4.

The food at Misty's was as good as promised. Gus' appetite, fueled by the walk, was tempered only by the nature of the discussion he was having with Mr. McDonald and the potential for eavesdroppers. Most of the time they talked in code. If a word or phrase needed verification, it was jotted on a tiny scrap of napkin and then incinerated in the ashtray by the business end of Ronald McDonald's cigarette. At one point a well worn sheet of paper was discretely displayed. It had been folded and re-folded many times judging by the fuzzy edges of the crease marks. It was the key to 'flagging.' Red handkerchief in back right you want a hand job. Green handkerchief in back left you'll take it in the ass with a condom. Light green no condom.

Until now, Mr. King was just along for the ride. They didn't arrive at his area of interest until Mr. McDonald addressed the topic of preferences in partners.

White, black, Asian? Didn't matter.

Older? No.

Younger? Yes.

Thirties? Younger.

Twenties? Younger.

Here Mr. McDonald paused and then breathed: "Eighteen?" "Younger."

"Much younger?" "Much younger."

Ronald McDonald took a drag on his smoke and turned to the open end of the booth. He watched the waitress approach and considerately waited for her to pass before exhaling.

Ronald leaned back and sized up his tablemate. "Why don't you...give me...a number."

Mr. King sopped up au jus with a chunk of bread and said: "Seven, maybe eight."

"No." Direct and succinct. "Now that, is something I can't help you with; won't hope help you with." He glared across the table. This was no longer a conversation about sex, it was abuse.

Mr. King back peddled maddeningly. "No, not real..." he swallowed his chunk of Misty's homemade pumpernickel, worked his mind frantically and found a plausible out. "Just...just pictures! Yes, I only want pictures... I mean I would never..." He left the phrase unfinished, looking at his tablemate for validation.

Ronald McDonald was ready to bolt. Just up and vacate the table and leave this sorry sack-o-shit pedophile in his dust. But during their meal the man across the way had developed an aura of authority, maybe in the real world he was an insurance executive or even worse, a lawyer. The kind of man who, if he didn't get his way would retaliate just out of spite; pressing charges of solicitation of prostitution or some trumped-up horseshit. Ronald thought of his future and how such a charge (even if he were exonerated) could affect him in the job market.

"Alright" he conceded. He would tell the sick-o what he knew and then get the hell out of there. "All you're looking for is kiddy porn." He mouthed the words silently and then resorted to the napkin when Mr. King was unable to decipher via lip reading.

"Yes!" he exalted. Laying the nasty two word phrase on the open table.

Ronald snatched up the scrap quickly and created more ashes.

"There's only one place that I've heard of. It's on the south side of the metro. I'm going to write down the name and address plus a few other things you'll need to know. And understand that this stuff ain't cheep, you'll be paying a premium because it is highly illegal." He dropped the volume on the words 'highly illegal' to barely audible. The thought that he felt compelled to take this route, to relay information about a practice that abhorred him, made him ill.

Mr. King was thrumming with excitement.

Ronald McDonald's hands shook as he scribbled out the message. He loathed the man across the table almost as much as he loathed himself for abetting his fetish. This time he thrust the napkin across the table recklessly, almost hoping that some mysterious eye, an eye that looks out for little children, would see the message and strike the pedophile dead of a brain aneurism. He also hoped that what he had heard about the sex shop was bogus, that there was no kiddy porn in the metro. Unfortunately his heart told him otherwise.

"We're done." He took one last hard look at the sick tub-o-guts across from him and bailed out of the booth. As he exited the restaurant Ronald McDonald vowed that he would do everything he could to erase from his mind the experience with the pedophile. Coming to terms with contributing to the bastards fetish; now that would take longer, much, much longer.

Later that night, a bellyful of prime rib and baked potato, walking from the allure of Firethorn back to the bleakness of his room at the PM, Gus felt like a new man. He had entered his sabbatical without the slightest sense of what he would do with himself for the next eight weeks (other than worry about the threat of discovery). Now, through the guidance of Ronald McDonald, he had plenty to look forward to. For the seventh or eighth time during the walk home he retrieved the cherished paper from his breast pocket, held it in the glow of a street light, and re-read the words.

Extreme Exotica Exchange 223 Pershing Drive. Ask for the boys room(behind the counter) A handwritten ticket to pedophile paradise; he re-tucked the note and resumed his stroll. And as the zoning laws relaxed and the destitution increased, Gus lightened his step and began to whistle.

5.

Ultimately, Gus was able to endure his sabbatical thanks in large part to the inspirational reading material he purchased at the triple X.

Upon his return to St. Mark's he found his room untouched, his mailbox absent of anything legal, and his answering machine nothing more than well wishes from the women's guild that he took pleasure in deleting without a full listen.

His parishioners remarked at his appearance and disposition. Truly they said, whatever he had done for the last two months (multiple whack off sessions daily) had done him wonders. He resumed his interests with passion.

He also resumed his duties as a priest.

And now he was back on the Expressway, trusting the sedans cruise control to keep him in compliance with any radar-enhanced speed traps; a safe 73 miles per hour.

