Life Struggles (Life Stories Book 1)

by Mark Treble

  There was another text from Marcus letting me know that he and Alex were getting along much better as the bruises on Alex's chin improved and Monica came back. Good news all around.

  There was a text from Cheryl: Still want to kick my puppy? I finally got a laugh.

  I filed stories every four hours for the next day. The public affairs guys (and girls) did most of the writing and I was good with that. Nothing seemed to be getting swept under the rug, including the in-and-out hiccup with the ambulances. The Park Service rangers were given credit for fixing that and managing the area with unparalleled professionalism. I changed that to noted professionalism, and nobody seemed to mind.

  The next morning I finally decided to switch my focus from crime to grime. I was filthy. I hit the cabin and made my way to the shower. After shampooing my hair, I reached for the washcloth to wipe off my eyes.

  “Here it is.” I knew that voice. I took the washcloth and there was Brenda. In the shower with me. Naked. Did I mention she was not wearing any clothes?

  I got the grime off, of course, but that was mostly due to water pressure and time. When Dana and I made love it was exactly that. We kissed, petted, sighed, spoke words of affection, stroked, and usually – but not always – had slow, romantic intercourse. When Cheryl and I fucked we got off as quickly and as often as possible. This was animalistic.

  She kissed me, bit me, stroked me, clawed me, squeezed me, and clawed some more. I did the same thing, I just didn't draw quite as much blood. Had we possessed fangs and talons it is possible neither of us would have survived.

  It was all about human, and some inhuman, contact. We threw ourselves at each other, covered every inch of one another's skin in cuts and bruises, then threw ourselves back into the fray. My first orgasm was ninety seconds post-penetration. And I didn't withdraw, because the contact felt so good. My second orgasm followed the first by less than ten minutes. Even Cheryl, despite her best efforts, couldn't make that happen.

  We kept at it for an hour like a predator species involved in mortal combat. I was finally spent and so was she. We made ineffectual attempts at drying off, then hit the bed. I was asleep instantly; Brenda said it took her at least thirteen nanoseconds longer.

  When we woke up it was dark outside. But, it had been dark when we started the sexomania session. It was either the same day or twenty-four hours later. I was betting on the former. We went for another wrestling match and she won. Then I won. She wanted a rubber match, which brought to mind a question.

  “No condoms?” They had been the farthest thing from my mind. Actually, the second farthest thing right behind a root canal. Speaking of which, I need to get my teeth replaced. Oh, that's right, condoms.

  “Didn't need them, silly. I'm on birth control pills and I'm clean. You're clean, too, so it didn't matter.” She tried to distract me with her mouth and it almost succeeded. Almost.

  “How do you know I'm clean?” That was a hell of an assumption to make.

  “It's right there in your medical records, Ethan. You were put through a whole STD panel about seven months ago. Labs were requested by Dr. Cheryl Something.” She was losing ardor fast, so maybe I could recharge enough not to embarrass myself too badly.

  “You looked at my medical records?” If I weren't so satiated I would have been offended.

  “Did you read my T-shirt? You were circumcised shortly after childbirth. I certainly don't mind a foreskin, but that was filed away. You had measles as a child, broke a few bones here or there in your laughable attempts at athletics, lost your virginity at seventeen … Should I go on?” For the first time with her I felt truly naked.

  “Laughable attempts at athletics?” Some things were sacred, you know.

  “School records and interviews with team mates. We're really thorough.” I'll bet.

  “As long as we're telling secrets, how come you let me keep the camera?” This one had bothered me, although while I was donating copious amounts of blood to the shower drain it had somehow slipped my mind.

  “Well, we could have taken it back, copied the SD cards and given them to you. But, then you would always suspect that we had kept something back. The easiest way for you to obtain all the photos and be sure of it was to let you keep the camera and so you'd think you were getting away with something.” She looked as though I should have figured this out for myself.

  She got out of bed, turned on the TV and hit a few buttons on the remote control. The show was boring. Me coming into the cabin and collapsing. Me getting up and sending the digital files. Me going back to bed. All in rapid fast-forward.

