Cannibal Witch Night

In this modern American folk tale, a scruffy backwoods man is unknowingly invited to an all male orgy, where he discovers the inner beast.

A baby blue trailer door of a handsomely mustached man once opened to a young boy when he knocked, and the boy was born with the spirit of an elephant shrew, and the voice of Michael J. Fox.  The man crushed the can of beer in his hand when their sweaty pinkish faces met each other for the first time.  The boy smiled at him like how a cat shows its teeth; it was a particular time of day.  Naked trees stood grey and pointy against the blue sky, and flat, rolling hills of trailers went on for miles with the sun gleaming white on their roofs like sunbathers.   The man was almost fifty, and the man’s brain was that of an organ floating through space.

“Hey!  How you doin’!” Quoth the boy, who then proceeded to cup his hands over his mouth, like a bugle made of ram’s horn.  “Can you hear me in there!  It’s dark out there, heh.”     

The man leaned an arm against the door frame.  “Hi, son, what can I help you with, then-“

“Oh hah, yeah, hey I was just, you know,” Michael J. Fox boy spread his skinny arms out like an eagle, explaining with such enthusiasm that his voice was trembling.  “wonderin’ if you wanted to come to a welcome party, man.  Just for guys, you know.  No girls allowed!  You know, hahh"“   

“Oh, um, thanks.”  The man bit the tab off of his crushed beer can, and spit it into the dirt.  “Is this like a house warming party or"“

“Yup!  I kind of just moved in, it’s my first mortgage, hah!  Yeah it’s a party just for men, if you catch my drift, you know.”

The man tried to think of parties just for men.  What he thought of were planes dropping dick shaped nukes on women and children.  Parties just for men include things like taxidermy and punching s**t, and truthfully thinking of such things warmed his heart.  It moved the good and bad cholesterol in his arteries like liquid gold.  “Yeah, I know what you mean, sure.” 

“Wow, oh wow!  Okay, great!  Wow you know I’ve always saw you kinda, you know, walking around and using your body when I was house hunting and I always thought you were cool.  Real cool.” 

“Thanks, kid.”  The man enjoyed his Screeching Weasel shirt, but that was really about it.

“Yeah.”  Michael J. Fox boy and the man shook hands, clinging to the wrist of the other.  “My name’s Yellow by the way.” 

“Th’ call me Grandfather Buffalo, er um, Buff.  Yup.” 

As they exchanged addresses, Yellow took a gander over the shoulder of his new found dirty ally.  “Hey you’re like a Jedi in the ways of cigarettes, huh?  Hahah!” 

For Grandfather Buffalo, that was a low blow.  The boy walked back to his house down yonder and Buff realized he had seen the pile of cigarette butts that lay one foot high on his kitchen table.  They were everywhere; in the carpet, on the ceiling fan, in the deepest crevices of the VCR, just everywhere.  Buff turned all the lights down into a brown glow, and wiped some of the cigarettes to the floor to reveal his old hunting rifle.  A deer had broken it out of an act of revenge one day back in ’02.  Buff had been hunting, and he drug home a stag by the antlers.  It was then a wild doe flung her body on his, breaking his collar cone, his gun, and then killing herself, but Grandfather Buffalo did not bring home the stag that day. 
He pondered if he should bring his broken gun to the party, purely for novelty purposes.  He ended up not doing this.

When the sky went from pink to black with the afterbirth of a hot, New Mexican sunset, Buff walked out of the trailer park with a case of Pabst in his fist, and a bottle of CVS brand pop to his lips, wearing a white shirt stained with stories.  It didn’t matter, he knew, there would be no ladies to impress this day, for this is a man’s party.  Still, he thought, without woman, man is nothing.  He knew this deep in his heart but wouldn’t dare sing these words on high.

Up ahead was a house as narrow and crooked as a tower; red and three stories high, the windows all alight, cars parked all over the sidewalks and then some, like the legs of a centipede.  Casa de Yellow.  He knew it to be so.  Far overhead was the fading vapor trail of a coastguard plane.  Buff saw the craft’s triangular body through the approaching night, and he waved at it. 

“Grandfather Buffalo!  Ho, ho!  Look who showed up, I didn’t think you would!”  Yellow smiled under his massive glasses, guarded by a screen door, littered with dust bunnies and the pointy bodies of dead mosquitoes.  Buff smiled at him as the boy’s hands worked the locks, grabbing the case of beer for him and leading him through a narrow, dark, and empty basement.  It was all furnished with wood panels, and shelves upon shelves of DVDs and Laserdiscs, and all sorts of Star Wars toys and paraphernalia. 

“You go on right up the stairs there,” said the boy, crouching in the light of a mini fridge under a giant aquarium tank, filled with fat, orange fish.  That was the place where the beer was stored, and the boy offered one to him.  Grandfather Buffalo took a can and felt his way up the dark stairway.  He looked back once at Yellow, thinking of blue patterns of plaid. 
“I’ll um,” Yellow slowly began to peel his shirt off, revealing a sickly, hairless body that only an eel/man hybrid would have.  Buff was sure of it.  That’s why he had so much Star Wars s**t, he related to the aliens.  “I’ll be up in a little bit.”  Yellow smiled and looked to the man with smoldering eyes. 

“Aight.”  Grandfather Buffalo shrugged, his boots stomping up the stairs like a thunder storm.  The beer felt so nice and warm, going down his gut like gasoline. 

