MetaDeprivation - 7. MetaPrompts 574: Life (MW1)

“What the fuck are you doing?” He tried to shout, but the repercussions of a long night made his words sound more like hoarse quacking. He nearly fell out of his bed in the effort to look up, his hand pushing himself off the floor again. Except it hadn’t been the floor he had touched, but the inside of a plastic bowl that seemed to have served macaroni and cheese last night.

He swore, desperately looking for something to wipe the mess off.

That white army trash seemed to have little sympathy and wouldn’t have cared if Terrence had used his bed sheets, but finally had some pity and threw him the desired tissue box. “We’re here to get Colt’s stuff,” the ginger barked more loudly than necessary; well knowing Terrence was terribly hung-over and any noise created pain like hell. Asshole. Why did Colty go for that ass? He could have easily gotten that lanky East Coast liberal fem gay crusader boy instead of that trash. Hank had been all over that nerd for months. Texans.

“And you?” He tried to challenge the redneck football player entering after that ginger white army trash.

“Same,” was the telegram answer.

“And why should I believe …?” he tried to make a last effort.

The ginger raised his hand with Colt’s key and hissed: “This will be noisy. So you either can get coffee somewhere, or take a run, and when you’re back we’re done, or you stay put …”

Terrence rolled his eyes to stop that ass. The night with his special MILF Amanda had been exhausting again; she was a hardcore BBC addict; he needed sleep. But those two hillbillies seemed to enjoy kicking him out his bed, so he’d better leave for some coffee.

He quickly went through a stash of not-to-dirty clothes yet to find acceptable sweat pants and a T-shirt.

“By the way, we found this hanging on the door knob,” the army trash lifted the offending item reproachfully.

“A clown wig?” Terrence asked in disbelief.

“I have no clue what you college boys do the whole day,” the redhead answered with the most despising tone he could muster. It was obvious he had never been to college.

“What’s the chain thing?” Terrence asked.

But the bigger guy just snarled and widened the door, pretty much saying: ‘Get the fuck lost,’ in his wordless way. Terrence knew this type from his football games: kind, harmless and supportive to the umpteenth degree; but if you got on the wrong side with them, they would squash you like a mosquito. So he just nodded and left the room for those two fags to do what they had to do.

In front of their door, he found a trolley, several unfolded moving boxes, a box cutter, gray tape, and rope. They were really here to move Colt’s stuff, and prepared like professionals, he realized with a hint of admiration.

He wondered whether he should message Colty to check up on him, but decided first for some decent coffee.

CE dragged in their moving equipment and closed the door.

Prime unfolded one of the boxes and put in some of Colt’s T-shirts and shirts into it. “Well, it’s not going to take a lot of time,” he stated.

“We won’t have a spoilt-rotten Meta, that’s for sure.” CE put the chain under his sweatshirt, so it didn’t disturb him with the packing. That meant he couldn’t touch it to experience the excitement of newness after yesterday’s bonding ritual, but it would only take half an hour before they were done. He found Colt’s laptop. He carefully wrapped it in excessive amounts of bubble paper, before he put into one of the boxes.

“What’s that?” This time it wasn’t CE holding up an offending element, but Prime. And the item in question was blue gym shorts with the NAVY logo on it.

CE’s facial muscles showed only mildly disgusted amusement. “I guess he wants to tease you.”

Prime stretched the shorts, so he could fold them properly. Unfortunately, he underestimated his wolf powers, so he ripped them apart. “Oops,” he apologized to himself. “I guess we have some torn pair of shorts now.”

CE smiled. “Now we only can throw them away.” He lifted the garbage bin invitingly.

Prime nodded maturely. “It’s the best.”

After that little accident they proceeded with their work wordlessly, quickly, and soon Colt’s half of the room looked as empty as never been used.

“There’s a wooden blanket box in the back of the closet,” CE stated. He didn’t wait for any comment but dragged it out and put it on the bed. “You think it’s part of the furniture?”

“Looks like. Can you open it?”

CE tried, and indeed it revealed its content without issues. Under a very thick blanket, indicating Colt froze easily, they found Colt’s passport, birth certificate, social security card, bank statements, university documents, and several letters.

And a few books.

Dirty books.

CE whistled.

“What?” Prime asked.

“Our Meta has a dirty taste,” CE answered, a warm feeling filling his body.

