The Death Van

THE DEATH VAN

By

JASON

He was young. He was cute. He was hitchhiking. The perfect combination, AKA thought as he pulled over and waited for the shirtless, mop-haired teenager to make his way to the side of the van. AKA's Death Van. It had been a gift from his parents. Not that they knew about the highly secret use AKA put it to, of course. "I'd really love some wheels," he had responded when his dad asked him what he wanted as a graduation present. He deserved something special, right? After all, he had graduated summa cum laude , first in his whole fucking college class. "Not a fancy car, though," AKA had quickly added. "Just a new Ford van I've had my eye on." One with a quiet but powerful engine, darkly tinted rear-windows, and plenty of wide-open space in the back for whatever "fun and games" AKA could manage to find on the road. And he had found plenty. This particular kid--he had finally made it to the passenger door, with a broad, rather dopey, wide-eyed grin on his face--would, if all went well, be the fifth in as many months.

"Hi. Where you headed?" AKA asked when the kid--he looked to be about seventeen, maybe eighteen--finally managed to get the door open.

"'ome . . . I guess."

The boy shrugged, grinned another dopey grin, then clumsily hoisted himself up and into the vehicle. AKA caught the pungent reek of beer-breath as he huffed and puffed and settled himself in. So the kid was soused, was he? All the better for launching the ultimate--in every sense of the word--fun and games!

AKA waited for a moment, then smiled and said, "The door?"

The kid was apparently too blitzed to think of closing it.

"Oh . . . yeah," the boy grunted and turned to try to pull it to.

He almost tumbled right out the van. Fortunately, AKA managed to catch him by his hard (surprisingly hard and well-developed) bicep. No flabby couch potato, this one. The boy's flat firm muscle-flexed tummy said as much as well.

Beer Brain, the name AKA immediately wanted to give him, giggled and slumped back in his seat.

Shaking his head, AKA reached across and closed the door himself. Not that he minded. It gave him a chance to make physical, cock-arousing contact with the kid's smooth, impressively cut, sweat-tacky chest.

His mission accomplished, AKA licked his lips and settled back behind the steering wheel.

"My folks would be the shit out of me if I came home like that," he said in a friendly, older-brother tone of voice. "You sure you wanna run the risk?"

If AKA was right and the kid was, say, seventeen, then there was only a five-year difference in their ages, so the older-brother act was not really a stretch. No, not a stretch at all.

The boy lifted both hands, palms up, and once again giggled.

"Won't be . . . first time!"

"What you been doing? Partying with friends?"

The kid flung his head back. "Pool party!" he cried. Then turning to launch yet another goofy, beer-soused grin in AKA's direction, he added in a lower, more mischievously confiding tone, "Good shit . . . too!"

He wasn't referring to the beer, of course. Although there had obviously been lots of that.

So some pretty decent pot had been on offer poolside as well? Perfect! thought AKA. That would make his own proposal that the two of them head for a nice, quiet, isolated spot AKA "just happened" to know about and share a few friendly late-afternoon joints that much more acceptable.

The kid took a big, deep breath. His bronzed, teen-tight chest expanded in an expansive don't-worry-be-happy heave of contentment.

He was relatively short. Maybe only 5-5 from the look of him. With a wasp-waist of about . . . what? . . . 26 . . . if that. But he was obviously plenty strong, if those unusually prominent pecs and biceps were anything to go by.

"You wanna hang out with me a while?" AKA asked in his friendliest, warmest, best-buddy voice. "I mean it, you don't wanna go home with that much beer on your breath. Hell, your eyes are practically spinning from the high you're on! I've got some pot I wouldn't mind sharing. It's not as good as what you just had maybe, but it'll at least take some of that beer stench out of your mouth. I mean, you reek, man! You fucking reek!"

They both laughed. The "both" was important. It meant that AKA was halfway home. The kid was definitely going to accept the offer of pot.