The door to the upstairs was closed, and as he swung it open his eyes hurt at the sudden flood of cheap track lighting, and a portrait of Former President Clinton and a purple saxophone pined on the wall.  CLINTON AFFAIR- Masturbation is the Key it said, and Grandfather Buffalo concurred.  His breath jolted in surprise, like that time he ran over a lizard with his truck.  On an old futon, three naked boys lay on their stomachs, their bare asses displayed before Buff’s mustached face like a great victory banquet.  Yong hippy boys, he knew it; the whitest one’s hair was very long.  They very daintily raised their heads over their shoulders in curiosity like mermaids.  The boy in the middle was colored like a glass bottle of malted soda, sweat beading on his back, and he looked to Buff and said “hello”.  The white boy to his left hid his face, giggling with joy and embarrassment, and the last boy only looked him up and down with the judgment of a mother in law.

“Hey"“Grandfather Buffalo was breathless, tiptoeing past the boys as if they were sleeping, dreaming of each other’s sticky bodies.  The brown boy and the white boy where now both giggling, watching Buff and his disorientation, being cute for a rugged man; the boy at the end hit his two friends with his arm, “shut up, shut up!” he declared, then resting his hand tenderly on the brown boy’s a*s. 

Buff stumbled for another door over piles of cardboard boxes from a hardware store, and Navajo carpets all rolled up like cigarettes, keeping his hand over his eyes as to not see male flesh.  But the second door he opened revealed a large room with one wall painted black, the floor littered with blankets and all kinds of novelty anime and animal shaped cushions.  There must have been twenty, maybe more, naked young men of all kinds and colors on the floor, mounting, licking, and holding each other.  The place smelled of semen and Glade, the lights dimmed with a maroon red gel.  Something sweet and lovely by Thomas Dolby played softly somewhere in the ceiling, and it was Buff’s sanctuary.  He took a hearty pull from his beer and he inched against the wall from a sudden bushel of boy’s hands that grabbed for his belt, his stomach, his groin.  Clean and dirty fingernails and the voices of adolescent and adult boys, all smiling with white and yellow teeth began to blend like a rainbow of all kinds of natural earthy colors before the eyes of Buff, and he wasn’t sure what it all meant. 

“Gosh you’re pretty.”  Was a thing he heard from the boys, and another beckoned him to come down to the floor, and let him sit in his lap.  A big tall ginger boy, with red hair on every inch of his body stood himself up and snuck under the arm of Grandfather Buffalo who took a terror filled pull from the Pabst, and the boy took a hand to the man’s chest.  “Hey,” he smiled like a little girl, pulling down the neck of Buff’s shirt, and toying with the gold chain Buff wore every day and every night.  “Chest hair.”  The ginger boy announced with quiet excitement.  Buff pulled away from the boy, but others followed with their hands grabbing onto his belt as he felt for the door again.  He found nothing but the skin of Yellow, having touched his stomach unintentionally.  Yellow thus grabbed the stiff skinned hand of Grandfather Buffalo, slowly leading it up and up in order to cradle his face as one would to hold an apple.  The other boys immediately shooed away; a hierarchy had clearly been established.   

“Well, um, do you want to go on the porch with me?”  Asked Yellow with a sudden, sensual confidence, baring the social grace of a slightly drunk Natalie Portman. 

“Huh?  No, man, um"“ 

“What you wanna do then?”  Asked Yellow, biting the nape of Buff’s neck only to be pushed away, like a president’s maid.  “Buff, what’s the problem?  I thought you were cool with this, man.”

“When did I say that?” 

“I thought you were.”  The little Michael J. Fox boy went in for the kill again, turning the face of Grandfather Buffalo with both hands as all the boys fucked each other like baby rabbits.  “You’re real cool man, I’m a lonely guy.” 

“Uh-“  The man escaped Yellow to go and feel his way to the black wall, leaving the Michael J. Fox boy, dazed and lost in his internal mourning.  “I just need a second.” 

“Fresh air, maybe?” 

“Yah, kid, just let me get it together a second, aight?”  Grandfather Buffalo stealthily began the treck over naked, sweaty bodies to what looked like a small deck outside, to breathe, and maybe jump off of, and run on home.  Yellow watched him as he sank to his knees with overwhelming feelings grew in his soul like corn.  A Japanese boy caught him, and gestured if the young Michael J. Fox boy wanted a shoulder rub or something.  Yellow stripped down to only Batman boxers and sat, his head on the chest of the Asian boy, idly touching and rubbing his upper back. 

Old Grandfather Buffalo saw many a thing that he was not prepared for.  Boys in groups of three, nude on the floor, painting sloppy oriental designs in henna mud on each other’s backs.  A large white boy penetrating a smaller Indian boy, holding his womanly back to his breast as the Indian boy cried, and loved it a little.  Two boy’s with big, beautiful hooked noses kissed each other like snakes, one lying on the ground while a young man with hair down to his shoulder’s sucked off one of their pricks, lonely and warm as he lifted his head once in a while to watch the two men kiss each other, a cry of yearning building up in his throat.

As Buff touched the dark, cold glass of the porch that lead to the outside, a scene that held him by the nuts was taking place.  A bit of beer foam rested on his mustache like a child, and Grandfather Buffalo saw a large, golden man, frotting with a beautiful and tall tattooed Russian boy who lay on the floor, his eyes closed, as if asleep.  The boy held both his and the prick of his lover in his hand that was cold and purple with Reynaud’s, but as dainty as a fuzzy little wishing flower, Buff concluded.  The golden man grunted like a bull, pinning down the Russian boy who bared the face of Che Guevara and Cyrillic letters of freedom and socialism. 

Grandfather Buffalo watched the golden man, thick with bulging muscle, ejaculate like a spitting lizard onto the boy’s stomach, and the soft brown hair on his groin.  With his eyes still shut, the Russian boy sleepily rested a hand above the man’s n****e as seed kept coming and coming.  The golden man slapped and pinned his arm down like an animal.  Buff concluded that must have hurt the boy, and it broke his heart. 

