The Pigtown Chronicles” Chapter 3.10 – All Alphas Need a Beta

Parker, with his two thralls following behind him down the dark street, didn’t look entirely out of place in Pigtown, though usually that sort of sight was more common deeper in, closer to the heart. He still got more than a few gawks from the men he passed by, and even then, none of them were really seeing him for what he truly was. It was around midnight when he got to Hugh’s apartment and pounded on the door–but no one answered. Figured, he supposed. Not many folks would be at home at this time of night in Pigtown, unless they were bringing someone back with them for the evening, and Hugh would more likely be out on the street selling his wares in the various bars and clubs. There was a chance, though, that his stash of BHB was still inside the place–after all, it wouldn’t make sense to carry a bunch of vials of the stuff around, since Hugh usually stuck to party drugs. He tried the door, but it was locked. He placed his massive shoulder against it, hand on the knob, and gave a bit of a push. The door caved it around the lock, and he and his globby thralls were inside.

Something was off, though. The lights were on, he could smell the remnants of food in the air. He poked around through the apartment, and sure enough, there was Hugh in his bed, covers pulled up to his chin, shuddering, looking like he’d caught cold. Parker sniffed the air, and he recognized the scent now. Hugh was…his. Somehow, he knew that. Not quite the same as the meek little sucking things he’d made at the gym, though he supposed that Parker could probably suck him dry just as easily as the others. No, he was something else, and Hugh popped his head up from where he was lying, nostrils wide, and licked his lips. “P-Parker? I…something’s wrong, I–fuck, I…”

“Don’t worry about it Hugh, I know what you need, alright?” Parker said, lumbering around the side of the bed to where Hugh was lying. “But you need to do something for me first, alright?”

Hugh nodded, one hand reaching for Parker’s cock, already sensing why he was feeling so ill. “What the fuck happened to you Parker? What did that stuff do to you? I…I felt great, for a couple of hours, and then…I can barely move now.”

“Do you have more of the BHB?”

“I…a couple more vials, yeah, but that’s it.”

“Where were you getting it from? What’s your source?”

“Just…a friend. Another dealer, usually works the gyms, steroids, that sort of thing. We exchange samples on occasion.”

“What’s his name?”

“Aaron–don’t know much more than that.”

“And where does he get it? Who makes it?”

“I don’t fucking know Parker, please, I…I need a load from you, I’m so fucking hungry.”

“You have to fucking know something!” he said, “I’m barely going to make it through the fucking weekend with a couple of vials. Where do you meet up with him?”

“At The Emerald Spa. I deal there on Saturdays to the party boys, and he hooks up some jocks there with steroids at the same time. We chat between deals. I don’t fucking know where he’s getting it. He said it was from somewhere in Pigtown, but I don’t know more that that, you have to fucking believe me,” Hugh struggled and pushed himself upright with one arm shaking a bit, and that was when he finally noticed the two other figures who had entered the room now. “What…what the fuck…”

“Don’t mind them,” Parker said, “They’re with me.”

“What the fuck are they?”

“I don’t fucking know, Hugh. I’d like to get some fucking answers, so I know what the fuck is going on with me, but you don’t fucking know shit!”

Hugh flinched at the harsh tone, and Parker felt a jolt of delight. He was afraid of him. He should be afraid of him. Everyone should be afraid of him, everyone should know that he’s in charge, that he’s the fucking alpha. He toyed with the idea of throwing back the sheet and sucking Hugh dry right there and then, but didn’t. As much as the weak little drug dealer disgusted and infuriated him in the moment, he did still need him. He had no idea who Aaron was, and after that moment of withdrawal back in the gym, he had absolutely no interest in repeating that experience again. The only way he was going to avoid it, though, would be to get a regular supply. “Alright, I suppose you still have some use left in you,” Parker said, and shoved Hugh over onto his back in his bed. “That, and I’m fucking horny as hell. Let’s get you feeling better with a good dose from my alpha cock.”

Hugh looked like he was going to be a bit sick, when he saw the size of Parker’s new cock, and felt it sliding up and down his ass crack, lubed up with a generous layer of precum. He could feel it though, the tingle from the massive muscle man’s cum as it seeped into his skin, and he let out a little moan, cheeks flushing pink, feeling his own sex drive kick into gear. Parker pushed the head into his hole, and then with a few grunts, drove the rest of his cock in deep, Hugh biting down on a pillow to keep from screaming, knowing how much he needed this, worried that if he didn’t get it, he was going to die. Already, he could feel the withdrawl symptoms beginning to recede, but it wasn’t like before, where he felt just a simple burst of energy. He felt hot all of sudden, flushed with heat, and then came the first muscle spasm in his arm. 

“What the hell, it fuckin’ hurts,” Hugh said, gripping his arm, his bicep flexing beyond his control.

“Of course it fuckin’ hurts moron, it’s a big fuckin’ dick.”

“No, not that, something’s wrong, it’s different this time, pull out.”

Bitch, I don’t pull out for anyone, I’m just getting started,” Parker said, and rammed in deeper, feeling his cock pump out some extra pre into Hugh’s guts. His thralls, attracted to the scent coming from Parker’s sex, climbed up onto the bed. One squeezed down, planted it’s greasy lips on Parker’s hole and started rimming him, driving a thick tongue into his Alpha’s hole, while the other oozed its way up onto the small of Hugh’s back, sucking on Parker’s muscular chest, drinking down the milk still seeping from his swollen muscle tits. Parker shuddered in pleasure, fucking faster now, no longer thinking of Hugh as anything more than just a hole.

Under him, the muscle spasms were spreading through Hugh’s entire body, from his arms, to his back, to his neck, to his chest, to his abs, down his legs and even in his feet. Each time, the muscle would clench, squeezing hard, and then start pumping, and with each pump, he could feel it swell, adding mass before relaxing again, exhausted but also somehow invigorated at the same time. Parker fucked faster and faster, and finally came, pumping a massive load of cum into Hugh’s guts, and when he did, he felt the same spasms begin again, his already pumped muscles inflating even larger–and only then, did Parker look down, past the fat thrall sucking on his tits, and realize that Hugh was growing larger and more muscular.

Not nearly as muscular as he was himself, of course, but Hugh had never been in much shape. Rail thin, with a small paunch, and rather short, Parker had always thought of him as a bit of a troll, and assumed he’d gotten into drug dealing as a way to extort sex out of guys, since he likely wouldn’t be able to get any from his looks alone. But while the cum hadn’t done anything to help his face, his body had gone from rail thin to thick with muscle after a single fuck. Parker pulled out, and Hugh pushed himself up and off the bed, looking down at himself, astounded. “Holy fuck, you fucking me into some fucking muscle beast, what the fuck is in that shit?”

“I don’t fucking know, but you’re gonna get me both of those vials, right fucking now,” Parker said.

Hugh didn’t even question the order–he went right to his stash, pulled out both vials, and handed them to Parker, who took one, found a needle, and injected it right into his ass. He could feel the first couple twinges of withdrawal. Filling Hugh up like that had taken a good amount of vitality out of him–he’d have to be careful with that from now on. But smelling Hugh on the air, he could tell something else, somehow. “Hugh, stand on one leg,” he said.

Again, without a moment of hesitation, Hugh shifted over and stood on one foot–and stayed there. From the look on his face, he was a bit confused himself, as to why he had done that, and why he was still doing it. “I…can’t put my foot down.”

“Holy fuck, you have to do what I say, don’t you?”

“I–wait, no fucking way!” Hugh said, struggled a bit more, but couldn’t get his foot down on the ground, no matter how much he struggled.

“You can put your foot down, but only after punching yourself in the nuts,” Parker said.

“No, what?” Hugh said, but his fist connected with his sack, and he bent over, moaning from the self-inflicted punch. “Why the fuck did you make me do that?” he said.

Parker just laughed, “becuase it was fucking funny, that’s why,” he said, “Alright, I have something I need to take care of, but I’ll be back tomorrow to give you another dose–probably before you start feeling shitty again. In the meantime, I want you to connect with Aaron–just with text. Don’t fucking tell him anything about me or what’s happening with you, just say that you’re interested in selling more BHB, and you want to get in contact with his supplier. I don’t care what you have to say, I want you to find out who’s making it and where, got it? If you don’t have the fucking info by the time I get back, I’m going to take you from this little muscle pig you’ve become, and you’re going to become one of these flabby little monsters instead–got it?” He said, grabbing one of his thralls by the scruff of its neck and hauling it’s fat body up into the air, waving it a bit in front of Hugh’s face.

Hugh nodded, “Understood…Sir.”

“Good instincts,” Parker said. “Now, I have some business to take care of. Be a good beta and get that info, or else.”

Hugh nodded, and Parker left the apartment, both thralls in tow. He found his phone, sent off a text to Aaron asking him what it would take to get that info, and then sat around waiting for the reply. In the meantime, he groped his own cock, amazed at how large it was, how it instantly rose up, demanding attention. He stroked himself off, always listening for the sound of a text coming in, but if he was going to be an Alpha’s beta, then he might as well get to enjoy the benefits in the meantime.

The Pigtown Chronicles: Chapter 3.9 – Love’s Shadow

“Jimmy? Are you there?”

Jimmy could still hear the voice in his head as he drove down the freeway, heading for the city proper. He had snuck out of his room in the middle of the night, and was on his way to Pigtown–all because a dream that he was somehow certain wasn’t a dream at all.

“Please Jimmy, you have to help me. He’s hurting me, please, Jimmy, please!”

It had been days since Jimmy had thought about Marlon, since he’d even recalled being in a relationship with anyone at all at school. But then he’d woken up in his bed, or at least, in the dream, he had woken up in his bed, and he’d sensed something in the room. He’d only felt something like it once, in the darkness that night on the sidewalk. Terrified, he’d tried to sit up, only for something to land right on his chest, squeezing the breath out of him. There, in the corner of the room, a figure, a shadow, a silhouette of someone, he couldn’t see who, but it was their doing, they were crushing him, killing him, and the voice, he’d heard Marlon’s voice…

I don’t know how much longer I can last, I need you Jimmy, I love you–”

It had taken all of his willpower, all of his disbelief, but he’d managed to reach out, grab hold of the cord of the lamp on his bedside table, and click it on. The weight had lifted, he’d heard a scream come from the being in the corner, and it had disappeared with the light, leaving Jimmy sitting up in his bed, panting and heaving for breath, the sound of Marlon’s voice fresh in his ears, his face fresh in his mind, and again, the shame, the crushing shame of abandoning him, of forgetting him.

