The Jerk-Off - 3. Chapter 3 We’re Gonna Be Here Awhile.

Vern Running hummed an indistinguishable tune as he jumped out of his small fishing boat onto Arthur’s dock on the southeast end of Ledecker Island. Actually, not Arthur’s dock—even dead five years now, it was Mister Ledecker’s dock.

Dedicated handy man and helper for most of his adult life, Vern first worked at Arthur’s company as a common laborer. Initially ordered to run errands, Vern eventually became Arthur’s right hand man. A shock of mousy brown hair, always having a three-day growth of stubble on his face, wiry build. Metal framed eyeglasses, perpetually smudged. His pants always seemed a size too big, his belt scrunching the waistband.

He wasn’t so much unsure of himself as much as wanting to get every job exactly right. He constantly barraged others with questions about how to do something, even the simplest of tasks.

Another worker finally quipped in exasperation, “I dunno, Vern. Maybe you should hire a handy man.” Vern looked at him, wondering. He thought about it for a moment. Maybe I should.

After the judge rendered his decision about Mr. Ledecker’s will, Vern was contacted by the non-profit that had been awarded the Ledecker cabin. For a more than generous stipend, they hired him to watch over the place. Periodically, he boated over to Ledecker Island to check things out. He vacuumed the rugs, ran a Swiffer over the floors, dusted, and checked the mouse traps. Methodically, he went through the house, turning lights on and off, replacing any light bulbs that had burned out.

Tonight was to be an unscheduled visit. Linnie Lee had called him earlier in the day to make the arrangements. The Ledecker kids were finally meeting to hash things out. Apparently, Deck was going to try to buy his siblings out. Vern had serious doubts that would happen. With a shrug, he thought, don’t hurt to try.

Putting the key in the lock, he twisted it open, simultaneously turning the handle. As the door swung open, he peered in to see the main room lit by a single lamp. It added a weak golden glow to the knotty pine clad walls and ceiling of the space that served as both living room and kitchen.

“Hey mister!” Vern called out.

A man was sitting in Mr. Ledecker’s favorite chair, an overly stuffed piece of furniture covered in a coarse fabric, with a rich floral pattern.

Vern cocked his head as he peered at the man. Bald, probably in his fifties, a clean shaven face, a bored distant look on his face. Curiously, he was dressed in a white shirt and a black tie, neatly pulled up to the neck.

Vern approached the man, starting to ask, “Who are…?”

Then he stopped. The man’s gaze hadn’t changed. He continued to stare, as if looking at something behind Vern. Looking more closely, he suddenly realized that the man’s stare was only coming from one eye. The other eye appeared to be missing entirely. There was just a hole where it was supposed to be located.

Vern leaned a bit to the side to be sure. That’s when he saw it. A small spray of blood on the back of the chair. Taking one more tentative step, he realized the back of the man’s head was missing. Just gone. Against the wall, on the floor, and further down on the back of the chair, more blood and what looked like masses of cooked noodles.

The smell hit him like a ton of bricks. Urine, feces, some undefinable stench. Vern could feel it bubbling up into his throat. He turned, ran out the door breathless, leaned over the railing on the side of the porch, and puked his guts out.

“Jesus Christ, Vern!” Dickie Lee Ledecker yelled in dismay as he emerged from the woods, next to the house.

Deck’s younger brother Richard, Louie Lee’s older brother. Usually called Dickie Lee, derisively referred to by some people as Lee the Dick. The boy in the middle. Dickie Lee somehow inherited all of the recessive Ledecker genes. As lanky as Louie Lee was and as swarthy as Deck was, Dickie Lee was big and round, a protruding stomach and floppy boy boobs that he’d had since he was a kid. Instead of the oval shaped face of his brothers and sister, Dickie Lee’s was broad and square.

As Vern continued to retch and unable to speak, he lifted one hand and pointed behind himself at the cabin’s door.

Just as quickly as Dickie Lee entered the house, he was back on the porch, bending over with his hands on his knees. Huffing and puffing, he expended all effort to avoid tossing his cookies, too.

“What’s goin’ on here?” Deck exclaimed when he walked up less than a minute later.

At the same time, Linnie Lee came from a different direction.

“Don’t go in there!” Dickie Lee warned.

Ignoring his younger brother, Deck barged into the cabin, returning seconds later, white as a ghost, eyes bulging. He looked at Linnie Lee, warning her off with a shake of his head.

Just then, Louie Lee appeared from behind the far side of the cabin. He was about to make a sarcastic remark but, instead just stood there looking at his brothers and sister, stunned looks on their faces.

Without another word, Deck took his phone out and dialed 911.