The porch was small, and made of whitewashed metal that had peeled from months of rain.  The sky was dark and Grandfather Buffalo watched the murky skyline of mountains and cell towers, as the lights of unidentifiable aircrafts began to glow like fireflies, one by one, hanging over the fiery windows of trailers and liquor stores.  Military crafts, no doubt, either that or aliens.  Buff finished his beer, crushed it, and let the can drop two stories down onto the head of a suicidal cat, who promptly decided to live forever after that.  Grandfather Buffalo wished he could be cured that quickly.  It was either a man orgy, or a table full of cigarette butts, he thought.  Human beings or empty milk cartons and Dr. Phil re-runs, so Buff chose human beings.  His ordeal would go in human historical records because others could see him.  Sitting at home before the blue light of Doc. Phil’s bald head would be remembered by no man or beast.  

By Buff’s feet sat two black boys enveloped together in a big Navajo quilt.  One of them was out cold, higher than the Weed King, resting under the armpit of his comrade, smoking a pipe full of strong smelling kush.  The pipe was made of clay, shaped like two ancient Mexican people with dinosaur tails embracing each other. 

“Did you know, brother,” The black boy with the pipe told his friend, though he couldn’t hear him anyhow, “That there is a Café Press blog that is just entirely pictures of human poops?” 

Grandfather Buffalo listened intently but remained in the background, as he always is, but still he fell into the thought of such a blog.  The boy continued, “A whole blog.  Entirely of just poops! It’s not possible right, brother?  It is, I’ve seen it with my own eyes and it’s fucked up.  All pictures of the poops of fat f***s who eat nothing but corn and Monsanto chemicals all day.  It’s mad fucked up, brother.”  He suddenly noticed the mustached man standing above them like the Colossus of ancient lore.  He offered the pipe before his face, and Grandfather Buffalo took a gentle hit, coughing, and then standing still.  “You somebody’s dad or something?” asked the boy.     

Buff shook his head.  “I aint nobody’s dad.”       

“You look like a man who loves his ant-acids.”

“Yeah, only when I need ‘em.”  Quoth Grandfather Buffalo, getting down to sit cross legged before the two boys. 

“Hey, brother, why your clothes still on?  Take ‘em off, man!”

“Nah kid,” said Buff, “I actually didn’t know this would be a sex party or nothing.  It was that Yellow guy who told me this was just a men’s party.”

“Well s**t man!  First off"“ The boy took a long drag off his pipe, and his comrade began to bite and lick his finger, thought he still was trapped in a deep sleep.  “Don’t trust nothing from that Michael J. Fox lookin’ f****r.  I didn’t even know him, but he just went around the neighborhood and invited every man he could find, man, no kidding.  I’m dead serious.” 

“I know, didn’t know the kid either.  Does anybody know him?” 

“Meh, maybe a few people,” The boy paused a moment to look into the dead face of his comrade to make sure he was alive, and then continued.  “Nah man, but what were you expecting?  What you mean you didn’t know this was an orgy, man?  The whole world is a f****n’ orgy!  Everybody and everything will and has always been f*****g you, and you’ve been f*****g them!  President Bush has been f*****g America, and America is f*****g the Middle East, the mailman f***s you cause he don’t deliver you’re Japanese eBay candy, and you f**k your son"“

“I aint got no son, man.” 

“Well, if you had a son, you’d f**k him because you don’t show up to his little league games or Krav Maga tournaments or some s**t.  Then your son grows up, becomes a man and f***s his wife and f***s foreigners up with his Krav Maga skill, know what I mean?” 

“No man, I can’t say I do.”  Grandfather Buffalo suddenly sees a good chunk of lights go down in the trailers down yonder.  They flicker off like stage lights as all the children go to bed.  It’s beautiful, he thinks. 

“You see here,” the boy said, “We f*****g each other, but we want to f**k each other.  We want to be fucked, and the fuckers wanna f**k in a good way, instead of the bad kind of f*****g we all get 24/7, know what I mean?” 

“No, man.” 

“Fine.”  Quoth the boy.  “Might as well go home then, man.  I mean, if you aint comfortable with this whole thing, you aint gotta do it.  No one’s gonna make you.”   

Grandfather Buffalo stood up, appreciating his compassion.  He was a good kid, he could feel it.  He was some kind of old crazy water witch with a heart of gold; that knowledge hung in the air like dead men.  “Thank you.  But what else am I gonna do, you know?  I’ll stick it out here.” 

“You’re afraid of being alone, aint you, brother?” 

Grandfather Buffalo touched the glass of the porch door, his stomach twisting, whispering to him with every passing moment:  More beer, more beer…
“I don’t think so; I’m alone a lot, kid.” 

“Welp, remember brother, you’re never alone.  Somebody or something is always f*****g you.”  The boy and Buff exchanged encouraging smiles, as if looking upon Moses.  Grandfather Buffalo walked back into the orgy, vowing never to forget him.  If he knew the boy’s name, he would tattoo it onto his face forever.  But he’d rather not ask his name, that ruins the magic of the water witch. 

Grandfather Buffalo let his guard down for only a second, one f*****g little second, and suddenly the sad and intoxicated as all hell Yellow fell on his back with fiery passion.  Buff turned around, looked into his face, and saw nothingness, and the joy he found in the black boy soon melted away.  Nothingness was what he feared the most. 

“Hold me.”  Yellow pleaded with the huge man, but Grandfather Buffalo turned to escape.  The Michael J. Fox boy took hold of his shoulders, “Hold me, damn it.  Come on, Buff, come on!” 