Who knew if it had been real or not. It couldn’t have been real, but then, none of it could have been real, any of it, which is why it was constantly in a state of unraveling and unbeing. It was just a dream, and it had to be more than a dream. If he’d stayed in his room, if he’d fallen back asleep, it would have been nothing more, but he knew, somehow, that if he went to Pigtown, it might become something more than that. A message. A sliver of hope.

It was two in the morning when he drove through the liminal space between the city and Pigtown. Outside the district, the streets had been empty, but here, they were full of activity. He had no idea where to go, other than, perhaps, to the place where it had happened. He parked the car a block or so away from Depot, and retraced his steps to the same dark sidewalk where Marlon had simply vanished into the darkness. Jimmy’s heart was pounding in his chest, and he hesitated as he approached the doorway where the man had stepped out from that night, that shadow. He stopped, turned to go back to the car, or to the precinct, or anywhere other than here, but there, behind him, was him.

No–not him. Another man in full leathers, but a bit shorter, and younger–though it was hard to tell, since the only thing he could see of flesh was the bottom of his face, his eyes and brow shaded by the muir cap on his head. “You came. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.”

“M-Marlon?” Jimmy said. “Is that you?”

“Yes and no,” the figure said, and took a step forward. As he did, the streetlight behind him flickered, and went dark. “I had almost forgotten you too, my love. I had forgotten how good it had felt, when we’d crossed on the bed while they’d kissed. How good our darknesses feel together.”

Jimmy felt something stir at his feet. He looked down, and saw his shadow was bent at a strange angle in the light where he was standing. The light was above and a bit in front–his shadow should have been small and behind him. Instead, it was in front of him, one hand outstretched towards Marlon, though Jimmy was making no such movement. He took a step back, and the shadow snapped back into place with a sickening sensation, something gut wrenching. He could feel it, suddenly, the longing, perhaps even deeper and more distraught than his own had become, tempered with an anger he couldn’t begin to fathom. His own shadow was furious, furious at him, but he had no idea why. 

“Marlon, what happened to you? Where did you go?”

“I’m not talking to you!” the man spat at him, with just as much disgust as he’d felt from the shadow at his own feet. “You’ve held him down long enough. You escaped one time, but not again.”

Marlon raced towards him then, and Jimmy turned and ran off down the street away from him. He kept to the sidewalk at first, but the streetlight ahead of him flickered off, turning into that same pitch black hole that Marlon, his Marlon, had fallen into. He swerved around it into the street, where the light was more diffuse, and Marlon followed him, shouting and cursing at him, his own shadow clawing at the ground below him, trying to slow him down and hold him back. It was only a block away from the precinct. Perhaps, if he could get there, he would be safe. 

There was one other close call when Marlon swerved into a dark corner and disappeared, only to reappear ahead of him, rushing from the side to cut him off. He tackled Jimmy to the ground, and he saw the lights begin to dim around him, almost like the darkness was trying to swallow him down into the very street, his own shadow rising over to smother him. He managed to fling Marlon off him, get up, and dash around the corner. If there hadn’t been a patrol coming out of the precinct at that moment, he might not have made it, in the end. But there was, and Jimmy shouted at them, “Shadow! Shadow!” hoping that would be enough to get them to see what was happening. Sure enough, the three burly cops heading out on patrol all turned in his direction at the word, and each of them pulled free a massive flashlight from their belts and ran towards him. Marlon was so preoccupied with his prey, and too new to realize the dangers of the precinct’s cops, that he didn’t consider turning back. He knew this was his only chance to get a hold of Jimmy’s shadow, to free him, so they could be together as they always should have been, away from their fleshy masters. 

The first beam struck him, and it seared through him like a laser. He howled in pain, twisted away into the darkness, gathering up as much as he could to try and reform and protect himself. The beam swung and found him, and a second as well, pinning him in the light as the third officer came around behind and brought his own beam to bear on Marlon’s back–only it was looking less and less like Marlon, and less and less like a person at all, the longer the light was on it.

Jimmy just stared in horror as the thing that he’d known as his boyfriend, the man he’d come to save, melted away, lost definition, becoming flat and matte and small. One of the officers carefully set his light down on the ground, making sure it remained on Marlon without giving any space for a shadow to form that it might escape into, opened up the backpack he was wearing, and pulled out a plastic globe about the size of a basketball. He split it apart, and careful to make sure his own shadow made no contact with the shade, he scooped the small black creature into it, and locked it. One officer picked up the other flashlight, and together, the three of them carefully walked the globe back to the precinct, back past Jimmy, who just stared at them, and followed behind, wondering if he could help, if maybe, just maybe, they could fix his friend.

Inside the precinct, the previously calm waiting room was now anything but. Every chair was full with leather and rubber clad miscreants of various flavors, all of them staring at Jimmy, wearing just a pair of sweatpants and the tanktop he usually slept in. The hunger radiating off them was enough to curdle his guts. The three officers shoved everyone out of the way and took the shade back behind the desk and down the hall before he could catch up–only for an officer to grab him by the collar and haul him back. “Where the hell do you think you’re going, kid? What the fuck are you even doing in this part of town at this time of night!” the officer shouted at him. He was nothing like the men he’d seen lounging around the office during the daytime–he was muscular, and furry, his uniform clinging to his body, looking more like a stripper version of a cop, perhaps, though it was clear he wasn’t about to take anything off. Jimmy stammered out as best an explanation as he could, told him that he’d spoken to a detective just a few days prior about his friend going missing, the same friend that they had just turned into some weird shadow creature and taken away.

It was clear the officer didn’t believe him, and didn’t particularly care in any case. “Take a number, take a seat, and when its called, an officer will help you–but this is a restricted area, especially for freshmeat like you.” At that word, a few of the guys in the room–not the officers, but the other men waiting–all hooted and hollered, only for the officer to glare at them, and shut them right up. “Better yet, boy, you should go home and get back to bed. This is no place for you.”

Instead, Jimmy took a number, and since every seat was taken–though a few men offered to let him sit on their laps–he parked himself on the tile floor against the wall, and struggled to stay awake. He would start to drift off, feel something pull at him–not his shadow, but some other force he couldn’t quite describe, and it would be enough to panic him, wake him up, and each time he opened his eyes again, the waiting room would be more and more empty. He never saw anyone taken back, nor did he hear anyone’s number called, but he stuck his ground, staring down the officer behind the desk, as well as the one guarding the hallway who had chastised him, only for sleep to threaten again. He would check his phone, but the minutes began to crawl along as dawn approached, almost like time refused to progress until he fell asleep. After one final close call, at four fifteen, he snapped back awake, only to find the waiting room was empty aside from the two officers at the desk. He stood up, yawned, brushed himself off, walked up to the desk and slapped his number down on the table. “I’m done with this. Tell me what you did to my friend, and how I can fix him. I fucking want answers.”

The two officers looked at each other, surprised he’d lasted this long. 

“The only one who can give you those answers is the commander, but I don’t think you’ll like what he has to tell you,” the officer said, his tone a bit softer. “You really should just go to sleep, and go home.”

That was reversed, wasn’t it? Jimmy was so exhausted, all of this was making even less sense than usual. “No, I want to talk to him.”

“Alright alright, look, he’s just wrapping some stuff up. Just a few minutes, and I’ll take you to see him,” the man said, yawning. “Have a seat.”

“I’ve been sitting for hours.”

“So then you can sit a little more, go fuckin’ sit down.”

Jimmy did as he was told, and the two of them stared each other down, both of them blinking slow, the end of the night bearing down on them, urging them to close their eyes and rest. There would be more nights in Pigtown, after all. Jimmy resisted the urge, though barely. He noticed, once, that the officer had begun to snore behind the desk, and the next time he pried his eyes open, he had disappeared–simply vanished from one moment to the next. Jimmy told himself he must have just nodded off, but the clock hadn’t advanced at all–in fact, it didn’t seem that time had advanced as much as it should have. 

There was an analog clock above the desk, ticking away, but when Jimmy got up to investigate it, the second hand wasn’t advancing at all. Just trying to push past some invisible barrier, frozen a few minutes before dawn. The whole police station, which had been so full of raucous life earlier, was now silent aside for Jimmy. He went past the desk to the hallway, and there, he saw a little sign pointing down a stairwell that said “Jail”. That would be where they’d taken Marlon, probably. He went down the stairs, and found himself in a small collection of cells, but like the rest of the station, they were also empty, though there was evidence that they hadn’t been earlier–some abandoned clothing, an empty bottle or two. It was eerie. No longer was it fully silent, however. He heard sounds coming from another stairwell at the end of the jail, leading down to a sub basement, apparently. 

He told himself that he should go, that he’d come back in the morning for answers, but something else called to him. He wanted to know now, and he knew, come morning, much of this would feel like a dream, like some wild fabrication, no longer fitting into a reality where the sun could banish shadows so easily. He started down the stairs into the jail proper, hoping he’d find the truth down there, in the darkness.

The Pigtown Chronicles: Chapter 3.8 – The Hole in the Wall

Samuel pushed his way out onto the street, taking a few deep breaths of the cold night air. He hadn’t even gathered his coat from the studio before he’d abandoned the young man he’d picked up from Depot, but he hoped that the chill might settle him, ground him for a moment. He flexed his hands, and tried to shake the sensation of that young man’s flesh, how it had bent and twisted, how fresh it had felt, throbbing and alive and it could be so many things, so much more than it was. He picked a direction and walked away from his studio, hands shoved down deep in his pockets, both for warmth, and because he was afraid that simply brushing up against any of the men sharing the sidewalk with him would draw the desires and sensations right back to the surface, where he might not be able to stop himself from doing something beautiful.

