blockhead. And that’s just a smart way of sayin’ you’re full of shit. What?! Tre’s hospitality ain’t good enough for your overseas taste? Don’t sit there gaping at me like a nanny goat playing king of the hill on a pile of garbage. You think you’re hot shit: young, pretty, on top of life, huh? Well, I got news for you – it won’t last. Someday soon you’ll have to stop being a foreign parasite on our welfare system, get a job and actually work. Then we’ll see what you’re made of. All I know is I’ve never been hauled in court by lawyers shouting ‘pay up,’ but I bet you have, you scoundrel, or worse! You $100-a-night mintboy hustler, you—”

“Hey,” asserted my ex, “I charge more than—”

Gordon elbowed him to silence.

I tried my hand at peacemaking. “Well now, we’re all having a good time here. We’re really appreciative.”

I appealed with my words for Tre-Princely to rein in his crony, but our host simply smiled and folded his arms in enjoyment. It reminded me of his attitude in the sauna, liking to see other compete for his attention.

"Appreciative," mocked Ermanno. "Now the other bosch coughs up a three-dollar word to impress us. You're like a fella pickin' fleas off another guy's coat, all the time not seeing the ticks crawling over your own flesh."

At this, Gordon lost it, totally. He laughed himself to tears, because I could tell he'd been holding it in the whole time.

"And you," the hater said, "chucklehead – jailbait – you even legal to transport across state lines? Well, nevermind. I got your number, sonny boy. You think you can get into anyone's pants with your hot-shit act. Well, I got a riddle for ya.

"I come long,

I come wide

And I come to adjust your attitude.

"Solve me, punk. Know what I am?!" He gripped himself.

Gordon stopped laughing.

"Yeah, thought so. You just wait one day and see if I don’t come up behind you in some dark alley – then you'll know who's your better, let me tell ya."

"Ermanno, please," Dana pleaded.

My blood starting boiling; did this ass-swipe just dare to sexually threaten my boy, in front of me…?!

"Yeah…" Aurora tried peacemaking too. "Let's calm down."

My fists clenched on the tabletop, and Gordon saw because he laid his palm over one, drawing me out of my anger a little bit.

"Listen—" I started.

“When you get a job, then you come back to me and talk as my equal, cuz I care and stuff the mouths of twenty family members, and a goddamned dog. So, till you can say the same, just know I wouldn’t trade my sterling-plated reputation for a million. Shit, I don’t even have a credit card! You, on the other hand—”

"All right, Ermie," Tre said at last. "You've made your point, and quite sharply too." The former adult film bottom had been prodded into action by Mrs. Schwartzbaum and her all-seeing iPad camera lens. "We're friends here; let's act it, okay?"

The nasty-heart grunted and reached for his cocktail.

"And," our host continued, "you were once a hot-blood like young Gordon here. Don’t pretend otherwise." The man laughed, and I suddenly wondered if this straight-guy Ermanno had his own VHS catalogue of getting dicked for cash. Could this explain his paranoia for thinking others were looking down on him all the time? Whatever; he was a surly loser for sure.

“Think of modern politics, and give it up now, Ermanno. Forgive these guys because in a situation like this, it’s the defeated who win the day after the dust settles. There’s only sham victory in being victorious over the unarmed. Think of the Brits’ disgrace shooting thousands of spear-wielding Zulus. History always shames the bully, always – just remember that.”

Again, I wondered if my so-called sanity was slipping, for Tre was making more sense by the hour.

"Anyway…" our host clapped his hands with brief animation. "On with the show. What's next?!"

Spurred by that prompt, more eerie music sounded, this time on panpipes. Female dancers spread out their gauzy robes, shuffling in like a cocoon around something hidden.

It turned out to be a gorgeous man of a ballet dancer, completely naked, but also completely covered in black body paint. On top of this, bones – in fact, every bone of his figure – had been painted in stunning white detail. He was also handsomely endowed with one 'extra bone,' highlighted with a lickable candy stripe from tip to base.