  “But, wasn't that just luck? I mean, the head guy had dismissed me and you were hauling me away.” I figured I had her.

  “Poor Ethan, you underestimate us. I watched your SUV for nearly two hours while you stayed inside too afraid to move. I was just about to leave when you finally found your balls and made your way to the scene. Another ten minutes and you'd still be an FBI virgin, you coward.

  “Anyway, the whole thing was staged. Again, you were shown everything because that was not just in the public interest, it was in our interest too. But the only way for you to believe you had access to everything was to make you think it was a result of typical government bumbling.” At that point I would have looked smug, but she just looked confident.

  Pointing at our naked bodies, I asked the question that worried me most. “Is this part of the manipulation?”

  “Fuck you.” That was heartfelt, and I hoped it was true. “You think you're the only one who was caked in sweat and dirt, emotionally drained, and probably horny? Ethan, I've gained a lot of respect for you over the past day or so. And a bit of affection as well. I don't go throwing myself at everybody for whom I have some affection. But respect? That has real value … and real potential.”

  Brenda was serious. I was beaming. And she won the rubber match.

  The next day I took a tour of the whole area. Bodies had been cleaned up and ambulances had already taken away most of the young men. I saw something that brought to mind a piece of equipment we'd used for crops on our farm near Smyrna. It looked just like a sixty-gallon truck-mounted mist blower. I remembered our speculation back at the task force and shuddered.

  After two more days of frequent questions, writing, editing, photographing and whatnot – don't let me forget the animal fights (cock-fighting comes to mind) – it was over. I stopped by to see the head guy and noticed some rolled up large papers. One was labeled ‘Dodger Stadium’ and another was ‘Miami Marlins Stadium.’ I think a third one was ‘Safeco Field.’ I asked what that was all about. The head guy told me I was done asking questions and turned me over to somebody to be escorted out. Willingly or not.

  I was driven to the Knoxville Airport and given a plane ticket home. As I looked around the interior of the sardine can mislabeled a “regional jet” I thought this wasn't fit for a returning hero, but then I wasn't a hero. I was just the luckiest guy alive. I'd been kidnapped twice, confined to a mental ward, and now I was alive and on my way home. Another sardine can from Atlanta to New Orleans and I was there.

  An airline representative met me at the door to the aircraft and escorted me straight to ticketing instead of arrivals. He told me that my bags would be taken to my newspaper and then turned me over to Danny and Barbara. Hugs, kisses, handshakes, backslaps and other greetings were followed by a quick trip out the door to a waiting NOPD cruiser. I was dropped at my house and the others taken to their offices.

  Alex met me at the door. “Douchebag,” was his greeting. Then he hugged me. I was too stunned to take the proffered beer, so he drank it himself. Frigging punk.

  Marcus offered to stay and sleep on the couch despite the cum stains. I told him to get back to his life and thanked him again. I made a note to clean the couch.

  That evening Cheryl came by after work and I paid off a whole lot of my debt. At breakfast the next morning Alex grinned at us and said we had sounded like horny teenagers half the night. Monica g
iggled. So did I.

  Monica left for school but Cheryl stayed. She had taken the morning off and answered as many questions as she could. TPN was Total Parenteral Nutrition. In fact, I had received TPN for a while in the hospital. It was tailored to each individual and included about everything (nutrients, vitamins, minerals and whatnot) that was needed to feed someone who could not eat. She was not familiar with long-term effects if it had been used continuously for a year, but said she would look into it.

  Hammocks were used because a body that lies in a bed for more than about a day developed compression ulcers, usually called bed sores. Every patient who developed bed sores in a hospital was a failure and mark of shame for the nursing staff. When she had worked as head nurse on a ward the only punishment meted out to a nurse who allowed a patient to develop bed sores was a memo in large type and red ink to every employee in the hospital with name and particulars.