"Bring … 't'on," the boy not so much said as sang. His slim, bare feet--he was barefoot as well as shirtless AKA now saw--arched up in anticipation as his short toes curled down into the thick black pile of the carpet. "Hell! I do'n care if I never get . . . 'ome."

That's good, AKA thought. Hell, that's damned good! Because you sure as shit aren't going to. Not if I have anything to say about it, that is.

AKA fished the first of the special, prefab, arsenic-laced joints out of his shirt pocket.

"Be my guest," he said as he handed it over.

"Yeah!!!" the kid enthused as he fumbled the large joint into his hands.

They were very nice hands, AKA observed. Compact and glowingly sun-burnished. With clean, clear, pink-shiny nails and relatively short, but strong-looking fingers good for either sucking or breaking or both, depending on how the spirit moved one.

"Don't have . . . no matches," AKA was informed.

AKA punched the cigarette-lighter.

"Give it a minute," he said. "What's your name, by the way?"

Not that AKA really gave a fuck what the boy's name was. He was just a piece of ass. Soon to be a piece of fucked DEAD ass. That's the only thing that really mattered. But the faked personal interest not only passed the time, it also oiled the deceptive wheels of trust that made the initial--and arguably most important--stage of THE GAME that much easier to accomplish. Get 'em relaxed, get 'em trusting, and the all-important sequel was--usually--a piece of cake!

"Randy," the boy declared. "And I am . . . too!" he added with a suggestive chuckle. He clutched his crotch with his free hand. "Five bitches and counting . . . notched on this here . . . barrel," he bragged. "We talkin' prime cunt . . . too. Not just droopy-tit smelly-assed . . . sssluts! No . . . waaayyyy!"

AKA immediately doubted the boast. The brag in fact made AKA reassess the boy's age. Maybe he was only sixteen? Hell, even fifteen? Because it was the brag of a younger and far-less-experienced-than-he-wanted-you-to-think kind of guy. It was also, and more interestingly, a potential come-on. AKA was still in the process of learning his craft, but even his relatively limited experience at this point told him that a guy didn't usually grab his crotch in front of another guy and talk about fucking unless some mutual bi-sex action was at least being entertained as a possibility. The kid would surely resent the accusation that he was queer. To be honest, he probably wasn't. There was, indeed, a rather convincing teen-macho manner about him, despite the thick, blond, girlishly full mop-top he sported.

"Randy, Derrick," AKA replied, extending his right hand in Beer Brain's direction. Derrick was not AKA's real name, of course, but he liked the idea of using the name of his first victim, his one-and-only school friend--Derrick Rossiter, who, fortunately for AKA, had been into risky erotic asphyx at a very young age. AKA had always thought of Derrick as "randy" too--if not in name, then certainly in spirit.

The boy lifted his hand and shook. It was a warm, hard, and, best of all, deliberately lingering handshake.

AKA gave a playful, happily accepted squeeze before letting go.

"Let's find a quiet place and chill out," AKA said, his voice suddenly gone thick with anticipation. "I know a really good one."

"Sssurrre!" came the heartfelt, if slightly slurred response.

As AKA pulled back out onto the highway, the dashboard lighter clacked.

Picking up speed, AKA reached down and pulled it out.

Randy young Randy clutched AKA's wrist, then directed the glowing center of the coil to the long, fat joint he held in his somewhat unsteady right hand.

The size of the joint was meant to be enticing. "I haven't ever seen one that big before!" the most recent smoker (a freckled-faced, red-headed, small-dicked farm kid hitching into town) had exclaimed. But the joint was also designed the way it was to make sure that the pot, which was in fact top-notch stuff, masked the rather strong garlicky odor unleashed by the slowly burning arsenic.