“Stop it kid.”  Was all he said to the boy.  Yellow was left naked, clinging to the wall as Grandfather Buffalo left him, scooping up the half full beer of a stranger that was warm, and flat, but it was still beer. 
Yellow became as vulnerable as a new born baby yet he still re-assured himself, the hairy man will come around, someone will love him.  His house will not only be a haven for all gay men in the neighborhood, but also for himself.  Grandfather Buffalo meanwhile snuck into a very small bathroom, but before doing so he caught a glimpse of a dark bedroom, with two twin beds on either side.  A man lay with a hairy stomach, fast asleep, snoring like Taft.  A woman sat up with a soft lamp glowing on her hair curlers like the sun.  She glanced from her valuable 1899 copy of Last of the Mohicans, waved to Buff, and then continued reading.  Yellow’s parents, no doubt, thought Grandfather Buffalo; bless their old souls.  He wondered if any of the boys knew they were there. 

Buff then laid in the bathtub with a man’s jacket under his head for hours, listening to the muffled sounds of boy moans, and the slapping of meat on meat.  The water witch boy had stopped in only once to give him a wine cooler, and take a piss in the bathroom, but that was all anyone really did for him.  Grandfather Buffalo tried to sleep it all away, not wanting to go home, and not wanting to be here either.  Even Yellow peeked in the door, took a glance at the mustached man, but then left him.  He proceeded onto the porch with anger and lust building in his little baby ribcage.  Michael J. Fox boy the idly handled his dick as this happened, like a monkey. 

Many a boy came in to take a piss, to puke out their insides, and to just have private time with each other, all before Buff who always had his eyes closed.  Someone had changed the album playing to a backwards masking of Pink Floyd, or something that sounded like it.  He either heard it from the music, or heard it from God, but somebody sang it:  “No more turning away”.  Grandfather Buffalo bathed in it, swinging his wine cooler in his hand and playing that one line of song over and over in his head, as that was the only part he knew. 

The door of the bathroom shut and locked as the naked Russian boy from only a few hours before had stumbled in to take a piss.  Grandfather Buffalo remembered him, and felt mysterious blood flowing to his loins.  He loved the tattoos on his body, though his frame was willowy, soft, and pale.  There were red handprints on his a*s, and the boy struggled to stand up right as he pissed in the toilet, whizzing a bit on the seat by mistake. 

Grandfather Buffalo looked at him and softly sang, “No more turning away.” 

“Yah,” The Russian boy hiccupped.  “F**k yeah, right on.  Power.”  The boy then sneezed, sending him flying to the ground, hitting his back with a thud against the wall.  He sat with his a*s on the cold ground, his eyes closed, just for a little bit. 

Grandfather Buffalo laughed with kind intensions, realizing he had yet to see the boy with his eyes open.  “You’re drunk.” 

“Hah, hell yeah I’m drunk.”  Mumbled the boy.  His voice was so sweet, like that of a flute in a rain drizzle.  Very light and sweet like some kind of decaf drink, thought Buff.  Everything about him screamed light and sweet, as if he were a nature spirit for the most delicate of Jesus bugs, walking on the water with their legs thin like old hairs. 

“You alright, bud?”  Asked Grandfather Buffalo. 

“Alright?”  The Russian boy crawled to the bathtub to lay his head on it, and out of instinct Buff began to pet the boy’s hair, as if he were a gentle doggy.  “Am I alright?  I’m the best.”  The boy said ‘best’ like ‘bess’.   

“What’s the ink on your wrist mean?”  Grandfather Buffalo caught a glimpse of the boy’s hand, baring a tattoo of Cyrillic letters, barbed wire, and a crying dragon. 

“It’s my name.  ‘So people know who I am.” 

“What’s your name?” 

“Po-Engliski?  Tender-Kisses.”

Grandfather Buffalo enjoyed his name.  He ran his hand over the boy’s spine and Tender-Kisses smiled and purred like a jaguar.  He smelled like crotches and metallic snow.  “Does that Che tattoo on your chest mean you’re a Communist?” asked Buff.    

“Hell yah I’m a Communist!  What else is there?” 

“Lotta things.”   Buff felt his hair again, but Tender-Kisses rose up his face to gently nip at the man’s finger.  It warmed his spirit.  “What you think of Putin?” 

“What do I think of Putin?  He’s a mother f****r, that’s what I think.  He a gay man and he don’t even know it.” 

“Is he really?” 

“Hell yeah.”  Tender-Kisses reached for the wine cooler in Buff’s hand, took a pull, and put his face close to him.  “You ever see pictures of that mother f****r just naked on horseback?  Or getting all wet in slick in a river?  He’s trying too hard man, trying too hard.”  The boy hiccupped again.  “No one would ever f**k his a*s anyway, he all skin, he look like a pig.  Somebody dropped him when he was a boy, man.” 

“Hmhm, he does look like a pig.  With one of them eagle mouths, you know the ones I’m talking about?”  The boy smiled and nodded his little boy head.  “What you think of Bush?”  Quoth Buff. 

“Somebody dropped him as a boy too.  Only I’d f**k him.  Old f****r, smiling evangelical old criminal man, doesn’t know what the hell’s goin’ on.  If you spin him around he’ll get confused and forget where he is and go wander off somewhere.  It’s f*****g cute.  You’re f*****g cute; you’re an old man too.” 

Grandfather Buffalo recoiled internally under the attraction he felt for this boy.  Tender-Kisses opened his eyes for the first time, for only a flicker, and Buff felt a woman’s magic inside of his body.  His eyes were such a light blue they could have been crystal.  It was crazy new-age s**t. 

Buff then helped the boy into the tub, wrapping his arms around his torso and hoisting him, setting the boy’s back against his hairy chest, and putting his head in the crook of his neck.  This way, Grandfather Buffalo could have a good view, and good access to the smooth skin of Tender-Kisses.  His heart was beating like a nuclear reactor, and he was shaking, though Tender-Kisses was too drunk to feel it.  The boy wriggled in the arms of the huge man, saying “mm” and making many another gentle sound.        