“You only realize now?” Prime joked.

“No, I mean really,” CE responded.

“Why?”

“He read ‘The Brig?’”

“What’s that?”

“Hardcore BDSM novel. Ultimate mind fuck,” CE stated without reading the blurb.

“You know it?” Prime had asked before he realized: obviously. He had never been into reading dirty novels.

“Marine MPs torturing a guy in the brig?” CE summarized with a naughty grin.

“You MPs – you like your handcuffs and bars a bit too much,” Prime laughed, while he closed the folds of the boxes and stuck tape on it.

CE seemed to blush a bit, while he put some more books into the last moving box – one showing a green emerald on the cover: ‘The King.’

“But it’s not marines being tortured, is it?” Prime clarified.

CE swallowed. “Nope. I guess our Meta had to improvise.”

“And not only him,” Prime taunted. “Otherwise you would have done things to me when I was in your little private brig.”

The enforcer smiled while he continued to empty the wooden box.

“Finished,” Prime stated, putting the second to last moving box onto the trolley.

“What’s this?” CE asked; his voice not displaying that excitement when he had spotted the books.

Prime could feel the cold shower of pain creeping down CE’s spine.

“’My Life?’” CE read the title of the binder in his hands.

When Prime looked through it, he closed it decisively as if he had seen the devil, and ordered: “Let’s get out of here!”

---

After Colt had had his little diva moment complaining about not being consulted about moving in with the wolves – as if there had been an alternative, they unloaded the Meta’s stuff in his new room. Only the binder stayed with Prime.

On the next morning at 0600 – the Meta princess was still deeply asleep, he showed it to Brian. The ring binder was filled with plastic jackets, each of them containing documents.

The first one seemed to set the scene. It was a piece of paper, ripped carelessly out of the school block. It had been folded several times, but now it was displayed in the jacket like a precious old document. The boyish handwriting said: “You know what’s wors then an ugly white trash fag boy? – That one day you’ll be an old ugly white trash fag boy with AIDS. – We don’t need your kind.”

They flipped to the next item. Several pages of a newspaper article outlined the increased risk of homosexual boys to STDs, drug addiction, mental disorders, abuse, and homelessness.

The next entry showed the 2003 dissenting opinion by the Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia, who argued that same-sex intercourse should continue to be forbidden in Texas and 13 other states of the US because one shouldn’t eliminate ‘the moral opprobrium that has traditionally attached to homosexual conduct …’

A statement by the Catholic Church followed. Homosexuals would only be granted access to heaven if they forewent acting on their sinful desires. Only a 100% chaste homosexual could be spared to roast in hell forever, for eternity being impaled by glowing iron rods. Not surprisingly, a printout of the poster for the movie based on ‘Eduard II’ by Christopher Marlowe was attached.

Brian’s fingers trembled when he took out a stack of print-outs from the next foil.

Copies of chats.

Endless unsuccessful attempts to find somebody for coffee, a date, or even sex. ‘Too ugly,’ ‘too small,’ ‘too nerdish,’ ‘too complicated, ‘too far way,’ ‘too skinny,’ ‘too …’ Dozens of pieces of evidence of rejection and uselessness.

A self-test printout was next. Indicating traits of OCPD behavior.

Two concert tickets for Trace Adkins in Lubbock. Never used.

And finally an elaborate Excel sheet, with the numbers ‘4,000,000,000’ and ‘0.0025’ in red bold.

“What does it mean?” Prime asked Brian.

The blond boy swallowed. ‘This is a calculation on how many men on this planet are compatible with Colt.” His voice broke.

“That’s stupid,” Prime barked.

“Maybe. But this is Colt’s way of dealing with the fact he was told, thought – no, ‘knew’ – that he would live and die alone, unloved, sick, and always an outcast.”

Prime bit his lip, anger boiling in him. He looked up as if he could see Colt sleeping upstairs through the ceiling. “Why would he think that?”

Brian closed the binder and handed it back to Prime. “Evidence, your honor. Years of evidence. I’m pretty sure there’s more. – What Colt wants he knew he wouldn’t get. Ever.”

“It’s wrong.”

Brian poured himself some coffee. “For him, for a man who values the brutality of logic and facts more than any pink Hollywood trope, it’s the truth.”

“Burn it. Fuck his ‘truth.’”

"You can burn it. But ugly facts always come back to haunt you."