Thayer had run out of conversation long ago. Nevertheless, there he stood on the shoreline, Cutie still bending his ear. He chuckled at something she said, using the opportunity to shift his weight slightly, as he shuffled a half-step closer to his boat. His mouth still tingled, even more than a half hour after Cutie’s tongue had swirled around inside it, tickling the top row of his teeth.

Where had C.O. gone to? Earlier, he noticed Mr. Wilson give his boat a quick reverse throttle to pull it away from the shore, C.O.’s mother lounging on the back bench, arms spread across the rear hull.

Thayer wanted to talk to him in the worst way. How did C.O. know he was working at The Bar and Gas? Even more, how did he know what Mr. Elwinde was calling him? Thayer had worshipped him from afar for the longest time. He was still getting over the shock that C.O. actually knew he even existed.

Back in the woods, C.O. rolled over and groaned. His head throbbed, a sharper pain emanating from somewhere on the top of his head. His hand felt something wet and sticky when he pushed against the pain. Struggling to his feet, he stumbled toward the lights coming from Deck’s house and yard.

Cutie had just put her arms around Thayer’s neck, crushing her hips against his. Arms around her sides, half holding her, unsure if he should hold her closer or push her away, Thayer glanced down, then up to the tree line. C.O. was just now staggering out of the woods.

“Hey!” Thayer yelled.

They both ran to C.O., Thayer grabbing his arm and putting it around his own shoulders. Cutie held onto his trunk, both trying to steady him.

“Oh my God, C.O.! What happened?” Cutie practically screamed.

A minute later, he was sitting at one of the picnic tables. One of the catering staff held a damp rag against the cut on C.O.’s head. Another worker quickly wrapped a second rag in some ice cubes. C.O. winced as he nudged it against his bruised and swollen cheek.

“I must have tripped or something,” C.O. gasped. “I don’t remember.”

He remembered all right. But, no way was he going to admit he was in the woods with his hand down his shorts. The rest of it was still a blur. Something had happened, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on it.

“I called your folks. They’re on their way back to the island,” one of Deck’s assistants said as he walked up. “You’re gonna need stitches, Bud,” he continued, peering into the open wound on C.O.’s head. It was still leeching blood.

“Oh, I dunno,” C.O. groaned. He used his thumb and forefinger to rub his forehead, just over his eyebrows.

Just then, a siren in the distance, coming from the mainland. They all looked up. A second siren followed by a third, all three growing closer.

Within the hour, the western shore of Bay Lake where The Bar and Gas was located was lined with Crow Wing County Sheriff’s Department vehicles, an ambulance, and a fire truck. Blinking red, white, and blue emergency lights lit up the area. A flotilla of personal watercraft, boats of all sizes, bobbed up and down in the bay, their running lights adding an almost magical effect to the scene. The word had spread quickly. Someone had gotten bumped off on Ledecker Island.

A Minnesota Game Warden’s boat and a Sheriff’s Department outboard shuttled back and forth between Arthur’s dock and The Bar and Gas.

By the time C.O.’s parents returned to Ledecker Island, he was already thinking more clearly. Joking around, as a matter of fact, even though the cut on his head still stung pretty badly. Cutie stayed back but Thayer, not really thinking, jumped into the Wilson’s boat, holding onto C.O.’s elbow to support him.

Sitting in the back seat of the Wilson’s car once they reached shore, Thayer held a damp towel over the cut on C.O.’s head. He wasn’t sure why he did it. A light pat on the top of C.O.’s bare thigh, maybe just to comfort him. As he was about to draw his hand away, C.O. placed his own hand over Thayer’s. He sucked his breath in, glancing up at C.O., looking for some kind of sign. There was none. His eyes were closed, either a slight grimace, or was that a smile, on his face? C.O. eased Thayer’s fingers apart, entwining both of their hands together.

What’s happening? Thayer’s mind was swirling. He leaned over, ready to whisper something in C.O.’s ear. What’s going on? Is this okay? Are you okay? Do you even know what you’re doing? Thayer couldn’t decide what to say. Too late, though. Just then, they arrived at Cuyuna Medical Center in Crosby.

***

Arms extended out to the sides for balance, Ed Concannon stepped gingerly out of the boat and onto Arthur Ledecker’s dock. Crow Wing County’s venerable sheriff for the past thirty-four years. Annoyed would be putting it mildly. He was ticked off. The sheriff had rarely been rousted out of his weekly poker game. The deputies were supposed to be able to handle anything. Well, almost anything.

Hitching up his pants over his bulging waistline, he marched off the dock and up the short path to Arthur Ledecker’s cabin. Two of his men were standing just off the porch. Ed glanced to his right, noting that a third deputy was at the edge of the woods currently bent over at the waist, choking and spitting after throwing up some of his recently consumed pepperoni pizza.