Despite the hour, the sidewalks of Pigtown were bustling. He made sure to give them a wide berth, but found himself looking past the gear, the clothes, to the flesh beneath, wondering what it would feel like, what it would look like, what it could look like. He had moved through so many mediums as an artist before this, both in two dimensions and in three, looking for something that could effectively communicate the visions he had in his mind, and now, each person passing him looked like a pigment. He thought of what he could do with them alone, he wondered what might happen if he took those two, and perhaps a bit of that third, and blended them all together. That skin, covered with that hair, stretched over those muscles, with the bones hollowed and shortened, perhaps. He had to forcefully remind himself that they were people. People! He slipped into the mouth of an alley to avoid a couple walking hand in hand down the sidewalk, and followed them with his eyes, their two hands melding together. They were close; they could be closer. They could be one, or many. He could articulate their desire with their own bodies. It would be an exquisite artwork.

There was a sound behind him. He turned, and there against the wall, one leather clad fellow had shoved a young cub up against the brick, yanked down his leather shorts, and was driving his cock into his hole. Helpless, Samuel just watched them fuck He had many of these sorts of acts on these streets and in these alleys, and yet, he had never seen them like he now did. The physicality of it, the pistoning, the sound of the flesh meeting and undoing and opening and leaking and crashing. He wanted to walk over and strip them of their clothes, push them together and pull them apart again, different, put them into perpetual motion, a testament to this one moment. 

He wondered what might happen to them, their internal lives. Perhaps the spirit inhabited the flesh, some separate thing that would be expunged in the process. Maybe the mind simply was the body itself. He could pry open the skull, peel it back, crack it open, spread it apart, pick and choose the bits he desired and discard the rest. Perhaps something new would come forth, some new consciousness, a new being, glad to be alive, the synthesis of flesh giving birth to something more than the sum of its parts. Sex was a desire for closeness, after all. Intimacy. To be inside someone, because the mind could never fully penetrate another, not as one could with their body. As he watched, and thought, the man came in the cub’s hole, pumped a sizable load inside him, and without a word, detached himself. The union came apart and he slipped out the mouth of the alley and down the sidewalk, not even giving Samuel a glance as he passed. 

The cub lingered a bit longer, still recovering, and turned around to lean against the wall, his own cock hard and excited. He glanced around, saw Samuel staring at him, and flashed him a smile, turned around and bent back over against the wall. An invitation, it would seem. He knew he shouldn’t. It was too risky, too dangerous, but there, he saw something, again. Something like the throbbing, undulating flesh in the VIP suite of Depot, something like that vision of Parker in the restroom, that moment he had experienced as terror at the time, but which he now thought of as something else entirely. He stumbled forward into the dim light of the alley, reached out with his hands, and felt the hot, young flesh, kneaded it, groped it, the young man moaning in pleasure and excitement. He wanted it, the flesh wanted it, wanted to be taken and used and warped and satisfied. 

Samuel didn’t know how he did it, exactly, any of it. He came around behind the young man, reached up, laid his own hands on the young man’s, and pushed them against the brick, and then pushed the flesh into the brick itself. The flesh did not disappear, and neither did the brick–you could say, perhaps, that bits of the wall came alive, you could see where the skin began to flake and turn red, almost like a sunburn, where the stone began to give slightly. The young man felt it happen, without pain, tried to pull his hands free, but couldn’t. Samuel ran his hands down his arms, pressing them against the wall, merging them together, the stone and mortar warm and flexing, hard and rough to the touch, yet with give, all the way to his shoulders, the young man’s face pressed hard against the rough surface now. Samuel stepped back for a moment, considered it, then picked up one leg, while the young man tried to kick, but rather than deal with resistance, Samuel simply pushed it, warped it, muscle and bone and tendon all melting down into one mass inside a now floppy leg, then shoved it against the wall, into the wall like the young man’s arms. First one, then the other, leaving him suspended there, horrified and confused.

Samuel pressed a hand against the man’s head, gently, but he wanted him aware. If he simply pushed his head and brain into the brick, he would mostly understand himself as a wall–but he wasn’t a wall. He would be a hole in a wall. He pushed the man’s head down instead, shoving it down into his neck, into his chest, down deep into his guts and groin, then pushed the upper part of his body against the brick, continuing the process, angling the body up, arching the small of the back, ass now available and eager, cock and balls still hanging below. Those it wouldn’t need, as a hole. He gripped around the base of the cock, tighter, the flesh constricting then coming away. He pushed the now detached member into the eager hole, then hollowed it out, feeling the flesh shudder as the nerves joined, growing more sensitive now. He pushed his hand into the hole, pulled the testes up from the inside, rewired them, and when his hand came free, so did a gush of precum drooling from the hole onto the asphalt below, the flesh shuddering from its new orgasmic pleasure. He laid the hands on the small of the back, the head inside still addled and terrified and confused. He eased it, simplified it, converted the bits of the mind dedicated to that which no longer mattered, and turned all of its attentions to the hole that it was now. No need for higher order thinking, no need for those old senses of smell, sight, or hearing. All was touch and taste now–nothing else mattered, nothing else could even be experienced, or understood. 

He stepped back, admiring his new work of art. There, suspended in the brick wall of the building, was simply an ass, gaping, winking and drooling precum, eager to be filled, meant to be filled, flesh with no other purpose beyond that simple drive and desire. The pleasure and excitement that Samuel felt now that the deed was done was impossible to articulate, but as it eased and settled, it curdled into shame and horror as forbidden pleasures often do. He stepped back up to the hole, ran his hands over it, wondering how he could reverse what he’d done to the young man, bring him back, but he couldn’t feel it, he couldn’t see it. He had erased that old form from existence. It was gone, he was gone, and now, there was just a hole in the wall, nothing else.

“You’re a new one, since I’ve been away,” a voice said, and terrified that someone had observed what he’d done, Samuel whirled around, an explanation forming on his lips, as a leather clad fellow stepped out of the shadows at the deep end of the alley. The brim of his muir cap was pulled low, casting most of his face in shadow, aside for the sly grin of his mouth. “Don’t mind me, now. If you need to feed, feel free. I was going to take him once he was alone again, but this has been much more exciting.”

“Look, I…I don’t know what I was doing, alright?” Samuel said, “No one would believe you if you said anything anyway.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me telling on you, I’m no friend of authority. We’re compatriots, really. A couple of aberrations, as they like to say. Not my favorite word, really, but rarely do we get to decide what we are called.” The leatherman stepped forward, sniffed the air, and then his mouth turned down slightly. “No, not…what are you? I’ve never smelled something like you before. Something very new, it would seem.”

Samuel turned away from him then, reached the sidewalk and headed back towards his studio, but ahead of him, from a shadowed doorway, the darkness condensed, and out stepped the leatherman from the alley–though there is no way he could have gotten there so quickly. Samuel came up short. “How did you do that?”

“You walk away from me when I’m asking you questions, and then have the nerve to expect answers of your own? That seems rather rude,” the man said.

“I don’t have an answer for you! I don’t–I’ve never done something like that before. I’m an artist, I…it just…happened, like that. I saw it, and I made it, and…”

“And you got nothing from it?”

“What?”

“You didn’t…feed on it? Take something for yourself?”

“I don’t–no! It wasn’t like that at all.”

“Curious.”

They looked at one another for a moment, and then the leatherman said, “To answer your question then, since you were kind enough to give me what you could, my name is Shadow. I thought we were…similar, and while I think we still are, we are not quite the same. Still, I find you interesting, and won’t be eating you anytime soon.”

Another man came down the sidewalk, passing close, and the same darkness that had collected in the doorway, opened up around him and Shadow, and they seemed to disappear–at least from sight. There was a scream, though it seemed rather distant, and after a few moments, the darkness fell away, and Shadow remained, though the man was gone. A flat thing of darkness seemed to scuttle off into the night, but it could have just been a glamour in the light. “Much better–I was rather famished. It was a pleasure to meet you, in any case. I’ll be interested to see how you…develop.”

Shadow stepped back into the darkness, and when the light faded back in, he was gone. Samuel hustled his way back to his studio, wondering how much of that had been some nightmarish hallucination, or if he was dreaming on the mattress in his studio with that young man, or if perhaps all of that had in fact happened. Inside, the young man was gone, as Samuel had known he would be, somehow. Exhausted, and yet sleepless, he sat down at his desk, looked out the window to the streets below, hands quivering with excitement. He’d made it. Art–a true art, from deep inside himself, for the first time. He sent a text to Rod, just a location, nothing more, and that was the last thing he recalled clearly before waking up in the morning, alone on the mattress in his studio.

Suggested Story: Adventures Off Base

I’ve started taking suggestions for short stories again, over on my new Sponsus page! Here’s one I wrote this month, for someone who requested some boot worship and army men. If you enjoy it, there’s more to be found over there, and I’ll be taking suggestions for October starting tomorrow!


Jameson Army Base wasn’t where you wanted to get shipped off for base camp, but there was a reason it received a fair share of recruits. It was in the middle of nowhere, flyover country, attached to a small town whose fortunes were pretty much tied to the base and everyone on it. It wasn’t glamorous, but there were also no real distractions. When this latest batch of fresh recruits were given their first permission to go off base for a weekend, none of the young men were particularly thrilled. The bar on base was generally well regarded. The man reason to go off was to head for the strip club and hopefully get laid with a dancer after parting with a chunk of paycheck, or go to one of the rundown bars in town and look for a cute girl who wanted out of town, and was willing to marry an army man to do it.

Eddie Westfield didn’t have either of those ambitions in mind. He was a little older than some of the other recruits there, had grown up in a small town not too different from this one, fell in with the wrong crowd for a few years after dropping out of high school, and part of trying to turn himself around was taking one of the few exits that existed these days for fuckups like him: the army. When the weekend was announced by Drill Sergeant Rugger, he had made it clear to the young cadets that they were to keep their noses clean and stay out of trouble–and that meant staying clear of one bar in particular, known around there as Gully’s Tavern. It catered to some rougher clientele that didn’t take kindly to the men off the base, generally–biker gangs mostly. Eddie hadn’t thought much of the warning at the time, he hadn’t even planned on leaving base for the weekend, but as Friday finished up, and the rest of the guys were talking excitedly about their plans, he couldn’t help but get a bit swept up in it too.