  She said the union filed a grievance the first time, so she gave the union representative's phone number to the afflicted patient. No more grievances. In fact, after the first two memos, there were no more bed sores.

  Cheryl explained why only about half of the kidnapped men had been in the facility. The other half probably had not inherited the gene for the condition. I asked her what was done with them, and she wouldn't answer.

  Danny came by later that day with good news and bad news. All but eight of the young men at the facility had come out of their medically-induced comas. Despite regular massage therapy by the Oriental nurses, there had been a lot of muscular atrophy in all of the men. They were in for lengthy physical therapy before they could learn to walk again.

  As for the other half of the kidnap victims, it was assumed that most of them were dead. So far a hundred thirteen bodies had been found, and fifty-four of them belonged to kidnap victims who had not inherited the KEL gene. Two of the “kidnap victims” from St Louis were found in an isolated compound in Nevada run by a small religious sect that practiced polygamy. They had arrived, declared their conversion and undying allegiance and asked about the chicks. Each was immediately awarded five wives. Both of the guys were still in bed when discovered.

  One poor soul from Oakland was found wandering the streets of Ames, Iowa. He was looking for the ISIS recruiting office. He understood that they were freedom fighters in the Middle West.

  Luke arrived with multiple copies of a well-known scandal rag and handed them out. I started reading and laughed immediately. Alex, on the other hand, was enraged. He kept screaming “What the fuck????” and beating the arm of his chair. Luke allowed as how his favorite part was the manhandling bit.

  The article was an example of the finest in journalism.

  THE QUEER TRUTH BEHIND SMOKEYGATE

  “We've all read about the raid on the secret compound in the Great Smokey Mountain National Park where seventy brave young men were rescued from perverted homosexual monsters who were molesting them and worse. Now, for the rest of the story.

  “The pool reporter, Ethan McQuade, and his son, Allen, were part of the whole thing. It started when Allen got lost on his way to a homosexual drug festival. He was accompanied by his long-time sex partner, a female impersonator who went by the name “Monica.” They ran out of gas, left the vehicle and got into some sort of allocation {sic} in which Allen beat “Monica” severely and left “her” in a ditch for dead. “She” suffered numerous injuries including a broken leg.

  “While the elder McQuade was seen around New Orleans frequenting gay bars and consorting with transvestite prostitutes, Allen, who was almost dead, was finally rescued by his “Uncle,” famous faggot artist Luke Dupree. Dupree is the McQuades' next-door neighbor and rumored long-time depraved male lover of Ethan McQuade. The rescue is questionable. A witness reports that Allen's “Uncle” was seen manhandling his naked body and interfering with a brave nurse who was trying to give him medical attention.

  “Allen was eventually returned to New Orleans, where his father was hospitalized after suffering severe injuries in rough queer sex games that had gone very wrong. We have been unable to contact either of the McQuades, or Dupree or “Monica” for comment.

  “This is clear evidence of a government conspiracy to force the Gay Agenda on god-fearing Americans. The group “Beat Off the Gays” has issued a statement decrying the entire mess and demanding that government come clean about its involvement.”

  Alex was apoplectic. “My name's not Allen, it's Alex. And my last name isn't McQuade, it'sDeLauder. And I'm not Ethan's son, I'm his step-son. And I'm not gay. And Monica is a female, not an impersonator. And…” He finally stopped and broke out in uncontrollable laughter.

  “You're right. It's too fucking funny for words.”

  Soon we were all hooting and hollering, sniggering and giggling, and yelling out quotes from our favorite parts. For the rest of the day I called my stepson ‘Allen’ and he called me ‘pervert.’

  Marcus was offended. “How come I'm not in the story? I could have been the token black something or other at least.” Alex said that if the affair had needed a watermelon, collard greens and fried chicken tester, Marcus would have been front and center.

  Marcus's punch to Alex's shoulder was soft. At least relatively so. Alex swung at Marcus and missed. Then they hugged and rolled around on the floor for a while. Sure, Alex had a long way to go to maturity. But Marcus was almost puppy-like.