When he first laid eyes on the kiddy porn, some five years ago, he really believed it would be enough to satisfy his longing for bare-butted boys. The full color pictures lay still, they didn't protest or cry. He could imagine and enact any and all fantasies without the drudgery of conditioning and reinforcement. He sincerely believed that he would no longer lust for trysts with the altar boys.

But the magazines didn't replace his urges for the living; they had fueled them. Whether just starting a new prospect with friendly whisker rubs, or advancing to simulated sex with a ripe one, his needs became insatiable. The magazines gave him new ideas, ideas which he ached to carry out in the flesh.

He saw a green reflective sign, Rest Area Right Lane 1 Mile, tapped the brake to disengage the cruise control, and signaled his way into the deceleration lane.

The turnout was a winner. Expansive, ample parking for cars and big rigs alike. The few vehicles that now populated it were clustered near the restrooms. Gus rolled by the dump-and-drain station and nearly reached the onramp before pulling off to the side.

He ignored the yellow lines intended for diagonal parking and pulled up parallel to the curb. A deliberate act to broaden his vision of the world around him. That, plus a straight shot onto the onramp should he happen to be caught in any compromising position.

He checked his mirrors, killed the engine, and reached across the seat.

Chapter 2.

1.

"Dirty! Dirty like a dog! Such ungodliness! And in this house! Saint Peter buried in the yard! It won't fix! It won't fix! It won't fix!"

Demon awoke, but not fully. Five hours of comatose bliss had been suddenly jolted by his mother, shrieking in the bathroom. There was confusion. What was his mother doing up so early? He was always up first watching the test pattern. And there was another thing, he felt different. Something had happened last night, but for the moment, he wasn't sure.

"You dirty Georgie Porgie girl! Aaaaiiiieee!" A screaming banshee was flying toward him.

"You!" His mother now filled his bedroom door frame. "You dirty mutt! Not flushing the toilet! Leaving your sin in the bowl! But deliver us from evil! And not lifting the ring! The communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins! And these!" she held out the washrag and comb accusingly. "In the sink!" Certainly not the worst of oversights but she was on a roll. Then she saw his pants on floor.

"Aaaaiiieee! What have you done! It's going to take me forever to pluck out those weeds. Eoli Eoli lema sabantani! She uttered the Latin crucifixion phrase of 'my god, my god, why have you forsaken me.'

Demon prepared his explanation: He had been out the night before with the Bird. They smoked cigarettes and pot. He got covered in weeds while trying to take a piss on hill 14. He had wasted perfectly good money on munchies. He got home and was still too stoned to piss standing up, so he sat like a girl. He felt conspicuous and didn't flush, he then spaced out for the next 20 minutes combing his hair and wiping little dots of toothpaste off the mirror. He dropped the comb and rag in the sink and left the toilet unflushed.

But that didn't sound right. So instead he said: "I forgot."

He would have been better off with his initial explanation. 'Forgetting' is the worst excuse you could ever give to a carrier of manic OCD.

"Forgot!" His mother screamed. "Do you see me forgetting! "The day of reckoning draws nigh!" She darted from the room and a moment later came the sound of a flush along with a victorious cry. Over the next two weeks, Demon's mom would make hundreds of circuits to the bathroom, checking the sink, peering into the bowl, and touching the talismanic flush handle.

The outburst didn't have as much effect on him as it would have under ordinary circumstances. No, Demon wasn't in the practice of forgetting, and the times he had displeased his mother in the past he had been able to (brush it off? Deal with it? Hide it away in an internal black cage of pain?). It didn't matter. And now, that he had discovered pot, it mattered less.

He crawled from bed warily. His brain fuzzy, his tongue coated with a film of 'extract ala ash.' Stepping over yesterdays clothes he went to the bureau and tugged out one of this three pairs of new jeans. JC Penney Plain Pockets, $10 a pair. He didn't like the stiff feel of the jeans compared to his old pants, but it was a fashion sacrifice that needed to be made. He added a pullover and finished with holey socks and his battered tennis shoes.

As he headed to the bathroom, he puzzled over having slept so late, something he had never done before, and lamented the loss of the test pattern, weathervane and morning "N" "E" "W" "S". It was only as he turned into the bathroom that he felt the first waves of unease.

It was true, he had forgot. Yes, the pot had muted his mothers sting, but wasn't it the pot that caused him to forget in the first place? He ducked his head in the sink and began washing his hair.

"You flush you dirty dog! You lift the ring you Georgie Porgie girl!" His mother's voice from beyond the door. "I'll be in to check! And all the firstborn shall perish!"

Demon scrubbed at his hair and mulled it over. Was it so bad? So he had forgotten a few things. Next time he would remember. But the pot! (Bob his mind corrected) Bob had been incredible. He hurried along with his washing, then attacked his teeth. For a few moments he stared in the mirror, hoping to experience that same floating feeling as last night, but the world had returned to single-dimensional.