He started the evening with a couple of buds at one of the friendlier bars in town. They were both looking for women they night woo, and Eddie took an early leave. The night was still young, and he wasn’t quite ready to go back to base. He decided to walk around town a bit, and see what there was around. Not much, especially not that late, but there was a building half a mile down the highway all lit up in the night. Eddie headed for it, enjoying the walk, and found himself standing outside Gully’s Tavern.

There on the porch were a couple of bikers, smoking cigars and drinking. They hadn’t noticed him walk up in the dark, as they leaned over and kissed, sharing their smoke together. So that’s why Rugger had urged them away from here. Some army kids probably tried to start something with the biker fags, and shit had gone down once, so it was easier to just urge everyone away. Rugger wasn’t perturbed, though. He’d been with guys before, and girls, and anyone really. He went up the steps, inside, turned to the bar, and froze when he saw one of the men in full leathers there, chatting and groping up a trucker-ish fellow. It was Sergeant Rugger. A bit embarrassed, Eddie turned to leave, only for the two bikers who had been out of the porch to appear behind him, blocking his exit and pushing him deeper into the bar, everyone turning to stare at the clear trespasser in their midst.

“Hey guys, I’m just here for a brew, I’m not looking for trouble,” Eddie said.

The men all looked towards Rugger, who pushed a couple jets of smoke out of his nose in clear annoyance at being found out. “Boy, I told you all to stay away from this bar, didn’t I say that? That was a fucking order, if you didn’t realize, not a damn suggestion.”

“Sergeant, I don’t care, really I don’t! I won’t tell anyone,” Eddie said, but the sergeant was already walking over, and as he did, Eddie noticed a sizable talisman hanging from the sergeant’s neck, swinging against his hairy chest. It was…captivating, and Eddie couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away.

“Sure as hell won’t tell anyone, boy. Westfield, you’re gonna be straight with me. You’ll only be able to answer truthfully.”

Eddie nodded, eyes still locked on the talisman.

“Ya gay, Eddie?”

“Bi, Sir.”

“Think I’m hot, boy?”

“I…I mean, yeah…”

“You think I’m hot, boy. You think I’m so hot, that you’d be willing to do just about anything I tell you to do tonight, got it? Now–do you think I’m hot?”

“Fuck Sir, I think you’re the hottest fucker I’ve ever seen…” Eddie muttered.

“That’s more like it. Do you like boots, boy?”

“E-Excuse me?”

“You love boots, don’t you boy? Men in leather boots. Clean ones, dirty ones, biker boots, combat boots, can’t tear your eyes off boots. Why don’t you get on your knees boy, give mine a closer look.”

Eddie did as his sergeant ordered, the rest of the bar sniggering and hooting at the show. No one knew where the sergeant had picked up that talisman on his last tour, but the bar sure had been a lot more fun ever since. The recruit had never seen something as beautiful as the leather biker boots in front of him in his whole life, his whole being quivering at the thought of servicing them, licking them, being under them. Rugger had Eddie begging him permission to lick his boots clean, and after just a few licks of the leather surface, Eddie moaned, his cock unloading in the front of his underwear. That sent the crowd into the flurry, and they tore all of his clothes off, aside for the soiled briefs, and once Rugger’s boots were shining with spit, he was ordered to crawl around, begging men permission to lick and service their boots. When the bartenders announced last call, Rugger hauled Eddie up to his feet, bent him over the pool table, and gave the boy a good rough fuck while the bar closed up.

Rugger held the talisman in front of Eddie’s face, told him he would forget the events of that evening, think he went home with the rest of the young men, though he would have a lingering fetish for boot play all the same. To his surprise though, he felt the boy pushing back against his command–the first time he had, actually. It seemed like he wanted to remember…so Rugger altered his suggestion. He made it a dream, a vivid one, but certainly a dream, one he enjoyed, one he wanted, and one he’d think about when he next jacked off, for sure.

Rugger wasn’t sure what might happen next, and Saturday evening, it wasn’t even ten before Eddie burst through the doors of the bar, looked around for the Sergeant, and headed right for him. “You–what happened last night?”

“Excuse me?” Rugger said, with a little smirk. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Westfield.”

“No…I had a dream, and…and I…” Without saying more, Eddie dropped to his knees, and bent his head down. “Sir…it wasn’t a dream, was it? I loved it. I…please Sir, can I service your boots, Sir?”

Rugger smiled, “If that’s what would please you boy, by all means, have at it.”

It was rather unheard of for a recruit to remain at Jameson Army Base once basic training was done–the recruits were usually scattered to bases across the country for more specialized training. Eddie, though, stuck around, taking a low level office job on the recommendation of Sergeant Rugger. Their relationship was an open secret, though few knew the whole story. Eddie had no problem with that. As long as he could remain Sir’s bootboy, he’d be more than happy anywhere at all.

The Pigtown Chronicles: Chapter 3.7 – Old Acquaintances

“What do you want pig? You want more smoke?”

The man on his knees in front of Kyle gave a little whimper, but the size of his hard on, and the hunger in his eyes showed that his hesitancy was no longer as powerful as his newfound lust. Kyle took a long drag off the jumbo pipe he was smoking tonight at The Hideaway, wrapped one leather glove around the man’s chin, and fed him the smoke. He snorted it down, his already substantial waistline filling out even further, eyes glazed over with lust, and Kyle pulled out his cock, shoved the man’s face onto it, and he started sucking, only to be surprised when even more smoke filled his mouth. Kyle heaved a sigh and shuddered, leaning over against Marshall, who was watching his apprentice work the man over in the bar, where a small crowd of regulars had gathered to watch. 

It had been clear that he was freshmeat. Enough time spent in Pigtown, and you began to smell the scent when they walked past. Everyone described it a bit different. Some compared it to a steak coming hot off the barbeque. Others said it reminded them of the smell of good whiskey rising up out of a glass. Each person had their own take on it. To Kyle, it was like his mother’s fresh cobbler, fresh out of the oven, too hot to touch, and yet it called to you all the same, no matter how much you wanted to deny it. Everyone knew, and everyone wanted you. Pigtown wanted you, and they were all Pigtown. Of course, not everyone could have you, it wasn’t a free-for-all. The freshmeat had to want you first. It made it worse, somehow, when you could smell it, and somehow know it wasn’t for you. Tonight, though, the older fellow had wanted Kyle, and Kyle had wanted a smokepig, and so here they were.

Kyle had thought he’d miss his old life. Thought he’d miss going to college, thought he’d miss his old friends, thought he’d miss his family. Pigtown, though, didn’t give him any space to miss things, every moment was taken up with some little hedonistic delight now, a constant drip feed of pleasure, so he no longer needed to consider what he might be missing. Even his work in the shop was becoming more pleasurable, now that the regulars were involving him in their conversations, since he was one of them as well. Outside the shop, though, he could sense that a number of people feared Marshall, and feared him in turn.

He asked him about this, one morning as they were eating breakfast. Marshall had seemed hesitant to say something at first, but eventually had told him that even among the men in Pigtown, they were different. “You’re not like the people outside of Pigtown anymore, but you know that. We also aren’t like the men inside Pigtown either. No one really knows what to call us. At the precinct, they call us aberrations. I’m not a fan of the term, but you should know what it means, if someone says it to you. We aren’t quite human anymore, not in the ways that humans would say matter. We need different things than humans do, too. I, of course, still think of myself as human, for the most part.” He took a long draw off his second cigar of the morning to make the point, then continued, “But we’re still men. Now, there are some like us who I would say aren’t even men anymore, either. I would hesitate to say that they are dangerous. Pigtown is dangerous, but nothing here will kill you. It will change you, render you into something unrecognizable, but it won’t kill you.” It was more or less an answer. It wasn’t until he met Shadow for the first time that evening, that the boundaries Marshall had outlined became wholly clear. 

It happened like this: 

The light in the room changed, everything seemed to glow a bit brighter as all the light left one corner of the Hideaway, and when the darkness receded, there were two men in full leathers standing beside a small round table, and the men in the bar fled that corner just as the light had moments before. A number of men shot up from where they were sitting or leaning and booked it out of the bar, a few others sat up a little straighter, clearly ready for something, and the bartender poured a couple of whiskey sodas, and sent them to the table, free of charge. Kyle was left looking at Marshall for cues on what to expect, but his Master held the same laid back confidence as always, though perhaps the smoke inside him had quickened, ever so slightly.

“Leave the pig for a bit. We should go pay our respects, and you ought to be introduced,” Marshall said.

“Who…is that?” Kyle asked, “Is that…Shadow? The guy that took Marlon?”

“That is Shadow, yes. I would be very careful with the words you use, though. How is Shadow ‘taking’ Marlon any different than what you’re doing to this poor soul right here?” The sarcasm was exaggerated, but the point stung regardless. Kyle nodded, and followed Marshall over to the dark corner, where Shadow gave Marshall a nod as he approached.

“Marshall, it’s been a while. How’s the shop?”

“Business has been booming around here since you went away for a while,” Marshall said. Shadow stood, the two of them embraced, and then Shadow sat back down. “I heard you were in the jail.”

“Yes, I was.”

“And…you escaped. From what Rumwell is always spouting off, I’d have thought the Warden had the place locked down tighter than that.”

Shadow let a little smirk cross his mouth, the only part that Kyle could see beneath the brim of his cap. “Well, I’m sure he will attempt to return me there as soon as possible, in any case. Now, who is this strapping young man with you? Last I recall, you were rather reluctant to spread your gift, Marshall.”

“I like to think I was waiting for someone worthy of it,” Marshall said, and Kyle couldn’t help but swell with a bit of pride. “I see we have a new shade among us as well.”

“Marlon,” the other leather clad figure said, extending a hand, and Kyle gave a little jump.