    “Hey, who was that mother f****r you were havin’ a frot session with earlier?”  Buff asked as his fingers felt curiously up and down the boy’s neck. 

“Golden mother f****r?”

“Yes.” 

“That’s Big Steven.”  The boy’s hand reached into the neck of Buff’s shirt, taking his gold chain, and feeling it between his fingers.  His breath was arm and sour like that of every father in the world.    “He’s mean to me a lot, but I love him.  His real name’s Toni and this one time I called him that, Toni, and he punched me in the eye, square in the eye man.”

Grandfather Buffalo touched the boy in the eye socket, as if to make it up to him, to take the punch away himself.  “Why would anybody want to hurt a thing like you?” 

“Big Steven’s just mean, that’s the way it is.  He’s a veteran.  He loves men and women; he’s like Jesus Christ" take your shirt off.” 

 Buff leaned forward, as did Tender-Kisses, and he peeled off the white T that restrained his hairy, meaty interior.  All of his tan flesh was on display like deli meat, and the boy laid his back on it; a garden of soft and greasy flowers, he thought.  Buff smelled bad and good all at the same time.  “Here we go,” said the man, lowering himself back in the tub, feeling the boy’s chest muscles and n*****s from behind.  Tender-Kisses closed his eyes and let go as if in a state of mid baptism. 

 “Hah, you’re like a bear.”  The boy spoke through his teeth.  “I want to start a band called Toni Touched Me, and the whole band will just be me on a tambourine, not singing.” 

“Toni touched me,” Buff sang as he ran his hands over the stomach of Tender-Kisses, “No more turning away.”  The man’s hang sunk like a dead shrimp in the ocean, his fingers running through soft, potent smelling brown pubic hair, taking the boy’s velvety length into his hand, gently stroking it.  Grandfather Buffalo often scared himself, as this was the first time in his life he had ever touched the penis of another man.  Though he smiled under his stache, as lo, it was time for change.  The world is now filled with horseless carriages, flying machines, and atom splitting apocalypse weapons.   Get it together, Grandfather Buffalo. 
The man felt a peace in his soul when he glanced at the face of Tender-Kisses, who squirmed only once, and sighed like a smoking pleasure volcano.    

“Mm, that feels good.”  Murmured Tender-Kisses, reaching for the zipper that rested like a cavern in Grandfather Buffalo’s jeans. 

“Nuh,-uh, kid.”   Buff gently guided his hand away, catching the glimpse of a spider in the bathroom but saying nothing. 

“You don’t wanna f**k me?” 

“I can’t.”  Buff admitted with deep, loving strokes to the boy’s shaft. 

“Why not?” 

“I um"I’ve been off Levitra for a long time.”  Grandfather Buffalo knew the boy didn’t understand; he flared his nostrils in that special way that all people know.  “I have erectile dysfunction, always have.”

“Oh"nah you don’t got that,” Tender-Kisses felt the groin of Grandfather Buffalo with the palm of his hand.  “See?  You at half mass here.  Let me see it?”     

Grandfather Buffalo shook his head, and the boy’s hips began to rock very slowly like a private dancer.  It gave Buff a sinful pride, one that evangelical people would hold a rally over, and spit in his face about.  “I’m not sure if I’m gay neither.  I always thought I liked women.”     

“Mmm daddy"“ 

 “I like you though.  I’m not gonna lie here, kid.”  Grandfather Buffalo leaned in to kiss the boy, who reciprocated, sneaking his tongue along the man’s teeth like a copperhead snake.  Tender-Kisses rejoiced in the feeling of Buff’s mustache tickling his nose. 

“Ooh you’re sweet, very sweet.”  Tender-Kisses began to fall into a trance, beginning to enjoy the strange man touching him, feeling sensual and warm from the booze in his stomach.  For a moment the two men were silent as the boy whimpered and breathed like a shaken livestock animal, getting lost inside himself.  Grandfather Buffalo was quiet, listening to the sounds Tender-Kisses was making from his touch.  For a minute the black boy who was under the arm of the water witch out on the porch had risen from dark, evil unconsciousness.  He came into the bathroom and waved his hand at the two men in the bathroom, pissing, hovering over the sink for a second with the dry heaves, and then left. 

This went on for some time until Tender-Kisses was crazy with passion for Grandfather Buffalo.  His face was red, and his prick began to live and be possessed by the soul of a 60’s hooker, tripping on DMT.  It overwhelmed Buff, and he could do nothing but kiss him, bite his ears, his neck, and his face, grabbing at the boy’s breast as if it were a woman’s.   Little did he know his finger was in Che Guevara’s eye.  As Tender-Kisses ejaculated on his own hairy stomach, he chanted like a ghost, “F**k me, f**k me, f**k me"“.  Grandfather Buffalo was noble, yet had nothing for him but a broken gun, and more beer, yet he proclaimed his love for the boy in another way, chanting like beating ocean waves: “I want you, I want you, I want you”. 

Yellow stood in a dark corner of the maroon room as all the boys love making was muted to holding one another, talking, and sleeping in a drunken stupor.  The Michael J. Fox boy was in a weed induced fog, as he had been waiting for hours for the huge Grandfather Buffalo to emerge from the bathroom, but it was no use.  Big Steven had passed out before his feet, asleep with a quickly deflating erection, a silver Prince Albert sitting on the tip.  A bit of his own vomit stained his face, and Yellow was not amused. 
His mother came out once in her hair curlers to kiss him goodnight, stepping over layers upon layers of naked boys, waving at them, and then escaping.  There is everyone, thought Yellow in dismay, sinking to the floor, the shiny hard wood feeling cold on his a*s, the orgy under the roof of his home lying before him like a poem.  Yet it was all in vain, the night was old, and maybe Grandfather Buffalo was dead.  No mustache would grace his skin this night, some men just don’t like Michael J. Fox, accept it, young boy.  Accept it.    