A living representation of the silver marionette, the girls did a dance of seduction. Each maiden in turn tried to lure the dancer with her femininity and cunning, but each time he refused. One by one, as they failed, they exited in dejection until the skeleton was alone to perform his lonely pantomime.

While the sad music continued, he eventually 'died' by himself, crumpled on the floor like a pile of neglected ashes.

Tre-Princely Knight jumped to his feet, clapping loudly, and we all rose in agreement, applauding heartily. This had been macabre but beautiful.

The maids returned, 'swept up' the bones in the cocoon of their gowns and exited again while we were still clapping.

Suddenly, I noticed Mrs. Schwartzbaum had her arms folded over her chest and was glaring at Tre with a 'really?' sourpuss.

He teased her. "Come on, honey – my Lucy Charm – rub some of that luck on Tyler. He deserves the props."

“Who’s Tyler?” I whispered to Gordon, his shrug telling me he didn’t know either.

She slapped her hands together in mocking slowness. "Talk clap about clap sycophants clap."

"Aw, honey pot…" he tried to laugh it off, but whatever 'it' was, made him mad. We were in the weeds of some husband-and-wife realities for sure.

Chef O'Shay showed up out of nowhere, and I nearly fell back into my seat, for right behind the cook was a life-size statue like the ones I had seen in the gallery: Priapus in his Roman incarnation, with lifted tunic, erect phallus, and fruit of the loins on either side. Only this statue was made entirely of pieces of pastry – like an erotic croquembouche. At the statue's feet were a dozen little dishes containing the next round of food.

"Are you all right?" Gordon asked worried, sitting down and taking my hand on top of my thigh.

"I—"

"Ladies and gents," announced the scrappy cook. "Our semi-sweet course is a special one. For you I have prepared quinoa tamales stuffed with raspberry-guava chutney, and topped with a cricket and hominy salsa. Enjoy."

"He okay?" I heard my ex ask my boy.

Still in shock at having this effigy brought before me, several things happened at once: other servers dressed like beekeepers doled out the dishes, but Chef Cory picked one up and came to me with it personally. Gordon in the meantime had stopped massaging my leg and inched his way up to my cold-as-ice crotch.

Just as he grasped onto my limp noodle through my clothes, the cook put the plate before me with a devilish wink for my boyfriend. The chef made sure he flashed his wrist tattoo at me: a winged cock about to take off. He was one of them….

The sight of that wink, the notion that Gordon was under threat, shocked more memories of that suppressed night out of me.

In our garden center of shame and torture, I suddenly started awake from my Cialis induced coma. Confused at first, I soon realized we'd been moved again, this time to some caretaker's shack, for a peek out the windows showed all the long row of plants for sale beneath the Pasadena night sky.

I was dressed in – horrors of horrors – a giant Hooter’s tank top. The orange and white vestment barely came down to cover my trash. As I rubbed the cottony fabric over my aching skin and muscles, I saw I was on a cot. Across the way, Assauer and Gordon lay arm in arm, curled up on a wide bunk. They slept peacefully, draped only in lightweight robes.

I sat on the edge of my bed, pressing my eyes and feeling exhausted.

The cult leader and her pet entered from the cabin's other room; Lolita held a tray of cold water bottles. I took one, snapped it open, and only after downing half, wondered if it could be further drugged.

In the meantime, pernicious Psyche had produced a sharpie marker from the folds of her teddy and began making obscene cock doodles on Assauer's sleeping face, neck, chest and shoulders. Only after the initial few did I realize they were all Priapic marks of the god.

When I came up for air, finishing my bottle of water, Parthia stroked my hair back behind my ears.

"You look tired, dear boy. Would you like a treat, some antipasto?"

I glared my response: "I'm not hungry."

By now, Gordon was awake and taking water for him and Assauer.

Parthia clapped her hands. In came a hideous old drag queen in a vulgar green miniskirt and halter-top. Her midriff was bulging, and navel jewelry jangled as she snapped her fingers and did a lewd Madam Currie dance – or, was it Mata Hari? I always get them confused….

