The previous post today may leave some visitors thinking I never take time out for heavier musings addressing the pressing problems of today's world.
So I'm adding an excerpt from another story, this one co-authored with my friend and fellow North Carolinian Heath, as we tackle in tandem the weighty issue of America's failed economy, as it impinges on the lives of two young tycoons, Thomas and Brandon (think: "Cameron Mathison" and "Josh Duhamel"), who've decided to take out their frustrations over the fallout from the stimulus package in their own unique way.
By the way, this story fills 14 pages (so far), a length befitting an MBA thesis, only without footnotes or pie charts (so far).
Right now Thomas can’t think of anything he’d like better than to ram his nine-and-a-half inches right up Brandon’s ass. Give the punk something to think about next time he tries to screw Thomas over in a business deal. Brandon’s a twitching mess at his feet now. Thomas drives his heel to the small of Brandon’s back and drives the man’s face to the carpet.
He grabs the tie round Brandon’s neck, the only thing he’s wearing now, except for a pair of oatmeal-colored Calvin Kleins. He pulls Brandon upright on his knees. Thomas positions himself right behind him, letting the bulge in his briefs bounce against the back of Brandon’s $200 haircut.
Suddenly clear headed, Brandon senses an opportunity, though, and seizes it. He throws his head back and smashes Thomas’s cock and balls. Thomas howls, doubles over, and stumbles backwards a good twenty feet, colliding with the bookshelves, toppling a couple of trophies, a framed 8x10 of Brandon posing with Obama, and some custom leather-bound copies of Adam Smith, Ayn Rand, and Trump’s The Art of the Deal.
Thomas’s body collapses and he lands on his ass. Brandon’s expression is somewhere between a grin and a grimace, as he rubs his fingers over the back of his sore, belt-whipped thighs.
“Oh, dude,” he murmurs, “this is gonna be fun.”
He takes two or three long strides and leaps, driving his heels to Thomas’s bare chest before hitting the floor. Thomas makes a loud coughing-and-choking-at-the-same-time noise. His whole body bucks on impact. The wet fleshy smack echoes cross the reinforced glass of the billboard-sized window to the Manhattan skyline.
Brandon pulls himself up to his feet, grabs Thomas by the elastic of his C-IN2s and drags him back to the spacious center of the executive office.
He flips Thomas over on his belly, squeezes the guy’s left foot into his armpit, plants his left knee into the small of Thomas’s back, and arches back, stretching his rival’s leg, giving it a slight twist at the kneecap. Thomas screams through his teeth and pounds the carpet with his fists. The shudder of pain he feels in Thomas’s body underneath him gives Brandon wood. Niiice.
He grabs Thomas’s other foot and bends it back too. He settles his ass down on top of Thomas’s in a full boston crab. He rocks back and forth to rev up the pressure and hurt.
“Not what you were expecting when you decided to drop in, is it?” Brandon smirks. Thomas’s face is unrecognizably distorted in a show of agony, a noiseless scream, and despite everything, Thomas is still as hard as a platinum-plated billy club.
By the way, the real Cameron Mathison and I had a tense, heated telephone exchange about ten years ago, when I was working a part-time job booking airline flights for pocket money and free air travel (worse. job. I. ever. had.) I like to think that had we not been separated by hundreds of miles of telephone cable at the time, some actual punches would have been thrown.