“Wait, Marlon? Really?” Kyle said, leaning in close and trying to get a good look at Marlon’s face, but his eyes couldn’t pierce the shadow that seemed to fall across his eyes perpetually, “You…You’re ok then? Jimmy’s been worried sick about you, since you disappeared.”

Shadow stood up, placed himself between them, and pushed Kyle backwards, knocking him slightly off balance. “It’s very rude to look under a shade’s brim, you know. It’s very private.”

“I…He’s my friend. He went missing.”

“I don’t…wait, I do know you, don’t I?” Marlon said, leaned over and laid one hand on Kyle’s shadow. He could…feel it, somehow, and he shuddered. “Ah, of course. I didn’t recognize you from up here. Kyle, right?”

“You don’t remember me?”

“I was Marlon’s shadow, Kyle. I remember, and know, different parts of you than he would have. The Marlon you knew is gone. I took his name; it was one of the few things about him I liked.”

“What do you mean gone?” Marshall dropped one hand on the back of Kyle’s neck and gripped him there, hard enough to make him reassess what he was saying. “I mean…I’m sorry. I was mistaken.”

Shadow looked down at him, or at least, Kyle assumed the blackness under the cap was looking at him, and sat back down. “I wouldn’t have expected you to know everything that goes on here, but I would advise you to be a bit more cautious, in the future, little smoke.”

“Why don’t you go tend to your pig, Kyle. Go have some fun.”

“Yes…Sir,” Kyle said. He left, and dragged his pet pig for the evening towards the maze, wondering if he would have been dismissed so easily if he’d been a little more tactful. Marlon watched him go, rubbing his leather gloved fingers together, feeling that particular darkness, and that name, Jimmy. “Shadow, you said that I can go somewhere else, if I need to, didn’t you?”

“I am not your master, my shade,” Shadow said, “Come and go as you please.”

Marlon stood up, summoned the darkness and slipped away into it, leaving just Marshall and Shadow alone at the table together. Marshall took the seat that Marlon had been in, and watched as the rest of the bar slowly fell back into its prior rhythm, though several men were still glancing back at them both on a regular basis.

“Is it…time for you?” Marshall asked. “It’s been calling to me, lately, that’s the only reason I ask, and I know you’re quite a bit older than me.”

“Oh, all the time. But I have work to do, first, before I go there. He’s a handsome fellow, a little prone to putting his foot in his mouth, perhaps.”

“What about yours? Where has he gone off to?”

“I do not keep tabs on my shades. They go where they please. I’m in the business of freedom, you know that.”

“Chaos, some might say. I like that the nights are more interesting with you in them. I should go follow that little apprentice of mine, before he gets into too much trouble. He still has a pretty heavy hand.”

“I could use something to eat, myself. You’re welcome to join me, if you want. I think your little apprentice will manage one way or another, without your supervision.”

“I ate last week. You know I don’t need as much as you do.”

“You need just as much, you just swallow it all at once. I prefer to share.”

“Have a good night, Shadow. Let me know if I can be of assistance.”

“Last I checked, we weren’t quite on the same side of things.”

Marshall stood up, and adjusted his leather coat. “If the rumors I hear coming out of the precinct are at least half truths, I’m not quite sure where the line is anymore. Things are…breaking down, around here. Getting messy. I hate mess, you know that.”

Shadow chuckled, and from one moment to the next, the chair was occupied, and then it was not, leaving Marshall standing alone in the bar again. The men there breathed a collective sigh of relief, and Marshall wandered into the maze, sniffing out his apprentice’s pipe smoke. Shadow, meanwhile, materialized a few blocks away, in the dark of an alley, closer to the edge of the district. Still a bit early, perhaps. No matter, it would only be a matter of time before some prey wandered along, as it did.

The Pigtown Chronicles: Chapter 3.6 – The Warden

Precinct 27 had been a normal police precinct, at one point. The neighborhood had been rundown, ripe for gentrification maybe, but no more troubled than any other area of the city. But then, they’d seen an uptick in public indecency, nudity, sex in the alleys, all of it originating at the far end of its jurisdiction. Rumor told of a bar or a club or a complex called Pigtown that had opened up, some sleazy gay place, but the officers had never been able to find it and shut it down. Then, it had spread. A few more arrests for public indecency turned into gay bars and bathhouses and more opening up, and it wasn’t long before the corruption, or whatever it was, had spread to some of the officers. Looking back, it was difficult to say whether the choices Rumwell had made then had been the right ones or not, but there was no good reason to second guess himself now. What he had done, he had done in the interest of maintaining order, both within the precinct, and outside of it, as best they all could. It had meant making some deals with a few devils. It had included making a few necessary sacrifices. There had been an equilibrium for a while–Pigtown hadn’t grown much larger than the blocks beyond the precinct, and the commander had done what was necessary to keep the city and other eyes from prying too closely. Over the last few months, though, Rumwell had found it difficult to feel like that balance was going to last forever.

He was in his office, where two of his officers had finished their business with his boots and his cock. He sent them off to other duties, and made his way down to the lowest level of the precinct–or at least, what had been the lowest level at one time, known as the drunk tank. The basement was lined with a few cells, empty at this time of day. It was generally intended for catch and release these days. But what hadn’t always been there were the stairs at the end of the hall, that led down into the jail proper. 

Six months into whatever this was, the precinct had run out of room. There were just too many deviants, and if you jailed them together, they would get up to even worse antics in the cells than out on the streets, and more than a few times, he’d caught his officers fraternizing with the perverts. He’d even lost a few to the alleys, in the early days, before he’d learned how to assert proper control and discipline over his ranks. They’d needed space, and one night, more space had appeared. Another bank of cells below the basement, appearing like magic. But soon those had been filled as well, and more appeared, and more. At this point, it was difficult to know how deep the entire complex went below the precinct. He imagined that the only person who might know would be The Warden. 

When the jail had first begun growing, a small contingent of officers proved to be more resistant to the corruption spreading from the perverts locked up there than others–or at least, they were less prone to letting them escape, or running off with them. At some point, the group had named one of them their de facto leader, and begun calling him The Warden. Rumwell had known his real name at one point, but now, it was gone, as was most of the man’s prior identity, he supposed. After all, it wasn’t that the men had been more resilient to the corruption spreading through this part of the city, it was merely warping them in a different fashion, and by the time Rumwell realized what had happened down there, it was too late to do anything about it.

The result, now, was a division. The precinct above, run by Rumwell, and the prison below, run by The Warden. They had been cooperative at first, but slowly, the warden had grown more antagonistic. He demanded more guards to cover the cells, and when Rumwell refused, he simply took them for himself. Prisoners that Rumwell had intended to release back onto the street come morning were deemed too deviant to be allowed out, and commandeered on a regular basis. Rumwell couldn’t help but feel like he was no longer entirely in charge, and when he’d confronted the Warden about his actions a couple of months ago, neither of them had escaped the encounter unscathed. They hadn’t spoken sense. 

He descended into the jail, trying to ignore the screams, the sounds of whips and flails and paddles and whatever instruments the guards desired to maintain the prisoner’s compliance. It seemed rather clear to him that their motives were more selfish. Some prisoners saw him, begged him for mercy. The deeper he went, the less he heard that cry–instead, conditioned by constant beatings, twisted by the guards, by the warden, the deviants ached, craved the pain and the discipline, howling with ecstasy from where they were chained on the walls or confined in the cages. 

The occasional guard would notice him, but while some would smile, none tried to stop him. They all knew that they wouldn’t be able to resist him–the only one who could was the Warden. He recognized the faces of a few, but many were unrecognizable, either their faces were hooded, or they had been twisted into such a brutish appearance as to no longer even seem human. This was deeper than he’d ever been before, the depravity around him much more intense. 

“Ah, so he has returned,” a voice said out of the darkness, and The Warden stepped forth, a flogger over one shoulder, half smoked cigar clamped in his bearded jaw, “To what do I owe the pleasure, Commander Rumwell? Come to give me another lecture?”

Rumwell sized up the warden, who seemed to have grown a little wider, and a bit taller since their last encounter. Not quite as large as Rumwell was, but close. He was wearing a full leather uniform, and underneath the smell of leather and smoke, there was the distinct pang of blood in the air as well. “My feelings on the matter haven’t changed, and I assume yours haven’t either. I don’t see a reason to open up old wounds just yet. I’m here on business. I need to confirm that Shadow is still being held here–I want to see him.”

The Warden took a draw off his cigar, and pushed a plume off to the side. “Unfortunately, he escaped.”

“What?”

“A few weeks ago. Found himself a shadow, slid right into it.”

“You told me you had him contained.”

“And I thought I did.”

“Why am I just now hearing about this? Weeks? You know full well how many fucking shades that monster can make! It was a nightmare cleaning up the streets last time, and who knows if we even caught all of them.”

The Warden gave a little shrug, “I’m sure you’ll be able to catch him again.”

Rumwell stalked a little closer, “You let him escape on purpose, didn’t you?”

“And you still aren’t meeting the quotas we agreed on.”

“So you let one of the most unpredictable aberrations loose onto the street because you’re not getting enough bodies to torture?”

“This is not torture, Commander. All of these bodies, if we let them loose, what do you think would happen? The city would be overrun. You can’t keep the streets in order without me, without everything that I do down here. I know what they need. I know how to control them. You can pretend that you sit in that tall office of yours, that you know this city, but it’s down here in the fucking dark that I keep it safe. All I ask is that you give me what my guards need to stay occupied.” He took a draw off the cigar, and blew another plume. “Besides, shades are really…exquisite things. The punishment they can take–the punishment they need. Nothing like it in the world that I’ve found. If Shadow happens to make a few more that end up down here, I can’t say I would be disappointed. Flesh withers so easily, but shadow–so much more resilient.” He held out the flogger, handle towards the commander, and he saw that each leather strap was tipped with a metal spike, a few with flecks of what he imagined must be blood. “My offer still stands, Commander, if you want to try your hand at it. See what it feels like. I know you have the rage in you, I can still feel the bruise on my jaw a little. Why don’t you just let it out on something that really deserves it? They aren’t even human after all.”