Anyway, I crawled up the cot and jammed myself into the corner as far as I could go, but the thing kept approaching with lust-ridden leers, and chanting obscene verses, like this:

 

"Roses may be red,

But I won’t be happy

Till this violet's fed."

And:

"Love for sale, boys –

Ooey gooey, butt'try

Love that cloys."

She crouched and started to climb on top of me, a huge winged cock pendant flopping in my face. Instinctually, I grabbed the flimsy afghan under me to shield my privates.

"Lieber Gott im Himmel!" I cried out. "Warum?!"

Parthia hooted. "I asked you if you wanted some, and here is your treat, young man – the one and only, Auntie Pasto."

The drag performer slathered wet kisses on me, smearing her blue lipstick everywhere and massaging my forcibly exposed groin. The view was gruesome: her caked-on foundation began to melt in her exertions as sweat boiled from underneath. And being this close, I could see just how spackled the rouge was in the furrows of her ancient wrinkles.

In my gasps for air, I could hear Gordon trying to choke back howls of laughter.

"Any luck?" the mad priestess asked.

Auntie turned from me. "Limp as a boiled cannoli."

"Well, try the other one."

Gordon leaped up and stood out of the way.

With that, the queen slithered off of me and kneeled between Assauer's legs where he sat on the edge of his bunk.

She stroked his body, opened his robe and showed the big boner he sported. I could have sworn it was considerably larger than its normal size….

Auntie gave a thumbs-up to the cult leader and went to work, smearing lipstick on more than my ex's tummy.

As he closed his eyes and let his head loll back, I wiped the blue grease from my face with the back of my hand. "What is going on? Why are we still here?"

Lolita circled around, watching Auntie Pasto's technique like a clinical case study.

"Easy, my boy," said Parthia. "I mentioned you must endure three trials to confirm my cure has been wrought, and the god's will has been done."

"But for heaven's sake, why a drag queen?"

"That's simple. They devote themselves to the art of femininity. Few women can match the studied womanliness of a truly great drag queen."

'Truly great?' I thought. 'She's no RuPaul…. Lady Bunny…maybe….'

Assauer's breath began to draw up short. He latched onto the pleasure-giver's head and looked to be on the verge of pain.

As he climaxed, Gordon lost it, erupting in sheets of laughter which echoed off the small chamber’s walls.

I snapped out of my flashback with an utter sense of dread. Although I couldn’t yet remember, I knew the mentioned 'third trial' was going to be the most ghastly of all, and it somehow involved danger for my beloved boy.

I took his hand from my lap and kissed it. It was weird to know he was okay, yet fear for something in the past that had put him in jeopardy.

"Kohl?" Gordon asked.

Other guests were eating.

"I remember more of that night. They tortured us, honey."

"Oh. I do think I remember some of it…."

I whispered: "I want to get out here as soon as we can. I don’t feel safe."

"Don’t know how, with all these people—"

I distracted myself by catching our host's eye ogling the nude pastry.

He rose all at once, rather teary in his drunken way. He lifted his glass to Priapus and said, "I'm feeling rather patriotic, dear friends. Let's all toast George Washington, Father of Our Country!"

We rose in accordance and saluted the baked-goods effigy, but as I drank, I wondered about the irony of a naked guy lifting his skirt and showing an enormous phallus making our host think 'George Washington.' WTF, but clearly the former pornstar knew more about the National Pater Noster than I did, except I remembered they never showed Martha smiling….

We sat again.

"Nicholas!" Tre-Princely turned his attention to an unobtrusive guest at the table across from us. "It's not like you to be so quiet. Cougar got your tongue?" His wicked glance split itself between Aurora and Cynthia, who had been monopolizing him all evening.

"No, no, Tre," he said in his affable Southern slowness. "I'm having a right royal time, as always."

Our host told the rest of us, "Nick here is a world traveler, a lost-generation soul, I think they call it. Been everywhere, seen a lot he shouldn't, and can talk for hours about his close calls and escapes."

"Ah, shucks, Tre."

