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The days were growing shorter, the long tendrils of night enveloped the sky and cast all into the land of shadow. The world iced over in the absence of its savior - the light, and shone in the bleak fields of knotted wood and frost-crusted grassland. On a desolate country road, a drunken man named Ken slowed to a stop and turned the headlights of his Chevy off. Sighing heavily, he made his way to the truck bed, sobbing a little and wiping the tears which were trying to frost over almost instantly from his face. It had to have been at least zero degrees, and Ken didn't have time to bring a coat. His red and cream flannel shirt and faded blue jeans with sizable rips in the knees dangled from his belt, the buckle adorned with a minotaur clutching a hammer.
His snakeskin boots crunched the powdery ice beneath him as he stopped in front of the tail gait and lifted the latch. He ignored the contents of his truck, a rusted fan blade, a leaf blower, a full garbage bag near the leaf blower, and dismembered parts of his old cooking grill. His hand shot straight for the busted and dented shovel resting near the front. It was sticky-cold and even though he was smashed-ass drunk, Ken could still coordinate well enough to walk about thirty paces into the cold night behind a small knoll. There he rooted for a soft patch of soil and set to work.
The ground protested at the shovel which raped and intruded the topsoil, churning it free of the ice and rooted grass. Throwing hunks for nearly half an hour until Ken was dead certain that it was his height in deepness and his length if he were to lay in the ditch, he dragged the shovel and his sorry ass back to the Chevy. Tossing the shovel back in nonchalantly, Ken suddenly broke into tears and crouched on his haunches with his hands over his face. After a moment of noticeable weakness, he finally caught his resolve and dragged the black garbage bag from the back of the truck and hoisted it over his shoulder. Staggering the same thirty paces over the knoll to the ditch, he sat the bag down for a moment and wiped his brow. Even in below freezing temperatures he was sweating. Feeling another spurt of waterworks about to spring forth, he kicked the bag into the ditch and grabbed the shovel again.
Resoiling the ground was even more difficult than digging it, in the end Ken realized that he needed to carry a shovel full of the leftover dirt that the bag replaced at a time much further out and sprinkle it around. Another good half hour passed before all of the extra dirt was dispersed and dead grass was replaced on the freshly packed soil. Ken wept as no grown man should as he adjusted his ballcap and sulked back to his truck for the final time. Chucking the tool into the bed and ripping open the driver's door, he started the engine and started back down the same unmarked road.
Ken tried to concentrate on driving but it was impossible. He thought about what had happened only two hours ago. The scene played in his head. Ken was taking a deep kiss from soft lips, caressing a firm chest and an ample buttock. The feel of warm skin on skin was invigorating him even though he was piss-drunk. He knew that he wanted it deep down, it wasn't the liquor tricking him. The liquor had made this impossible possible for Ken. A deep repressed desire to have sex with Tracy Wiederman.
Smooth curves and bucked hips and a deep hole were the feelings that Ken had felt. And then he felt ecstasy as he ejaculated hot semen into his sexual partner. When it was all over he looked into his lover's eyes and suddenly Ken's own were filled with terror. As Tracy looked at him with concern, suddenly Ken had punched his lover in the face breaking the nose. Tracy screamed and gagged blood that ran down the throat. Ken made a dash for the walking cane in the corner, panicking, and beat Tracy to death with it. Then he wrapped the body, the cane and the bedding up and stuffed it into a garbage bag. And now he was here on this dirt road that now merged onto the main road back to his shitty hovel in hicksville.
He knew that Tracy couldn't be allowed to live. If people knew, if anyone ever found out...that Ken had sex with Tracy...his life would be over. Ken himself couldn't come to terms with it. As he tried to push Tracy from his mind, a sudden picture flooded it. The long blond hair dripping to the shoulders, the nude pale skin clinging to Tracy's form, showing off the softness and yet the small taught muscles in all the right places. If anyone ever knew...that he had sex with a man...his life was over.