Yellow settled on the ground and closed his eyes, deciding to wait there until his body died and turned into dirt.  But as his vision was blackened with defeat, Grandfather Buffalo did emerge with a smile in his teeth and the tender, willowy Russian boy in one arm.  They fell together and plopped onto a big cushion on the floor, the boys surrounding them only touching each other, and sleeping.  Buff, with the enlightenment of one thousand Buddha’s, let the boy discard the man’s jeans and boxers, revealing his small bundle of fleshy cash and prizes in the wind.  Twigs and berries, bits and pieces, family jewels, if you will.  Tender-Kisses laid crotch to crotch with the huge man who smiled at him like a crescent moon.  He was soft with fat and Italian body hair, and reminded the boy of childhood, and a pizzeria.  They kissed the way aardvarks kiss, and all was well.
 The Russian boy took a quick glance at Big Steven, on the floor out of the corner of his eye.  “Toni,” he said, then gently taking one of Buff’s large n*****s into his mouth, and glancing again.  “Toni, look.”  Big Steven did not stir, and the Russian boy giggled with elfish delight. 

Tender-Kisses’ erection had returned and was stronger than ever, rubbing it against Grandfather Buffalo, though it would do no good.  The man appreciated it, so much so he cheered the boy on.  “Giddy up.”  Quoth Grandfather Buffalo, being a generous man, the image of Tender-Kisses glowing like Mary in his eyes.  Buff hoped to God that maybe, if he believed enough, the mass would rise, and he could penetrate the boy.  He would cross a threshold from touching another man for the first time, to penetrating a man for the first time.  Infiltrating on the world’s power and f*****g it like a nuclear missile.  The faces of every animal and insect Grandfather Buffalo had ever killed flashed before his eyes, and it haunted him, but he understood; sex often did such things.           

The electricity building in the air stirred the consciousness of Yellow, and he glimpsed upon a scrawny and tall tattooed boy having a frot session with a now naked, vulnerable Grandfather Buffalo.  He squinted and recoiled in horror and a broken heart, as this moment was so.  Like a panther, the Michael J. Fox boy began to crawl through the sleeping bodies of naked boys, sneaking behind the back of Tender-Kisses, and grabbing his throat.  Yellow snarled like a badger as he slammed Tender-Kisses to the ground, who was too much in a drunken haze to fight back.  Grandfather Buffalo in turn was caught by surprise from the sudden lack of warmth that met his body, and he laid there and watched Yellow straddle the boy, as if blind. 

Yellow began to slap and punch the boy over and over as a diva does, and only a few of the boy’s stirred, thinking a kinky game was afoot, thus they left it alone.  With each punch the Russian boy fell deeper into the void, as if deep in death, his face and bones making a sharp spanking sound with every hit.  The black boy and his friend had seen this, and the water witch thus straddled his comrade, beginning to slap him as well.  It was all just a sick, kinky game.   

“Yellow, the hell you doing?”  Grandfather Buffalo scrambled to Yellow’s a*s, wrapping his huge arms around his baby body, and hoisting him off.  They both fell into the pillow as Tender-Kisses lay on the floor with blood on his teeth. 

“Not gay, huh?  Not gay, huh?” Michael J. Fox boy briefly wrapped his hands around the neck of Grandfather Buffalo, shaking him, then immediately shooting up into the air to walk into the basement, the door slamming like an atom bomb, his ball sack swinging angrily with every step.  But the boy did not ascend the stairs.  He hardly knew the man, that much was true, yet he sank his little body down, wept behind his glasses, and prayed to God his parents would never know.  He took a gander at his own penis and felt that it was not enough.  Nothing was ever enough.  Though every time he saw the shadow of Grandfather Buffalo at the 7-11, giving half a burrito to homeless people, or picking pigeon parts out of the grill of his truck, he knew that all he wanted. All was in vein, and no man could ever give him the father and lover he wanted. 

With hot and stinging tears rimming his eyes, Yellow did ascend the stairs completely nude to look for kitchen matches in the dark, and to go through his Star Wars collection for something special.  He kissed his favorite doll of Luke Skywalker goodbye, and sprayed a bit of Lysol in the tank holding his orange parrot fish.  Soon they would slowly begin to die, but they would not suffer the wrath of Michael J. Fox boy.           

Upstairs in the bathroom Grandfather Buffalo cleaned the blood off of Tender-Kisses’ teeth with a damp paper towel.  Behind them, a South Korean computer programmer hung his head over the toilet, crying loud and hard, vomiting something brown in thirty second intervals.  Buff looked in the boy’s mouth like a cavern, finding solace in the fact that now that the man was naked, nobody wanted him.  Nobody but Tender-Kisses, and it was a good and safe feeling. 

“Yellow is f*****g crazy, so f*****g crazy.”  Said the Russian boy, swaying in his drunkenness, motioning his arms into fists, acting as if he were giving the face of a boy a slow, sturdy punch.  But he only punched air; he only punched the Holy Ghost.

Buff nodded to him, “I know, I think I should get out of here soon, kid.”  He wiped the boy’s mouth with a piece of toilet paper, the kind with the bears in the commercials, with pieces of toilet tissue left behind on their happy asses. 

“No, no man don’t go, then I’d have to go home with f*****g Toni.” 

“Mm, I’ll take you home with me then,” Buff embraced the boy, throwing the bloody toilet paper into the toilet as the man who hung above it began to vomit and weep again.  “Hope you like trailers"mm, you prolly won’t even remember who I am in the morning, though.”