"Oh! Oh! Tell us about that 'hair-raising' experience you had. You know the one I mean."

"Really? Here and now?"

"Absolutely; by all means."

Nicholas bathed his good-ole-boy tones in some spirits as prologue, and settled back into a comfortable storytelling position.

He gestured to my boy briefly. "This here happened before young Gordon was yet born, but every last word of it is true; swear on my life it is.

"Anyway, I was about this young man's age, in high school, and pretty good buddies with this particular black stud on the varsity football team.

"Wolfgang DeWitt was his name and he was pop-u-lar! As tall and handsome as a movie star, we'd spend long hours sorta together after class. Sorta because I was on the cheerleading squad, and we shared the football field and locker room, joking-off now and then.

"I should say I was only semi-gay till I laid sweaty eyes on the naked Wolf – which is what his teammates called him; never 'Wolfie,' cuz he'd flare his fists and tell a body not to call him that because it made him feel like Eddie Munster's golliwog doll.

"Anyway. I say DeWitt was hot and filled my nights with plenty of jack-off material, but if he was studly in his football kit, it paled in comparison to his manly beauty in his R.O.T.C. uniform. It was seeing him like that, in his gung-ho, do-gooder mode – with his cloth cap angled on the side of his head – that first switched on my Gay gene. No one can resist a man in uniform!

"Anyway, one day we was all getting showered and changed after practice when things changed, totally.

"After getting’ clean, me and Wolf stood side by side, pissin' into the trough urinal. I had a peek, as I always did, of his beautiful BBC, and then caught a smile in his eye as he 'noticed' me.

"'Not a goddamn cocksucker, by any chance, are you Nick?'

"He stroked himself a little.

"'Fuck no! No fag tendencies in me. You…?’

"More stroking; 'Nope.'

"Anyway, I better say first off, we were teen douchebags, and secondly, I wasn’t technically queer yet, so a little homo-bashing was okay, right?

"The few out guys in Beaumont High weren’t like Wolfie and me anyway, so I didn’t know any better I guess.

"'Hey,' Reggie said, coming up to me and Wolf with his phone. He had it open to some Facebook page. ‘You dudes see this?’

"We read it, shocked. Some group calling themselves the Beaumont High Clean-Up Squad had posted a hitlist. Our little redneck school had only six black students – including girls – and this hate group had listed each of them by name, how they got home after class, where they lived, etc. The page encouraged 'patriots to take 'em out.’

"They had used the N-word, and Wolf said, 'That kind of bigoted language against the way a person was born is totally unacceptable.'

"I agreed, 'Totally!'

"Wolfgang then looked at me, and I could tell his high-school action figure, superhero persona wasn’t going to take this crap lying down. But what could your average, red-blooded American werewolf do?

"Well, so, okay, I jumped ahead a little bit. But about an hour later me and him were walking home together, and I asked him if he wanted help with whatever he was planning on doing.

"'You'd do that, Nick? Stick your neck out for us?'

"'It's not your fight alone, Wolf. Decent people gotta stick together, no matter the fight needed to defend a good cause.'

"He seemed moved, but said nothing.

"'So, what are you planning on doing?'

"'I know who the ringleader is. Time to pay him a visit and scare some tolerance into him and the rest of his loser crew.'

"'When?'

"'Tonight.'

"'And you don’t need help?'

"'Better not involve you, buddy.' He put his hand on my shoulder. 'You may not like what you see.'

"I went home and felt queasy. It was more than just my friend was going to try something risky, on his own, but – fuck – it was like I was in love with the dude or something.

"So, about 10 o'clock, I slipped on black jeans and a hoodie, and snuck out my bedroom window. I went over to Wolf's house and waited in the bushes.

"About an hour later, he came out and started walking briskly. I followed just out of sight, thinking I knew where he was headed anyway.

"I was right. Wolfie went to the center of our school's football field. I could see him perfectly from where I was hidden beneath the bleachers.

"And what a sight too! The sexy-ass kid started stripping. Then buck naked, he carefully folded his clothes by his feet and grabbed his cock.