The first time AKA had tried this trick--this would be the fourth time--the proportions had been bad and the guy, a rather strapping older--in his late twenties--construction worker on his way home from a job, had sworn off the joint before the poison could do its relatively fast-acting, oxygen-depriving, lung-wrecking work. Not that AKA wanted the poison to be too fast-acting. Not at all. No, he just wanted his victim to get relatively unhealthy--and thus relatively disabled--sooner than later and, preferably, without too much of a struggle. AKA liked a certain amount of resistance, of course, but only after he had basically gained the upper hand. The arsenic, which he had learned about from a very helpful crime magazine, had not been hard to obtain or very difficult to experiment with, he discovered. More than a few cats and a couple of dogs had mysteriously "up and died" in and around the apartment complex where AKA now lived. Even so, there had been a problem that first time.

There might be a problem on this occasion, given randy young Randy's size. Despite his unusual brawn, the kid was basically something of a runt, and AKA had designed the joint for a taller, bigger, heftier guy. On the other hand, Beer Brain seemed infused with that special kind of animal energy short guys often possessed, the kind of energy that seemed to make up for what they lacked in height.

The kid took a slow, deep, lung-filling drag.

And coughed.

He was clearly ashamed to have done so, for he immediately took a second, even deeper drag, and held it--despite the immediate flushing of his face and protesting heave of his smooth, shiny, hard-cut chest.

Well, he's got balls anyway, I'll give him that, AKA thought.

When the kid finally exhaled, there was a loud, raspy, rushing expulsion of air filled with the wonderfully relaxing, aromatic aroma of top-quality pot. The smell was definitely complicated, however, by that unmistakable, if modest (or so AKA hoped) garlicky odor.

Modest or not, the kid--because he was so stoned or drunk to begin with, it was hard to tell--appeared not to notice the unusual smell. But he did notice the immediate burning sensation in his lungs.

He struck his chest and coughed again.

Then again.

"Shit!" Cough. "My lungs 're on . . . fffire!"

AKA immediately cranked his window down a few more inches. Even though he felt it would take a good bit of secondhand smoke to cause any real problems, AKA preferred being safe as opposed to sorry when it came to his own lungs.

"Maybe my stuff's even better than what you had at the pool. Go slow. It's great shit, but you don't want to overdo it right off the bat."

The kid held the joint out so AKA could have his turn.

"You," he hasped.

"Not yet," AKA replied. He tapped his shirt pocket. "I have more here. Enjoy yourself. Then, once we get where we're going, I'll have my fun."

Indeed I will, thought AKA.

The kid returned to the joint to his lips and took a shorter, and intentionally much more shallow drag.

Even so, he was forced to steel himself against another cough.

He held the joint up in front of his face.

"You spike this? You know, add acid or . . . sssomethin'?"

The boy sniffed at the burning end.

The pit of AKA's stomach went cold.

Shit! Was there going to be trouble like the first time?

"A friend gave it to me. He didn't say anything about it being spiked, though."

Young Randy took a deep breath.

"Some . . . different kinda shit . . . ttthen," he said, and slowly brought the joint back to his lips.

Silence descended for a few minutes as AKA made for the remote backwoods property his parents had recently bought. There was a small getaway cabin on the eastern, riverside half of it, but the western, "wilder," and more difficult-of-access area was basically untouched. Dense woods, interspersed with a complex network of ridges and ravines, predominated the further in you went. Such terrain was a made-to-order burial ground, as more than one dead kid had discovered by now.

The first guy buried out here had been a bagboy at the big supermarket two towns away. AKA had "courted" Grady--that was the bagboy's name--for over three months. Grady was one of those smart, "nice," teacher's-pet kind of guys, with a complexion most girls would kill for. His body wasn't bad either, attractively long and lean and lissome, with a rosy smooth-bottomed butt most girls would have killed for too. A sissy at base, Grady was fortunately still "guy" enough--he actually had a rather attractive strong-jawed face--to remain interesting. He was ripe for the taking, a virginal gayboy-in-the-making not yet comfortable with the idea. Which explained why he had been cautious about "making friends" too fast. Thus the three-months "courtship." AKA had actually "serviced" Grady twice in the van before he struck. "You want to handcuff me while you suck me?!" Grady had exclaimed, his smooth high-boned apple-cheeks going hot pink at the very idea. But the initial shock soon gave way to amused, if somewhat nervous compliance. "It does feel sexy, just like you said," the boy had finally admitted once the cuffs were on and his pants were off. If possible, AKA liked to do guys with a piece of their own clothing--it was thing with him at this early stage in his career--but on this occasion he had used the supermarket's very own logo-emblazoned blue plastic bag. It seemed so much more appropriate somehow. Grady never said if the plastic bag was sexy, but then it is hard to breathe and talk and get fucked while your head was in a plastic bag and the bag was shrinking and tightening and then drawing down completely over your gasping, thrashing, fatally asphyxiating head.