“Troftgruben! Would you stop doing that?” He yelled. “You’re screwing with the crime scene!”

Less than a minute later, after viewing the corpse, Concannon was back outside on the Ledecker porch, issuing orders. Search the perimeter. Look for anything. A weapon, foot prints, broken branches. Looking in the distance with a grimace, he punched numbers into his phone.

“Hmmm,” the man answering the phone murmured. He unconsciously wiped his hand across his upper lip to smooth the thick mustache under his nose, listening carefully as Sheriff Concannon gave him a briefing on the murder.

“Be right over,” he rasped into the phone. Without another word, he hung up the phone.

With a sigh, Shamus Bueller bent over, gave the story he’d been working on a final glance, and clicked the document on his laptop to close it. He was midway through chapter thirty-three of his latest Gay coming-of-age tome, Rory Gets His.

Chief Investigator for the state’s Bureau of Criminal Investigation, Northern District, and prolific Gay fiction author. Shamus shrugged on a black suit coat, pulled up his tie, leaving the neck of his shirt open at the top, and glanced briefly in the hallway mirror.

Ugh! He thought. Gotta lose some weight. Thick shoulders, barrel chest, a full head of coarse salt and pepper hair, square face, and that mustache. Thick and bushy, walrus style, the ends dipping to the corners of his mouth.

After his wife left him fifteen years ago, Shamus moved up to lake country, Deerwood to be precise, and threw himself into his work. Following the dissolution of his marriage, there were a few women but no one really turned his crank. He just didn’t care to be in a relationship.

The writing kind of just happened. Of course, he’d always been a writer of sorts. Crime reports, arrest reports, incident reports, and criminal profiles. He took extra time to make sure they were readable, not realizing he was composing rather compelling narratives until the Chief called him one day.

“That last one was so fascinating I couldn’t put it down!” He said.

Shamus laughed into the phone.

“No. I’m serious, man!” The Chief continued.

Somewhere along the line, he stumbled upon a web site featuring Gay fiction. Some of the work was pretty interesting but most of it was just plain awful. Rife with spelling and punctuation errors, narratives that were just about fucking or laughably implausible. I can do better than that, he thought. One day he sat down with his laptop and started plunking away. Much to his surprise, the prose just came pouring out.

It wasn’t long before he became a Gay fiction superstar. Well into his tenth book now, he had legions of fans. Some of the published work had even earned him a little money.

“Forty-five caliber hollow round tip,” Shamus announced less than a minute after he arrived at the crime scene. “Shot from about over there,” he continued, pointing to a spot on the floor ten feet from the victim. He shook his head in annoyance. Of course, that area had already been trooped over by numerous law enforcement personnel. Fat chance of getting anything left by the killer’s shoes.

Hands behind his back, he leaned over slightly to examine the drying brain matter and bone that was still plastered against the wall behind the victim.

“We’re likely to find bullet fragments stuck in the wall.” Squinting, “And I see a small hole right here,” he continued, using a pen to as a pointer. “Have someone go out back and check the ground. I’m betting you’ll find a decent-sized piece of the kill shot out there.”

Harriet Leach, the Medical Examiner for the tri-county area, nodded in agreement.

“So, who is it, Ed?”

“I have no clue,” Concannon replied. “Already checked with the Ledecker’s. Vern said the door was locked when he got here.”

“Anything in his pockets?”

Concannon shook his head. “Nothing in his shirt pocket and, of course, we can’t really tell about his pants pockets until we get him laid out. At least, we couldn’t tell from just feeling on the outside of ‘em.”

“Time of death?” Shamus glanced at Harriet, who was busy making some notes on her iPad.

“I’ll know better when we have all of the pathology, of course. Best guess—TOD was around eight o’clock.”

“Anybody hear anything?”

Concannon grunted. “Well, Deck had a party goin’ on full force, music and all. So, no.”

Shamus sighed as he looked around the room.

“Somebody see if they can get Ethel to put some coffee on over there,” he said, pointing his chin in the general direction of The Bar and Gas. “We’re gonna be here awhile.”

***

“Why do you have blood on your hands? Did you know you have blood on your hands?” Thayer’s mother asked, a look of alarm on her face.

He had just gotten home and it was well past 11 p.m. The Wilson’s had been nice enough to take a slight detour on their way home and drive through Deerwood to drop him off.

C.O. was now the proud owner of sixteen stitches on the top of his head with the added bonus of a nice rectangular patch of shaved scalp around the wound. They sat together in the back seat again. C.O. was a little woozy from a painkiller they’d given him so Thayer didn’t even try to hold his hand again even though he wanted to in the worst way.

“You know, I heard all those sirens and it really scared me, especially after I called your phone and you didn’t pick up,” his mother complained.