“I’ll remember you, I promise.” 

“You sure?” 

“Hell yeah mother f****r, hell yeah"“

Grandfather Buffalo held the hand of Tender-Kisses as they walked back out into the maroon room, waving at Yellow’s parents along the way, who were fast asleep.  A little animatronic of Santa Claus danced with glowing eyes above the father’s head, repeating a gentle “ho-ho-ho” every now and then.  It made Buff feel like a very rich man. 

They plopped on the same cushion that they had claimed, rank with their body scents.  Tender-Kisses and Grandfather Buffalo then both lifted their noses in the air, smelling a bit of smoke, thinking of the revolutionary war, as that is what it must have smelled like.  Grandfather Buffalo watched and sighed with anticipation as the Russian boy began to take the man’s prick into his hand.  “If I give you an erection, will you f**k me?” 

“Of course sweetheart.  I’d make love to you, how about that?”    

“Hah, holy s**t Toni is gonna get so mad!” 

Grandfather Buffalo ran his fingers into the boy’s hair like a kindly nun.  “Yeah I bet.”  He winced when the boy took Buff’s penis into his mouth, and a miracle occurred that day.  Like a virgin birth, a big and hearty erection did arise from the caverns of hell for the first time in 30 years.  Grandfather Buffalo looked at it, feeling the wetness of the boy’s maw, and he could almost cry.  It was the most glorious thing that mankind had done for him, and all had been forgiven. 

“Ooh, what did I tell you?”  Asked the boy, rubbing the man up and down as Buff nodded, tears streaking his face.  It was cute, thought the boy.  From that day forth, Buff vowed to be a devout Christian, Methodist, something having to do with God worship.  He would thank him every day and night and fly off into the cold night on wings of downy feathers from the jackets of strangers, as lo, the Lord giveth, taketh away, and giveth back. 

“If you f**k me, I’ll be your boyfriend.” 

“Okay,” Grandfather Buffalo smiled, the wind from outside entering and swirling with endless color inside his soul. 

As the Russian boy began to straddle him, many of the sleeping naked boys began to stir, smelling and seeing a thin layer of grey smoke creeping on the ceiling.  They were perplexed, wary, but too drunk and sleepy to really rise up and warn the others.  A large black boy with the tits of Adonis grabbed the men’s attention.  He stepped from the bedroom of Yellow’s parents.  His eyes were bulging with 60% horror, and 40% Grave’s Disease.  In his arms was a flaccid, hot strip of peach colored melted wax and hair curlers; the remnants of Yellow’s parents, as they were beings made of polymer, and powered by the kindness of others.  Some boys gasped, but most laid down like dead elephants.  Under all the cushions the floor was getting very hot, and there was an orange glow from behind the locked door to the basement.

Yet Grandfather Buffalo heard no such things.  Tender-Kisses and Buff’s erections twisted together like winding garden snakes.  Tender-Kisses lifted himself, slowly guided Buff inside him, and whispered “mother f****r” under his angelic breath.  For a moment, Grandfather Buffalo’s soul left his body, and felt his facial hair growing around his nose, under his chin, and down his chest as his hands became hard and hoof-like. 

“You’re my new boyfriend now, right?” Tender-Kisses face was pink with exasperation, his prostate pounding, and the spirit of Buff invading his body like a phantom. 

“Yes.”  The man breathed, the hair on his body growing in thicker, larger surface area. 

A crash was heard from outside the glass door, and a few naked boys rushed to it, holding each other as they watched the white porch crash to the ground, engulfed by angry white and orange flames.  Their teeth were showing, and as they turned they screamed for a comrade to open the basement door.  The Indian boy, kneeling on the body of Big Steven who may or may not be dead, touched the door knob and immediately jumped back, as it was red with the hotness of a thousand buffalo wings.  Under the door a few pointy bits of fire began to lick and nip at his heels, and the Indian boy scrambled backward, shaking as many of the boys as he could to awaken them.  “Fire!  Fire!” He declared as the boys began to clamor and fret, desperately clawing for a way out as the raging blaze began to chew through the door like a giant beaver.  All other doors to the basement were no different.  Where the three boys on the futon had lain with their asses in the air were now burning like toast.  The fire was eating them and digesting them, turning them into carbonized skeletons as the image of Bill Clinton watched, only to die as well, soon, and not ever aware of the dangers and wrath of fire. 

The smoke began to turn black and thick, crawling all across the floor of the house, stinging the eyes of all the boys, making them cough like seals, the air becoming thick with sulfur.  Tender-Kisses and Grandfather Buffalo still made love like dying politicians.  The Russian boy had then turned over on his hands and knees, as Grandfather Buffalo began to mount him, grunting, making the gentle boy squeeze every part of himself just to survive.  From Grandfather Buffalo’s spinal cord sprouted a brown tail and a large hump from his back, like flowers blooming in spring time.  It was a beautiful thing.  Buff’s nose and mouth began to form into one organ, huffing warm, aggressive air onto the boy’s neck. 

“F**k yeah, f**k yeah"“  Tender-Kisses huffed with sweat rolling off his chest, forming tears in the eyes of Che Guevara. 

By then the fire had begun to take over the room like a fascist dictator.  The Pink Floyd mix had been silenced, melting into a puddle of black plastic, and the body of Big Steven was being eaten away, chewed and spat out into grey ash, smelling of rotten eggs and all things golden. 

The fire was dancing in a sexy, Spanish way, eating the walls with big waves of its hand, and turning the white tiles of the dirty bathroom black.  The South Korean computer programmer had died over the toilet, his tongue hanging purple and wet, the fire’s hot fingers eroding and caressing him with curiosity.