Glances in young Randy's direction revealed that he continued to smoke, if more slowly and more shallowly each time. His chest rose and fell in a very sexy, if somewhat uneven pec-tensing rhythm.

After a couple of minutes, he lay his shaggy head back against the passenger seat. He puffed once. Twice. Three times. Then his sensuously full, almost thick-lipped teenage mouth opened, closed, opened, and then went completely slack. His eyelids fluttered, drooped, then completely closed.

AKA could now examine the stupid little jerk without any fear of being observed.

What a hunky little hunk you are! he thought.

Because young Randy was built like the proverbial brick shithouse. The kid clearly worked out to some purpose. What was he? A weightlifter? A wrestler? A gymnast? All three? Not that AKA was an expert on any of these activities--he had never participated in sports of any kind, if you didn't count grammar school softball--but he had recently watched some of the summer Olympics and had drooled over all those hot little male wrestlers and gymnasts in particular. This kid could easily have been one of them.

Just when it looked like the boy had actually gone to sleep, he jerked awake.

Startled, AKA recoiled in his seat.

He was even more startled when young Randy's fingers went to the top of his jeans and fumbled to undo them.

"Help . . . mmme!" he said without even looking in AKA's direction.

Startled a second and even greater time, AKA nonetheless complied.

He helped the boy work his zipper down--then, with more difficulty, open and part the pants as well--trying not to disturb his driving--he sure as hell didn't want a cop pulling them over at this point!--and was rewarded by the kid's grabbing his hand and shoving it down under the sky-blue swimsuit their combined efforts finally succeeded in revealing.

It was a relatively loose, even baggy swimsuit, quite unlike the tighter (they also seemed to be relatively new and stiff) pair of bluejeans.

"Oh yeahhh!" the kid wheezed as AKA's hand circled the surprisingly big bone beneath. This kid might be short, but he was damned well hung! Not only was it an impressively long dick, it was an unusually fat one as well. Not grotesquely long or fat, mind. AKA didn't have his hands on a mule here. But what he was holding was certainly sizeable enough to impress any number of women and--why not say it?--make most guys--including AKA--more than a little bit jealous.

AKA's appreciation intensified when the kid halted the hand-action in order to work the jeans and swimsuit down off his groin entirely.

Stunning! Both the newly freed cock and the smooth, taut, sun-baked thighs now uncovered for AKA's delectation!

"That's some dick," AKA said.

"So I've . . . been tttold," the kid replied with another silly, but this time unabashedly x-rated grin.

Did arsenic work like an aphrodisiac on some people? AKA had begun to think it did. That freckle-faced farm kid had soon been hot-to-trot as well. Not that his slim little boy-dick could compete with Beer Brain's bone.

There was a new, and even more violent coughing fit, but the boy did not let the coughing impede the pleasure he was obviously getting from AKA's hands-on "admiration" of his cock.

"Yeahhh!" he murmured. Cough. Cough. "Yeahhh!"

AKA continued to pump but not so vigorously as to actually bring the boy. Randy young Randy was going to be a geyser, and AKA wanted to be in a position to enjoy the explosion when it came. Watching a young guy cum, especially when it was going to be the guy's LAST cum, gave AKA a unique charge.