Rumwell turned and left before The Warden could finish speaking, the laughter of the man echoing through the halls, mirrored in the ecstatic screams and shouts all around him. He struggled to find his way back up to the precinct, the stairwells and hallways seemed to twist around him, confound him, threaten to seal him in, but finally, he burst his way back up into the drunk tank, and didn’t stop until he was out of the building, standing on the sidewalk, panting in the night air. It was monstrous. It was necessary. He wondered, again, how it would feel, what the screams would sound like if he had brought them forth himself, if he would lose himself. He knew he would. He was strong, but not strong enough, and the Warden knew that. 

He straightened up, and marched back inside, where the night shift was just coming in. They were more hardened, more resilient than the day officers. They faced the brunt of what Pigtown had to offer, and pushed back as best they could–and fed the beast below them. “The Warden has informed me that Shadow has escaped from the jail. He’s been on the loose for a few weeks now. This is now our priority. I want him found, and I want him back down there, where he belongs.”

The Pigtown Chronicles: Chapter 3.5 – Side Effects

Parker swore that it had been a normal workout–usually a couple of hours from when he started stretching to his cool down cardio. When he looked outside though, he was confused to see that it was night already, and he had been lifting weights for close to five hours straight, cycling through arms, back, legs, chest, core and back again, over and over, desperate to try use up the energy that was suddenly thrumming through him. He was a bit addled at first, soaked in sweat, trying to piece together the hours that he had apparently spent here without even realizing it. Not long after that, he realized that more than a few of the men around were staring at him, some lustfully, but more than a couple just looked confused or concerned. He wasn’t quite sure why, until he turned again, saw himself in one of the mirrored walls of the gym, and did his best not to let his own jaw hit the floor at the sight.

The workout clothes that he had on, which he liked a little tight, so they could better show off his bulge and physique, were about to tear themselves off his body, if he flexed a bit too hard. In fact, one of the straps on his tank top had done just that at some point, revealing one massive, hairy pec with a nipple on the end of it larger than some men’s cocks–and was it leaking? He reached over with one hand, and sure enough, it was. That was enough to send him into the locker room for a moment, so he could get a better handle on what he was looking at. 

He went around the corner to the sinks, and there, he realized that he hadn’t just grown more muscular over the course of a single afternoon, he’d also grown taller. The sinks that usually hit right at his waist, now met the middle of his thigh, and he needed to stoop down slightly just to get a look at his face in the mirror. “God damn, what the fuck,” he said, looking at his thickly bearded face, heavier jaw and bro…the receding hairline. He ran a hand through his usually thick hair, only to watch a good chunk of it fall away, leaving him with a substantial bald patch. He splashed some water on his face, tried to stop himself from hyperventilating, got out his phone, and called Hugh–but the dealer didn’t answer.

“God fucking damn it,” he said, face feeling flushed, looked down, and saw another reason the guys had been staring at him. He’d been so focused on his face and upper body, he hadn’t bothered to notice that his cock was simply massive–long enough that the head and a couple inches of the shaft were hanging out of the leg of his shorts, only half hard, and drooling the same viscous, milky substance his pecs had suddenly started producing. He dropped his shorts, and his balls were swollen to easily the size of a bowling ball–he held them in his hands, and he could feel them aching. Not just aching. They were churning. Fuck, how long had it been since he’d last cum? The skin of his scrotum was pulled taut–he couldn’t even feel his testicles inside them. It was like they were swimming in the goo now flowing out of him.

“God, some guys are such fucking freaks, they’ll shoot themselves up with anything. What do you think that fucker’s on, anyway?”

“Who the fuck knows, some of the shit on the street these days can be real fucking shady. Steroids, sure–who hasn’t done them? But I sure as hell don’t want to look like that.”

“Did you catch a whiff of him? Dude fucking reeks too.”

“I bet–looks like he’d be better suited in a fucking barnyard.”

Parker’s face flushed red. They were fucking talking about him, they had to be. The shame he felt surprised him. He loved seeing guys stare at him, but this…what the fuck was happening to him? He needed to get to the hospital or something, needed to figure out what the hell this stuff even was. He went to take leave, only for the shorts he was wearing to finally give up the fight, tear open from crotch to waist, and his massive genitals spilled out, the sudden drop causing a massive burst of milky cum to ooze their way out of the head, making a sizable puddle on the floor. Parker hefted his monstrous package, but just pressing on the swollen sack made even more of the gunk spew all over his hands, and the smell of it, fuck, it smelled a bit rank, but it was making him kind of horny too.

Maybe it was just a minute or two, but when Parker came back to himself, he had both hands wrapped around his cock, milking it with long strokes, grunting and moaning like some fucking animal, just flooding the floor with his precum. He regained a bit of control, just in time for the two men who had been talking about him to round the corner, heading for the showers, and stopped dead in their tracks. “Fucking, hell, what the fuck is that stench?” one of them said, throwing his elbow across the face.

“Christ, you fucking pervert!” the other said, but Parker could see something happening to them both, their eyes going a little glassy. The other one gave a little snort, got down, crawled towards the puddle of precum he’d just made and started lapping it up. The first put up a little resistance, tried to run–but Parker had had enough. He grabbed him, dragged him back, and flung him face first into the puddle with his friend, watched him try to resist for a moment, but he soon gave in and started licking as much of it up from the filthy gym floor as he could. Parker didn’t quite know why he was doing this, but he was so…so full. He needed someone to empty him, didn’t he? He got down on his knees with them, grabbed the back of their heads, and pulled them to his teats, both of them sucking down Parker’s milk right from the source, and as they did, he could see them both changing. 

Their guts grew first, filling up with Parker’s milk, but it soon became obvious that it wasn’t just a full belly–they were actually getting fatter. Their hair was next, both on their heads and their bodies, falling away into the puddle below them. Parker felt something happen to his cock–it moved in a way he didn’t quite understand, in a way he couldn’t even really control, slithering between him and one of the men latched onto his pec, like it was seeking something out. It found it, the head of his cock swallowing up the man’s cock, and it started sucking on it, and both he and Parker let off a moan in unison. He could feel it, feel himself draining the man’s vitality, his muscles, even his youth, his now hairless face growing a bit wrinkled, his muscles atrophying as they were sucked out and added to Parker’s own massive frame. The other man tried to pull away in horror, but his mouth wouldn’t let him detach from the other nipple. When his cock was finished, and had sucked away the man’s cock and balls until the only thing that remained was a piss hole buried in his new fat, the now larger cock snaked over to the second man, and repeated the process, draining him completely dry as well. When he was finished, he stood back up, the two men’s mouths coming away from his tits with a loud sucking sound, and he looked down at them, barely even recognizable as men now, just two short blobs, their mouths sucking up everything they could of their new master from the floor under them. 

He, on the other hand, was even larger. His head was mere inches from the ceiling, the rest of his clothes fell away from him as he stood up and flexed, and he tore the rags away from him. There was no reason to hide this body now–he was superior to every other man, how could he have ever doubted himself before? One of the thralls below turned around and raised its hole, now loose and more than capable of taking its master’s cock, but before he could accept the invitation and fuck the thing, there was a cramp in his arm, and then in his guts that made him double over in pain. 

He didn’t know what could be causing it, but his whole body was screaming out for…for something. Something it needed. He stumbled over to his locker, fumbled it open, and carefully extracted the extra vial of BHB he’d taken from Hugh. Manipulating the syringe with his massive body was difficult, especially with the muscle spasms, but he managed to get himself injected, and after a couple of scary minutes, he felt the pain recede, and the horniness flood through him all over again–but that could wait. Hugh’s place wasn’t too far from here, and if that was how his body was going to react to withdrawal, he couldn’t afford to go without a dose again.

When the staff came to investigate the smell in the men’s locker room, after the emergency exit had been tripped, they found the strange pool of goo, the tattered remains of three sets of men’s workout clothes, and nothing else. Parker was busy strutting his way through the darkness of pigtown, his two thralls lumbering and wobbling their way after him, stopping one after another to slurp up their master’s precum that was still seeping its way onto the sidewalk. It was time, now, to have another little chat with Hugh, and after that, it was time to settle things with Samuel once and for all, and show him who was really the boss in this relationship.

The Pigtown Chronicles: Chapter 3.4 – Creative Block

After Parker had slapped him around back at their apartment, Samuel had spent a few minutes brooding a bit about it, and then packed a bag so he could stay overnight in his studio. It was over between them, unofficially at this point, but he wasn’t stupid enough to wait for a brute like that to come back and break the news to him. He doubted that Parker even remembered where his studio was, he’d only taken him there once, early in their relationship, so Samuel could do a study of him for a piece he’d never bothered to finish. He should have known then he was just an uninteresting piece of meat, and ditched him. He’d wait a night or two, and then go back and settle things with some back up if it got violent again. In any case, he had work to do anyway–if he could just figure out what the work was supposed to be.

There were few things worse to Samuel than a creative block. Later that day, hunched over the desk in his studio, he crumpled up another piece of paper with some worthless sketch on it, tossed it with the others all around him, and then sat back in the chair. The space around him was a mess, not that it wasn’t in some perpetual state of chaos on any other day. Some days though, the mess verged on claustrophobic–abandoned models, canvas, old unfinished work, all of it looming over him, taunting him. None of it was good enough. None of it was what he’d wanted to say, and now, even worse, he had someone who wanted to say something through him, and he couldn’t begin to fathom what it was.

He went to the window and was a bit dismayed to realize it was evening, the summer light already golden on the sides of the buildings. Hours had passed, and he hadn’t anything to even show for it, not even the memory of the time passing. The room was too tight, he needed to get out for a bit, and walk. He bundled up in his coat and slipped down to the sidewalk, not really sure where he was heading, but it was better than whatever he might do in that stale room. 