After giving his parents the whole story and getting summarily bawled out for not picking up or calling back, he was ordered to bed.

“And, take a shower, for Pete’s sake!” His father yelled after him as he climbed the stairs to the second floor.

Thayer was going to bag the shower idea. He was too tired and emotionally worn out from the entire evening’s events. But, when he looked down at his grimy hands, dried blood under his finger nails, he shrugged. After a long pee and vigorously scrubbing his hands and under his fingernails, he went to his bedroom and nudged the door shut. A quick yank of his belt and his shorts fell to the floor. Rather than take his shirt off next, he shrugged his boxers off, wiping his hand along the crease between his thigh and his nuts. Touching his hand to his nose, he sniffed that mildly dank aroma of sweat and balls. Not distasteful, just sort of…he couldn’t quite describe it.

In barely a second, Thayer could feel himself getting stiff. He couldn’t see his cock because, at the moment, it was covered by the front of his shirt. Catching a glimpse of himself in the bedroom mirror, he lazily started unbuttoning it from the bottom up. The one-eye climbed steadily as it came into view. By the time his shirt was open all the way, it was erect and curved up almost as far as his belly button. Throbbing and mean looking. Well, not that mean looking. Not like the brown pricks he’d seen online or Andy Potter’s cock. He’d caught a glance of his thing in the locker room after gym.

Thayer’s cock was lightish pink, barely a shade darker than his pale complexion. Using his fingernail, he lightly grazed the underside of the shaft, near the head.

“Ah-h-h,” he groaned, tipping his head back for a moment.

He looked back at it in his bedroom mirror. The wrinkles behind the head made it look vaguely like the under bellies of some of the fish he had to fillet at The Bar and Gas. His balls waved slightly between his legs.

Thayer suddenly became aware that he actually looked pretty fuckin’ sexy standing there, wearing just a shirt. Pulling it up to his neck and holding it against his chin, his free hand brushed against his tiny nipples, themselves so pale only the tips shown in the side light coming from his bathroom.

Turning to the side, he let the shirt fall after which he lifted it slightly revealing his small, round butt. Thayer frowned a bit. Too much like a boy butt. And, round like a girl butt. But, then a vision of C.O. pressing his mouth into the crevice of his cheeks burst into his mind.

Arching his back, Thayer tried to separate his ass cheeks so he could better see his hole. Unable to do so, he grabbed his phone and jumped onto the bed. Pushing the top sheet and blanket back, he turned the phone’s camera on, propping it against the scrunched up bedding. He grabbed the sides of the shirt and threw it off. He wanted to be naked for this. Turning on his side, his butt facing the screen, he used one hand to pull one cheek aside. There it was. Darker skin in the shape of an oval, spreading out almost like a starburst, surrounded by pale skin. In the middle, a perfectly round dark hole.

He was now so aroused his nasal passages started thickening. Through hooded eyes, he pushed an index finger against his anus, a soft groan escaping his open mouth. In his imagination, the thick head of C.O.’s cock replaced his finger tip. His focus widened to take in the creamy silkiness of the backs of his own thighs.

Thayer jumped up suddenly, stepped over to his dresser, and grabbed his hairbrush. Hopping back on the bed, he straightened his phone so he could better see what was going on. Turning back on his side, he attempted to push the brush handle into his butt.

“Ow-w-w!” He squealed. It stung bad. Undeterred, he peeked out his bedroom door, ran naked to the bathroom, and grabbed a tube of moisturizer he sometimes used on his elbows and kneecaps. Returning to his bed, he laid flat on his back, pulling his knees up and spreading his legs. After a quick swirl around the brush handle with the moisturizer, he held it steady against his butthole.

Head to the side, Thayer looked at himself displayed in the phone’s screen. His eyes were glued to the end of the brush handle as it pressed against his hole. Taking a breath, he slowly but steadily pushed it in. His eyes scrunched tight and his head tipped back for a moment as the pain from the brush penetrating his anal ring stung again. But, it didn’t hurt as bad this time. Just pressure. A lot of pressure.

He stopped with it in a little more than an inch, time enough to start jerking his cock. With each thrust, he let out a gasp, pushing it in a little more, closing his eyes from time-to-time. It was glorious. Just as the bristles of the brush came in contact with his butt cheeks, it happened. Too soon—he wanted to pause long enough to bring C.O.’s face back into his mind. A burning in his throat. Another groan. The first hot spurt hit him in the chin, followed by three more that sprayed across his chest and onto the bed.

After catching his breath, Thayer let go of the brush, letting it fall out of his butt. He reached down to the floor, picking up the t-shirt he’d worn earlier, and using it to wipe himself off. Grabbing his phone, he turned it off, threw it on his nightstand, pulled the covers up, and turned out the light.