And in that moment it was. Ken was too drunk to notice the car in front of him. He had driven with his lights off and sped up too much, rear-ending them. The car in front bucked and slowed to a stop but Ken's half-ton pickup spun out of control and rolled down the side of the hill the road was paved upon. During the roll, the steering wheel came off and busted him in the face. His nose broke and blood poured into his gullet. As he choked on it, the truck continued to accelerate down the hill and he was battered to death by the steering wheel and stray blunt parts. Finally, the Chevy was crushed by the impact of slamming into a concrete electrical test building, wrapping Ken, blood, steering wheel, and all in a bedding of twisted metal.
His snakeskin boots crunched the powdery ice beneath him as he stopped in front of the tail gait and lifted the latch. He ignored the contents of his truck, a rusted fan blade, a leaf blower, a full garbage bag near the leaf blower, and dismembered parts of his old cooking grill. His hand shot straight for the busted and dented shovel resting near the front. It was sticky-cold and even though he was smashed-ass drunk, Ken could still coordinate well enough to walk about thirty paces into the cold night behind a small knoll. There he rooted for a soft patch of soil and set to work.
The ground protested at the shovel which raped and intruded the topsoil, churning it free of the ice and rooted grass. Throwing hunks for nearly half an hour until Ken was dead certain that it was his height in deepness and his length if he were to lay in the ditch, he dragged the shovel and his sorry ass back to the Chevy. Tossing the shovel back in nonchalantly, Ken suddenly broke into tears and crouched on his haunches with his hands over his face. After a moment of noticeable weakness, he finally caught his resolve and dragged the black garbage bag from the back of the truck and hoisted it over his shoulder. Staggering the same thirty paces over the knoll to the ditch, he sat the bag down for a moment and wiped his brow. Even in below freezing temperatures he was sweating. Feeling another spurt of waterworks about to spring forth, he kicked the bag into the ditch and grabbed the shovel again.
Resoiling the ground was even more difficult than digging it, in the end Ken realized that he needed to carry a shovel full of the leftover dirt that the bag replaced at a time much further out and sprinkle it around. Another good half hour passed before all of the extra dirt was dispersed and dead grass was replaced on the freshly packed soil. Ken wept as no grown man should as he adjusted his ballcap and sulked back to his truck for the final time. Chucking the tool into the bed and ripping open the driver's door, he started the engine and started back down the same unmarked road.
Ken tried to concentrate on driving but it was impossible. He thought about what had happened only two hours ago. The scene played in his head. Ken was taking a deep kiss from soft lips, caressing a firm chest and an ample buttock. The feel of warm skin on skin was invigorating him even though he was piss-drunk. He knew that he wanted it deep down, it wasn't the liquor tricking him. The liquor had made this impossible possible for Ken. A deep repressed desire to have sex with Tracy Wiederman.
Smooth curves and bucked hips and a deep hole were the feelings that Ken had felt. And then he felt ecstasy as he ejaculated hot semen into his sexual partner. When it was all over he looked into his lover's eyes and suddenly Ken's own were filled with terror. As Tracy looked at him with concern, suddenly Ken had punched his lover in the face breaking the nose. Tracy screamed and gagged blood that ran down the throat. Ken made a dash for the walking cane in the corner, panicking, and beat Tracy to death with it. Then he wrapped the body, the cane and the bedding up and stuffed it into a garbage bag. And now he was here on this dirt road that now merged onto the main road back to his shitty hovel in hicksville.
He knew that Tracy couldn't be allowed to live. If people knew, if anyone ever found out...that Ken had sex with Tracy...his life would be over. Ken himself couldn't come to terms with it. As he tried to push Tracy from his mind, a sudden picture flooded it. The long blond hair dripping to the shoulders, the nude pale skin clinging to Tracy's form, showing off the softness and yet the small taught muscles in all the right places. If anyone ever knew...that he had sex with a man...his life was over.
And in that moment it was. Ken was too drunk to notice the car in front of him. He had driven with his lights off and sped up too much, rear-ending them. The car in front bucked and slowed to a stop but Ken's half-ton pickup spun out of control and rolled down the side of the hill the road was paved upon. During the roll, the steering wheel came off and busted him in the face. His nose broke and blood poured into his gullet. As he choked on it, the truck continued to accelerate down the hill and he was battered to death by the steering wheel and stray blunt parts. Finally, the Chevy was crushed by the impact of slamming into a concrete electrical test building, wrapping Ken, blood, steering wheel, and all in a bedding of twisted metal.