It was a weeknight, and the crowds were much diminished from what they were on a Friday or Saturday evening. Fewer normies coming in from the suburbs, more regulars in their leather and rubber milling from club to club and alley to alley, partaking in whatever pleasures they might find. He spent a while spying from the sidewalk at the mouths of alleys, a favorite pastime of his, an opportunity to watch flesh work in person. There was still too much light though, and so not much in the way of action, so it didn’t hold his interest for long. He ended up passing Depot, and on a whim, turned around and went inside. Perhaps Rod was there. This was all his fault, he rationalized in the moment. His money had sapped his creative spirit, just like he’d known it would. Until he was free of his patron, he was suddenly certain he wouldn’t make anything again.

He found a couple of bouncers milling by the bar, chatting. The bar hadn’t been open for very long and the floor and nooks didn’t require constant patrolling yet. “Hey, is your boss here? Up in the VIP room?” he said to one of them.

“What?”

“Rod, your boss. Is he here?”

“Do you have an invitation?”

Samuel rolled his eyes, exaggerated it enough to make sure the bouncer knew that what he was about to do ought to be wholly unnecessary, turned around, spotted one of the cameras and gave a wave. The bouncer received something on his earpiece, and shrugged. “Go on up, he’s expecting you, apparently.”

Samuel did not want to be expected. That alone was almost enough to send him back out onto the sidewalk. Instead, he took a drink from the lower bar, and headed up to the VIP lounge, fully planning on throwing it in his face this time. The lounge was nearly the same as when he’d been there nearly two weeks earlier–the same bartender, Rod sitting on the same barstool, perhaps not the same folks having sex among the cushions, but interchangable ones all the same. He resolved to throw the drink before Rod could even get out a word, but the sight of his eyes was enough to stall him, and when Rod pulled out another stool for him, told him to sit, have a chat, he found that same sense of camaraderie overwhelm his good, volatile sense. He sat, and when Rod asked how he was, he was honest about everything–from his artist’s block to financial struggles and recent fight with Parker. Rod was a good listener. Never interrupting, asking good questions but never trying to lead him to a given conclusion. When Samuel had exhausted himself, Rod took a sip from his drink, placed a hand on Samuel’s knee, and said, “I’m glad you confided in me, I really do understand, you know. We are not so different really, I knew that from the moment I saw your art hanging in that gallery. What you’re missing is the correct medium, I believe.”

“What?”

“You have these ideas, yes? And yet, as soon as they are committed to paper, they seem flat and empty. The problem is not the idea, but the paper.”

“I always sketch on paper.”

“You always have sketched on paper before.”

Samuel narrowed his eyes at him, “What are you saying, really?”

Rod looked over at the undulating men on the cushions, who for the extent of their conversation, had not ceased their activities with one another, not even for a drink. Samuel followed his gaze, but as he swung his head, he felt the sharp headache that had struck him that night in the club, right before he’d seen what he’d seen there, something he hadn’t even dared try and sketch, something he hadn’t told Rod about even. But there, on the cushions was something inhuman. A writhing mass of flesh, raw and pure and ripe. The distinctions between their bodies had dissolved away, face became cock became ass became chest. There was no distinction between or within any body, and when he blinked, it snapped back, and once again, he was looking at the men, at the sex, but he couldn’t unsee that either. He couldn’t be convinced that the vision was less real than the image his mind was showing him now.

“You saw?”

“I…did you?”

“Oh, all the time. It’s all I see these days. But then, the struggle has never been seeing it myself, but getting others to see it too. You’re the first. That’s why I have no worries about you, Samuel. I want you to take all the time in the world. You’ll create exactly what you need to, soon enough, and if you ever need a sympathetic ear, you will always find me here.”

“Can…I see it again?”

“Whenever you want.”

Samuel waited, expecting Rod to do something to make it work, but his patron just took another sip of his drink. He looked back at the bodies there, focused, unfocused, cocked his head, but couldn’t seem to slip behind the veil again. “It’s not working.”

“Then you don’t really want to see it again. That’s alright, I know it takes time, and courage.”

He had another drink. He wanted to talk to Rod further, but didn’t know what questions to ask yet. The orgy behind him unnerved him now, and eventually, he bid Rod a good evening, and went down to the club floor again. He stood at the edge of the dance floor, now busier than it had been when he’d walked in, watched those bodies crush and squeeze and float and drool against one another, but while it was another mass of bodies, it was nothing like the mass of flesh upstairs. A young body peeled its way free and spun off towards him, into him really, and looked up at him, stary and drugged and hungry.

He looked up, and saw that Rod had left the stool, and was staring down at him from the VIP lounge above. He nodded to him, and Samuel understood, somehow, that this man was a gift to him. So he took him away to his studio. He was out of his mind on drugs or Pigtown itself, pliable and soft and eager. Samuel thought about sex, but decided against it. He stripped the man down, threw him on the mattress he kept in his studio for naps and long nights, and dug into his body, smelling and tasting, bending and scraping and kneading. The man passed out before too long, and Samuel studied the curve of the man’s back, before taking a marker from his desk, and drawing a line along the man’s spine, feeling a strange shudder through him. The wrong medium, Rod had said. Another line. A shape. The same thing he had struggled to sketch for days flowed right from his hands onto the man’s back. He sketched for hours, across the young man’s whole body, but it still wasn’t enough. He thought of the flesh again, the raw flesh. He pressed against the man’s rib cage, and felt it bend with his pressure, and he was so surprised, he fell back, and it snapped back into place. Samuel didn’t touch him after that, just stared at the man, at the marks he’d scrawled across his body, threw a blanket over him and left him there. He knew, somehow, he would be gone by morning–but Samuel couldn’t be here. He was afraid, not of what the young man might do when he saw the marks. Afraid of what he himself might do, if he touched the man again. He threw on his coat, and headed back out into the night.

The Pigtown Chronicles: Chapter 3.3 – Shadow’s Puppet

Marlon was lost, had been lost for a while now. Sometimes, he was there in the cage, feeling his body slowly draining away, too exhausted to move, too exhausted to do much of anything. Other times, he was out of the cage, with Shadow, who for the last week, had been tormenting Marlon’s shade almost non-stop. Shadow didn’t seem to need sleep, or food, or water. Marlon, on the other hand–or at least, the part of Marlon in the cage, didn’t seem to require them any more either, but didn’t stop feeling hunger or thirst. When he managed to find a voice, he would occasionally call out, begging for sustenance, but Shadow and the shade saw no reason to engage. It ought to be wasting away, after all. It wasn’t going to be important, from now on. 

The shade had been flat, at first. Marlon hadn’t quite understood how Shadow could grip something flat, but he could. His manacles could bind it, his whips and floggers could strike it, his needles could pierce it. There was never any mark on the shade from any of this, no matter how hard it was struck, no matter what sadistic torture it was given. There was no mark on Marlon’s body either, in the cage, but he still felt every strike as though it had been against his own flesh and bone under Shadow’s implements. 

The hunger and thirst made him delusional, or at least, he thought they were delusions, at first. Visions that he was outside of the cage, looking down on himself, but without control of his body. It took a few of these before he realized he was literally looking down at himself, through the eyes of the shade. It seemed to happen when Shadow fucked the shade, or fed him a load. Often the shade would have an orgasm of its own, and Marlon’s vision would slip for a moment, looking at his own body. It was pale, flat, sagging. It seemed less like a body, and more like a costume that someone had left crumpled up on the floor. Then he would be back, shuddering, the torture would begin again, and he would return to screaming.

He didn’t understand why he wasn’t dead. Perhaps he was dead. Perhaps he was dying. He asked Shadow, asked him why he was doing this, why he wasn’t dying. There was no sense of time down in the windowless room, just that constant red light. Shadow never replied, of course. The question didn’t particularly interest him. After all, Pigtown had never killed anyone, to his knowledge. Pigtown didn’t want to kill you, it wanted to use you. The men of Pigtown wanted to use you too. Use, or be used. Take, or be taken. 

At some point, Marlon’s voice was taken from him. It took a few minutes, or hours, before he realized that the moans and screams he was hearing were no longer coming from his own mouth–they were coming from the shade. They were different as well. No longer were they full of terror–they sounded pleased. Delighted, almost. His voice croaked out, asking for more, “More, Master, more…” and he clawed at the bars of the cage, furious at his own shadow’s betrayal. He’d been his, after all, all his life. And now, he was taking everything from him. He tried to scream, tried to shout, but nothing–not even a whisper would leave his lips. It was one of the few times Shadow even acknowledged that he was still there, the shaded face turning to the cage, a slight smile across those bearded lips, and then he turned to the shade. “More of what, my little puppet?”

“Everything, all of it,” the shade said. Even worse, Marlon felt his own mouth move with the words, though no sound came from him. 

Marlon found himself slipping back and forth, between his dwindling existence in the cage, and the painful pleasure outside of it, under Shadow’s controlling hands. He could feel the shade’s voice growing, not just when speaking, but in his own mind, too. How much it hated him. Hated that body in the cage, how it had been tethered to him for so long. Marlon found himself growing more and more sympathetic. The pain on the cross, or over the bench, or whatever else Shadow did to him was nothing compared to the aching hunger and thirst and weakness when he slipped back into the cage. He was miserable. He was a miserable little fleshy thing. Better for it to wither away, better for it to disappear. Eventually, he did–mostly. The shade overwhelmed him, took on color, took on space, took on form and feature. The shade became Marlon, and whatever it was that was in the cage continued to wither, until there was nothing really left at all, not after Shadow shared it with his new puppet. 

To an acquaintance, the shade would have been easily mistaken for Marlon, as he had been. There were only a few differences, the most obvious of which was that he lacked a shadow. After all, he was the shadow, where Marlon had put all of his degeneracy, all of his fear, all of his weakness. But the shade had taken all of the substance from him, locked what little remained of Marlon away deep in his own mind, not that he planned on using any of it. It would take the name though–the shade had always liked the name. He had always hated the man it had been tethered to–most shadows resented their living hosts. Of course, the shade was indebted to Shadow, and more than happy to service him. But now, Shadow turned his attention to the two pitch black cocoons which were still quivering, where they were suspended from the ceiling.

He formed a knife from the darkness of the room, sliced one of them open, and what fell out was…something else. A shade, certainly. The shade of one of the officers, but only half-formed. Shadow had devoured quite a bit of them both, weakened them enough that their shades could overtake them, suck what substance remained from them, but there wasn’t enough. 