  When we all came back to earth Danny continued with some more details.

  A security guard at the New Orleans Medical Examiner's Office had been arrested. He was recruited over the internet in Moldova and brought to the U.S. He had a background as a locksmith and was a graduate student in medical technology. He applied to three security companies in other cities before being taken on in New Orleans for the contract with the ME's office.

  No arrests had been made in Oakland or four more cities. Otherwise, the autopsy sample thieves had been identified and arrested. Not one of them knew who had actually recruited them.

  The same was true of the South African security guards. Each had been individually recruited over the internet and paid through banks in various Caribbean island nations. Those countries opened their books to U.S. financial investigators who were unable to trace the money transfers beyond three hops, and never found the original source.

  The Oriental nurses were Chinese. A human smuggler had been paid in cash to deliver sixty nurses to the U.S. and knew nothing more. The nurses were being debriefed, and almost all of them had asked for asylum in the U.S. Those who wanted to be returned home would be flown to Beijing when the debriefing was done.

  The person in charge at the facility was a woman of about fifty. Isotopes in her teeth showed that she had been raised in Bulgaria, and her steel dental work indicated she had probably lived most of her life in Bulgaria or some other Eastern European country. She had apparently never had children. Otherwise, nothing was known about her except that it proved impossible to reassemble the two thousand plus pieces that were found.

  Transmissions from the facility were traced to and from a masked server in Bulgaria, but Bulgaria had been cleared of all complicity. The server further encrypted the already-encrypted received transmissions and sent them to a variety of other masked servers which sent them to more masked servers, and the end point was still a mystery.

  Danny said he had to be at work early tomorrow, so he left. At that point I broke out beers for me, Marcus, Luke and Alex.

  “Ethan, I missed the start of the semester at school. I'm going to enroll next semester and start my computer programming studies.” I waited for the third shoe to drop. First he called me Ethan, then he was enrolling in school.

  “Marcus, you got any …” Alex looked at me guiltily. I knew what he was after. Fuck it.

  “Alex, if you want to smoke some weed with Marcus go ahead. Do it outside in the back patio. If the police show up I'll help them put the cuffs on you.” I tried not to grin, but Alex came over and hugged me. There it was, the
third shoe.

  He and Marcus went onto the back patio, and Luke got us each another beer.

  We clinked bottles.

  “Manhandler.”

  “Pervert”

  I smiled and thought about Brenda. That had some real possibilities. But for now, I have one big fucking story to write.

  West Africa

  Kupake cheered along with the rest of the boys as the bus crossed the border from Niger to Nigeria. He looked around at the other smiling, friendly black faces and was only sorry that his cousin, Prosper, had decided to leave the bus in Rwanda and return to Congo. He had started crying and one of the adults had taken him to another bus station to send him home. Kupake would write to him as soon as he could from his new job.

  A white woman and an Oriental man had visited Kupake's village and told the leaders that each boy whose blood was strong enough would be given fifty thousand Congolese Francs and taken to a school in Nigeria where he would be taught construction and given a well-paying job. His family would be given another fifty thousand Congolese Francs.

  Very few of the boys' blood was strong enough, just Kupake's and Prosper's. Kupake was proud of his accomplishment. Even after Prosper left he laughed and plotted with the other boys about what they would do with their riches. This was a dream come true.

  The bus had picked up other boys, just one or two at a time, as it wound from Congo through Rwanda and Uganda, back into Congo, and then on through four other countries before arriving in Niger for the last pickup. The trip had been a real adventure. The boys sang, and laughed, and told jokes, and bragged about all the girls whose ukes they had poked with their uumes. Kupake was a virgin, but he told stories about ukes and uumes just like the other boys. He wanted to fit in.

  The bus was actually air-conditioned. The seats were comfortable and the two adult men made sure the boys had plenty of water throughout the day. The evening meal was a feast. Every night they had a whole piece of a marvelous meat called Spam. It was delicious. Kupake wondered what kind of animal it came from. Maybe he could find some and raise them in Nigeria.