"Believe it or not, he started takin' a leak in a circle all around him; he had been mumbling something too, but I'm not sure what.

"And then, right before my eyes in the cloudy moonlight, he started to shift into a big black wolf. He crouched down on all fours, sleek and menacing, before bounding away into the woods – howling once before he disappeared.

"Stunned, not believing my own eyes, I went to where he had been. His clothes had turned to stone, and I couldn’t lift them.

"A second howl told me which way he was headed, towards the north side of town.

"I took off and followed, thinking again I knew where Wolfie was going.

"About a mile later, I hauled up to the cabin in the backwoods of one Ricky-Cooter McGee, an incorrigible redneck bully racist; I'd half suspected he was behind the 'hitlist' anyway.

"Seems I was right, cuz they were in the midst of a white sale, if you know what I mean: torchlight, hoods and the whole nine yards.

"While they were fixin' to burn a straw-man effigy of Dennis Rodman – right down to his basketball jersey, frilly skirt and ‘I heart North Korea’ bumper sticker – I crouched down in the woods to watch. I guess it's all these dirt-poor, homespun extremists could afford; store-bought crosses cost money.

"Soon one of 'em got knocked down by a lightening-quick black shadow and dragged off into the woods screaming.

"The shocked crowd stood still for a moment, and then a second bigot was dragged kicking and hollering to get knocked unconscious in the woods.

"At this point, Ricky-Cooter shouted for his rifle, and a toady raced to his pickup to get if off the gunrack.

"They were scared shitless, some saying it was God's revenge for their dickhead ways, others that a liberal-biased panther come down from the hills.

"All doubt was put to rest, because Wolfgang DeWitt, as a fricking giant werewolf, strode into the circle and growled for them to take the hitlist down from Facebook.

"Stunned, the wimps started bawling and saying they’d comply, but then, when Wolfie turned to leap away, Asshole McGee shot at him, making the lycan yelp in agony as he ran off.

"I was in a panic and booked it full speed back to our high school. But I managed to call 911 and have the racist delinquents arrested and charged with hate crimes.

"When I got to the school, I ran onto the field. Wolf was unconscious, laying in his human form again right next to his clothes, which were fabric once more.

"Tearing off my own shirt, I dropped to my knees in the moonlight and cradled his head in my lap. At the same time, I ripped a bandage for his bleeding right shoulder.

"I tied it, and DeWitt opened his eyes.

"'How much did you see?' he asked.

"'All of it, and you were amazing, Wolfie.'

"'I said’—he stated flatly, eyes locked tenderly on mine—'not to call me that.'

"'You're some kind of superhero.'

"He chuckled. ‘And you? You my Lois Lane?'

"'I could be….'

"At this point, both of us realized I was firmly gripping his junk.

"'You sure you're not even a little bit Gay, Nicky Boy?'

"'Um—'

"Didn't your pa warn you about wolves in sheep's clothing?'

"'Maybe, but my ma didn’t say nothin’ about superheroes in lycan attire.'

"I scrunched down and kissed him. ‘You sure you don’t like it when I call you Wolfie? Tell me true now….'

"His hand came up and kept my face close. 'When you do it – yeah, Nick, it’s okay.’

“He hauled me down and we made out like mad rabbits.

"Afterwards, we became a pack of two – him my alpha, me his beta – and we never heard about 'the list' again."

Nicholas paused for applause. None came. Nick added, "And swear to God, that's exactly how it happened too."

Aurora asked, "How did he change? Did you learn to do it too…?"

"Can't tell you that. It's a secret."

Cynthia ventured, "But what happened to Wolfgang? Is he still out there someplace…lurking?" She glanced over her shoulder.

"Oh, he's out there all right. He met a hairdresser in Brooklyn and they opened a flower shop together. I get Chanukah cards from them every now and again."

This seemed an unsatisfactory ending, but when we looked over to Tre-Princely Knight, he was the only one not showing astonishment. He told us, "I know Nicholas, and if Mr. Reliable says it happened in such and such a way, it happened!"

_