The moment he was out of the bathroom his mother flew in. "I didn't hear a flush!" She screamed triumphantly. Demon hadn't the need to use the toilet; still his mother looked warily at the clear water, hoping for even a glimpse of yellow. With no current evidence to rely upon she reverted to the past. "But you forgot last night!" And foretold of the future "And you will forget again!"

Solemnly, as he unchained his bike and pedaled to the last week of his sophomore year, Demon realized that he didn't care. All of his old torments, from his mother, classmates, coworkers, and yes sometimes even figures of authority, just didn't matter.

It wasn't a happy feeling, a feeling of 'good for me, I've overcome my insecurities!' It was a lethargic, don't give-a-shit, fuck you for even asking feeling. He just didn't care, it just didn't matter. And it had all been resolved by the magic of bob.

Unfortunately for Demon, the squirming tangle of evil tentacles that churned inside him wasn't resolved by the pot, it just masked his feelings toward them. They saw their opportunity, sending tendrils and creepers out from drug-induced pinpricks that had compromised their cage. The tendrils laced their way into Demon's brain, latching onto receptors that could put up no resistance after their date last night with bob. There the tendrils pulsed, sending messages to their big brothers back home. 'We have a foothold, we will put out the call for the drug, begging for more and more. Over time, we will be the ones in control, and once strong enough, we will crush the walls that contain you.'

The nightmarish thing inside the cage roared, crashing itself against the barriers, willing itself to be felt, heard, freed.

Demon turned off Valley Street and onto pavement. Argyle road would take him to Jefferson, Jefferson to school. And at school, well, he might just run into the Bird. It was an appealing prospect and he began to pedal faster.

Part 5.

Bob.

Chapter 1.

1.

"Hey look, it's bob!" a random voice. The boy of a dozen slanderous nicknames, took no notice. Undaunted, the voice added a body, which stood directly in front of the youth. "So, what did you do last night...bob?" The question rhetorical, came with a knowing smile.

"uhmm, nothing." Bob didn't even know the kid who had approached him. Was he a junior? He must have me confused with--- Recognition.

"Oh yeah." Just the slightest smile, but a whole lot of unease.

"All right, see you 'round...Bob!" The older boy walked off.

How could he know so fast? Maybe he was a friend of the Bird. Bob was mulling over the odd exchange when Judy Zimmer met him in the hallway. "So are you going out for theatre next year" she paused intentionally. "Bob?" Tittering she walked off without a reply.

Little did Bob know at the time but when it is revealed that the dorkiest, most dysfunctional, unspeaking kid in the school is a stoner, news travels like lightning.

Innocently enough, Jon Hemmingburg had picked up a couple of buddies for 'just a taste of the leaf' before school. Purely out of reverence to the power of the Columbian Gold, he shared the story of the De-man getting stoned on his first time.

"No way!" from Brad Venneman who was accepting the pipe from Ned 'Chico' Sanchez. "Nobody gets stoned their first time, especially not him. I'll bet he didn't even inhale." Brad Venneman took his hit and forwarded the pipe to the front passenger seat. "Fuckin A, he was blown. Laughing and shit, fucker couldn't figure out the door handle, coughing and choking out a lung. It's the gold I'm telling you." Bird waited on Paul Sindelar, who was riding shotgun, then took his own hit, and held the pipe out behind him in the accepted counterclockwise rotation of automotive tokin'.

Now, feeling the effects nicely, the passengers relented, yes, maybe it was possible. Regardless, each had a good circle of friends and a good story to pass along once they stumbled into school.

"How'd ya like the hills bob?" A passing voice in the hallway. "Bob did you bring some munchies for lunch?" Another random contributor.

It was only third period, but already bob had earned some kind of celebrity status. The acknowledgement was nice, but his ongoing inability to engage in conversation was maddening. A little spot in the back of his mind teased: 'they're making fun of you. Just like they've always made fun of you.'

No, they weren't laughing at him. They were laughing with him. The things that he had enjoyed; the hills, munchies, music, they too knew how much fun it was to see the world in more than one dimension. And now he had seen it too.

Plus there was another thing. Nobody was calling him by the 'D' name. Everyone was calling him bob.

So much better.

Bob took on his new identity and luxuriated in it.

He was being accepted.

But hot gossip gets cold fast, and nowhere faster than in high school. Once everyone (worth telling) had heard the news, there was no one left to tell. A second telling would elicit a tired, 'yeah, we know about bob, we know.' The news of Bob's transformation lasted all of one day. It was superseded by the adventures of the 'KISS dozen.'

The envy of the school, a dozen sophomores had cut class the previous Friday to drive to Minneapolis to attend a KISS concert. The one day suspension they received for their adventure made them no less than heroes. Now, they were back. The comments filled the lunchroom: 'Gene Simmons was spitting fire all over the stage, 20 feet; I fucking swear he was breathing fire 20 feet!' Study hall: "And then they came out of 'Hotter than Hell' and rolled right into 'Firehouse!' Changing classes: 'And then they lit this massive skyrocket bomb thing that exploded over the arena!'

Bob had been supplanted by something called KISS. He felt compelled to learn about KISS, to not do so would leave him behind, again an outsider craving to fit in.