“Are…are they alright?” Marlon asked.

“They will be, we just need to give them some more to eat, is all,” Shadow said, gave a little flourish with his hand, and gathered some of the shadows in the room around Marlon’s naked body. It condensed against his skin, becoming a set of leather gear, pitch black aside from the metal buckles that seemed to hold the light shone on them. “Why don’t we go out tonight? I have some social calls to make, but we can get these two fed first.”

The shade cradled one of the little shadows in his arms, could feel it beginning to understand itself. There was pale body mixed in with it too, somehow. Whatever it was, he could tell that it would be different from what he’d become. Shadow picked up the other shade, pulled the shadows of the room together and Marlon followed him through the darkness. 

What the old Marlon had only understood, before, as a void, the shade understood as a tapestry. There were all kinds of darkness there, stretching in all different directions. Follow a strand, and you could go, well, anywhere. Shadow led them out of the darkness and into an alley not far from where he had found Marlon and Jimmy that night a few weeks before. It was night, but not that late. Shadow dimmed the lights, and the two of them waited.

It wasn’t long before the darkness of the alley lured a couple of Pigtown’s residents into the alley for a little fuck before heading off to the next bar. What they didn’t expect, was for the two shades to bolt and scurry out of the darkness, crawl their way up their bodies, and latch themselves onto their heads, the two men screaming and prying at the darkness, trying to rip it from them, until they stopped moving. 

“They’ll probably just remember it as a nightmare, is all,” Shadow said to Marlon as they watched. “They’re not strong enough to take everything yet, like you or I could.”

“Like…I could?” Marlon asked.

Shadow nodded. “I may call you my puppet, but it’s merely a term of endearment. You can do anything I can do–I’m just as much a shade as you are. After this, they’ll be strong enough to make it on their own if they keep to the darkness. I had so many of them for a while, but I can’t feel them at all, not since I escaped.”

“From where?”

Shadow didn’t say. He just started off towards the mouth of the alley, and down the sidewalk, Marlon hustling a bit to catch up. Apparently, his questions would have to wait.

The Pigtown Chronicles: Chapter 3.2 – Filing a Report at Precinct 27

The week before, after going to see his friend Kyle at the smoke shop and having that strange conversation with Marshall,Jim had strode down the sidewalk and gone straight towards the precinct as Marshall had suggested. Standing outside the building, however, his resolve had wavered. Marshall had told him he had two options. Either he could forget that any of this had ever happened, like everyone else had seemed to, aside from him and Kyle, or he could ask the officers here for help. Jimmy couldn’t imagine what help the officers here could give him, especially since he had no concrete evidence that what had happened that night, had actually occurred. He didn’t even have evidence that Marlon existed. 

In the end, he’d left, and gone home. He’d think about it. He’d wait. See if Marlon turned up on his own. He felt like a coward, and it was that shame that kept welling his memories of him back up to the surface, just when the water had gone still. The furthest he got was three days, almost enough that he’d forgotten he’d been trying to forget something at all, only for him find a shirt that had been Marlon’s stashed in his closet that he’d stolen one night after some fumbling half-sex together. He’d felt horrible, horrible that he’d decided to just give up on him, horrible that he could still smell him on the shirt, pressed to his face. Horrible that he was clinging to some strange delusion, an imaginary boyfriend he couldn’t even prove existed at all.

And so, Marshall’s point was proven. There really were only two things he could do, two paths forward. He wouldn’t be able to forget him, he could already see that. Time might stretch longer and longer between remembrances, but Marlon would always come back to him, and that, he was sure, would drive him mad, eventually. The only other choice then, was to find someone who could help–and if the officers of Precinct 27 could help, then that’s where he would have to go. He stepped into the lobby on Thursday afternoon, trying to plan the words that might convince the officers to even listen to him. It would sound crazy, he knew that, but Pigtown seemed to be a little crazy already. Maybe that’s why they would be a little more understanding.

He stepped up to the desk, where a rather bored, disheveled officer had his feet up on the counter, and realized that he was thumbing his way through a rather dogeared porno magazine. A gay one, at that. Unconcerned, the officer looked up at him, raised an eyebrow, and asked, “Can I help you, kid?”

“I…I think I need to file a report,” Jim said.

The officer gave a little snorting noise, something between a grunt and a chuckle, and then leaned in and gave Jim a few sniffs, and sat back, his brow furrowed. “Huh, I think you do, actually. Have a seat, I’ll find someone to help you out.”

“Oh, uh…ok,” Jim said, “Do you…need some info, or anything?”

The officer had already gotten up from the desk and left the lobby, heading down a side hall. Jimmy just looked around, considered leaving before the strange fellow returned, but didn’t. He took a seat on a lumpy chair off to the side, and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long, but for a police station, the place didn’t seem particularly busy. Looking around, it also didn’t seem particularly well cared for either. The walls were stained, the floor tiles peeling up. It was a far cry from the shining, well-funded precinct out in the suburbs where he lived, where the clean, well polished officers had looked at him like he was crazy. He didn’t have to wait long for the officer to return, followed by a rather rotund and stout detective in civilian clothes, with a beard down to his chest. Nothing about him suggested he had abided by any sort of dress code, or that he could even pass a fitness test. “Who, that one?” the other officer said, looking over at Jimmy, “You said he smelled like what?”

“You heard me. Faint though.”

“But it’s the middle of the day!”

“That’s why I didn’t go right to Rumwell.”

The new officer gave a huff, and walked over to where Jimmy was sitting. Now that he was closer, he saw that under the officer’s gut was a substantial amount of muscle, and he found himself second guessing his assumption about the officer’s physical capabilities. He had a name tag on that identified him as Ambrose Winston. “What are you here for, kid? You look a little young to be a resident. Feel fuckin’ sorry for ya if ya are.”

“A resident?”

“Of Pigtown.”

“Uh, no–I…the guy, Marshall, who runs the smoke shop, he said…you might be able to help me. My name’s Jimmy, I live out in Barry’s Hollow.”

“Out in the suburbs?” Something about the way the officer said it, made it sound that it might as well be another continent–another planet in the solar system.

“Uh, yeah…My, uh, friend went missing, the Friday before last. I…I tried to tell the cops, out where I live, but they didn’t believe me.”

The officer looked at each other. “Was that when…” Winston said, looking back at the cop from the reception desk, who just nodded, eyes a little wider.

“Huh. Alright, come on back, and let’s have a chat. I think we might be able to help each other out, actually.”

“What?” Jimmy asked, but Winston was already walking away, and Jimmy hurried to catch up. They went down a short hallway, then up a flight of stairs, and found themselves in a collection of cubicles where a few other officers were busy with paperwork. Winston led them to a small office off to the side, took a seat at a desk, and motioned for Jimmy to sit across from him. “So, your friend went missing…a week and a half ago then?”

“I tried to report it sooner, but…well, it’s a little hard to believe, I guess.”

“Trust me kid, I’ve heard some weird ass shit in this precinct–let me have it.”

So Jimmy did. He told him about walking back from Depot, leaving out the underage drinking, since they had snuck in. He told the detective about the streetlights going out, about the man stepping out of the shadows–and only then did Winston perk up. 

“Can you describe the man for me?” he asked.

“Not really well. He was covered in leather. All I could see was the bottom of his face. His eyes were always shaded.”

“Shaded how? Did you see his eyes at all?”

“I…I don’t think so.”

He kept going, describing how Marlon had stepped into the shadow and disappeared. Then he told them about the two officers coming to his rescue, and again, Winston perked up. He asked him questions about them, their size, even what they’d smelled like, the sound of their voices. Jimmy didn’t understand why he was so interested in them, but he hadn’t even gotten their names. He finished by describing how everyone else seemed to have forgotten that Marlon had even existed. Just he and Kyle recalled him at all. When he’d finished, Winston sat back in his chair for a moment, mouth twisted in a bit of a scowl.

“You…believe me?”

“Unfortunately, I do.”

“Can you find him then? He’s not dead is he?”

“Pigtown doesn’t kill anyone. Death would be a mercy.”

“What does that mean?”

Winston didn’t reply. He just pushed a card into Jimmy’s hand, told him to call if he remembered anything else, or if anything happened that reminded him of that night. Jimmy left, realizing only afterward that he hadn’t left any information with the officers–he made the man at the reception desk take down his name and number for the detective, but he didn’t seem to consider it important. He left feeling demoralized, but in an entirely different way. They believed him, but he had no idea what he was supposed to do. He didn’t know if Marlon was alive, he didn’t know who could have done this. It would have been easier if they’d just laughed in his face.

But inside the precinct, Winston wasn’t laughing. He hustled up the floors to the top story, where Commander Rumwell’s office was. He pushed inside, not even bothering to knock, and interrupted the commander with one officer cleaning his boots, while another one was between his legs, sucking and nursing at his sizable cock. Winston didn’t blink at this, of course–he gave a little salute, and said, “Sir, I have new information regarding the disappearances of Glison and Avery.”

“Oh?” Rumwell said.

“I…I think it was Shadow.”

That brought Rumwell up from where he was reclining, and he pushed the younger officer off his cock. “Excuse me? We know where Shadow is–he’s in the jail.”

“I…have solid testimony that leads me to believe he may have escaped. Have you…uh…spoken to the Warden lately?”

Rumwell’s face soured. He took a long draw off his cigar, and pushed the smoke out his nose in twin jets. “We haven’t been on the best of terms lately, no.”

“What?” Winston said, “I mean…I don’t know what that means.”

“It means nothing, for the moment. He’s just sulking. Tell me what you heard.”

Winston told him, and by the end of it, Rumwell had sucked his cigar down to a thin butt, which he snuffed out in the ashtray on his desk. It was credible, as much as he didn’t want to believe it. 

“Do you have a lead?”

“Marshall’s, maybe. I heard he has a new apprentice who seems to know the witness and the victim.”

“He does have a new apprentice, nice kid–little green,” Rumwell said. “Go have a chat. I’ll go see what I can wring out of the Warden.”