Almost all the boys had woken up, all those who had not suffocated or burned to death.  They huddled around the glass doors that lead to the outside, jumping out of the door one by one, dropping 50 feet, and breaking their necks on the way down.  Each boy who jumped was convinced that when they jumped, they would live, but this was not so.  God fucked them.  Pieces of collar bone were sticking out of the back of the boy’s necks, but they still all jumped to their death one by one.  Outside Yellow’s house, mothers and their children watched the scene to cry and hold out their arms with saint-like horror and sorrow.  They begged the boy’s to stop, but the fire was loud and so was the fear of the shaking, naked boys.  It was then that the fire exploded, glowing orange from out of the roof, and shattering all the glass out of the windows. 

Inside the maroon room was a bright orange haze.  The beams that once held up a mighty and new ceiling came crashing down like fighter planes, descending down as a screaming boy would watch it with horror.  The beams would then skewer their bodies, blood pouring from them like a river.

Many of the boys were trapped under the burning beams that fell, slowly being crushed to death, eaten away by the fire who knew no better than a toddler.  Their eyes popped out of their heads as they thought of their mothers, and their childhood toys.  They died with great fear and suffering in their memory, and those who were still alive watched it all go down.  Distress filled them like a Polio injection.  They were driven crazy with fear and violence, flailing and unable to jump to their death, running hysterical and trapped in the towering blaze.  They screamed with their mouths open and red, and their teeth long and sad, though the fire still danced and sang with a mighty roar as if it did not see them.  The fire consumed the house, yet not all who were consumed were in distress. 

Tender-Kisses did not see the fire, though it surrounded him and burned his shoulders.  He laid on what was left of the floor, the wood white-hot on his back, contently watching the face of Grandfather Buffalo as he penetrated him over and over.  By then, Buff had fully transformed into a giant, brown, powerful bison, and to Tender-Kisses it was beautiful.  The fire glowed orange around his prevailing body like the sun, the c**k sprouting from the bison red and long, going though every organ inside the boy, claiming all of him.  Orgasm and Summerland were so close now; Buff could smell it like a diner, though Buff no longer had human words.  His horns were painful, but good, and he licked the breasts of Tender-Kisses, coming inside of him as all around, many a sweet boy died.  Their souls were in a better place now, and soon Tender-Kisses’ fate was sealed.  The Russian boy and the bison ejaculated together, and immediately Tender-Kisses was no more.  He burst into black dust, as did all his lovely tattoos, and the fire quickly ate him up like soup. 

Grandfather Buffalo snorted and bucked with sorrow, seed dripping from the tip of his length, the fire lapping it up as it became a blazing tower, black smoke enveloping all things as a womb does.  Through Grandfather Buffalo’s mighty eyes was the reflections of all the boys, dead, their bodies burning, their faces the worst.  A tear fell from the bison’s eye. 

Buff’s animal soul no longer had the knowledge of guns and Dr. Phil, but only love and danger.  He turned to see a sickly figure roaming through the flames as if he was the master of them.  He was a naked man, petting the flames as one does a dragon, lighting kitchen matches and throwing them any way the wind may take them. 

The Buff stood his ground as he saw it was indeed the skinny nude body of Yellow marching towards him.  The boy was filled with anger and blankness; a large, melted toy mask of Darth Vader hung on his face.  He looked through the dark lenses of the mask at Grandfather Buffalo, knowing this mighty beast that the man had transformed into was dangerous, was beautiful, but could do nothing as the fire was all powerful.  Energy was more powerful than matter. 

The bison’s hump grew like a mountain, his mighty beard flowing in the fiery whirlwind as he looked with a terrified heart into the eyes of Yellow, which must have been somewhere, lying dormant behind that toy mask.  Yellow turned a switch on his face, enabling the breathalyzer noise, being the final image Grandfather Buffalo ever laid eyes upon in the form of either beast or man. 

It was all over the press that morning.  Against an ashen sky laid the black, smoldering rubble of what once was the new house of the Michael J. Fox boy and his wax parents.  Yellow’s arrest was a brutal farce of Polaroid camera’s and Irish-Canadian cops taking him by the arms, waving their hands at all rubberneckers and picture takers with a gentle, accented “okay my wee bonnie lads, nothin’ ta see here.”

Yellow J. Fox Arrested for Arson and the Murder of 25 Young Men, 3 Parrot fish, 2 Wax People, and 1 Bison; the headlines read in black and purple ink, the photo in full Technicolor below, headlights glowing orange from surrounding cars that would never see their owners again.  Yellow was arrested while stark naked, covered in black charcoal, the mask of Darth Vader hiding his face.  Yellow hadn’t spoken a word that day since, not even before capital punishment took its course as Mother Nature does, if Mother Nature was a white, old, and wealthy man. 

It took eight days and nine nights to pick all the bodies of the young boys clean from the rubble, and from all the yards of all the little people, weeping like trees from the sight of young necks breaking as they jumped from the fire, down back to earth.  The trailer park was never the same after that night, all people were afraid of the ghosts that ran like mist in the wind, even the firemen and police boys.  They were so aware of this possibility that every emergency man gathered little bags of ground up turquoise, and sprinkled it all over the debris, the trailer park, all things.  But despite the threat of ghosts looming over their heads like college debt, no one could deny that there were sea gulls, bald eagles, and starlings flying and singing everywhere, and every single bird was crying its tiny little a*s off. 

Grandfather Buffalo’s gun was never fixed, and no one would see the tattoo of neither Che Guevara nor a true, noble, homosexual bison for the next 10,000 years.  And when those wonders do come again, who will be there to let the world know from on high?  It will be none of us.  

Author's Note

A silly story made for no good reason.