The turnoff to AKA's parents' property was so hard to see that AKA himself sometimes had trouble locating it. Especially at night. Not this afternoon, though. The sun was well on its way down now, but a honey-golden glow still suffused the air, keeping the potentially misleading shadows at bay.

AKA slowed and turned in.

He had to withdraw his hand from Randy's big dick as he maneuvered the van over the rough dirt path--it was hardly a road--but the kid seemed not to notice. He didn't seem to notice because he was in the midst of another, and worst fit of coughing yet. This one had a totally different sound to it, one that AKA had heard more than once now. It was a distinctly phlegm-clogged hacking. That is one of the things the arsenic did, of course. Clog the lungs with phlegm. Randy would eventually begin to feel he was drowning in phlegm (and so he finally would in fact), but not so soon as to spoil all the fun and games. Or so AKA hoped

As they bumped along, a still hacking Randy suddenly flicked the still-burning joint through the lowered window.

"Hey!" AKA shouted.

That's all he would need, for the boy to up and start a forest fire.

"That's . . . bad . . . shit!" the kid protested. He made a face and sniffed. Snuffled rather. From the sound of it, his sinuses were beginning to clog as well.

He also seemed restless, anxious, and, last but not least, hot all of a sudden. Indeed, sweat was gathering across his chest and brow as he took deeper and deeper breaths in an effort to ease his newly laboring lungs. AKA began to feel rather anxious himself. Don't cork off on me now, he thought. We still have that cum to make you cum.

Randy finally managed to expel a thick wad of mucus. Fortunately, that seemed to clear his air-passages for the moment. The kid actually laughed, held out his hand, and said, "Looks like cum, don't it?"

It did. It was even white like cum.

"Rub it on your dick," AKA suggested, as much to distract the kid as anything.

Randy did.

"Don't shoot yet, though," AKA ordered. "I want to bring you myself."

"Yeahhh!" came the reply, followed by a wrenching cough.

AKA pulled off the path into a narrow defile, brought the van to a stop, and turned the engine off.

Feeling a sense of hurry if not exactly haste, given that the arsenic was clearly already at work in a fairly serious way, AKA said, "In the back," and, pushing the special-order opaque plastic divider to the side, led the way between the two seats.

Not surprisingly, young Randy was not so coordinated in his effort to bridge of the gap.

"You are still drunk as a skunk," AKA laughingly reassured the boy as he caught and steadied and then maneuvered him into the rear of the van as well.

Randy was becoming more disoriented by the second. That was another effect of the arsenic, of course. And it was the effect AKA most liked to see show up. Such disorientation meant that the kid would, for all intents and purposes, now be putty in AKA's hands. Until the more seriously suffocating death-throes began, that is. Real panic could set in at that point, and the victim became much harder to control. For a while, anyway. Then the real dying took over, and all serious struggle essentially ceased. If you didn't count the convulsions that usually attended the last, tumultuous half-hour or so. That, anyway, had been the pattern with the others.

Randy was now bathed in sweat. AKA's hands literally kept slipping off the kid's body as he wrenched him into the position he wanted and propped him up against the cool van sidewall.

Randy was breathing deeply, as well as erratically, but with less phlegmy congestion than he had been. He certainly wasn't drowning yet, then. Even better, he still had his big hard-on.

AKA switched on the special-order overhead light and went to work.

Because Beer Brain was barefoot, AKA was able to remove his stiff new pair of jeans pretty quickly. Then, easier still, off came the kid's baggy old sun-faded swimsuit.

Jesus! What a cute little guy he is! Perfect in his way! The legs especially!

AKA had this thing for legs, and Randy's were fantastic! Smooth and tight and muscular and perfectly proportioned to the rest of his body! The thighs and calves were particularly strong and hard. AKA was more convinced than ever that the boy was either a gymnast or a wrestler. Not a first-class one perhaps--his upper body, good as it was, looked a little underdeveloped compared to what AKA had seen on TV--but the kid was a serious athlete of some kind. The idea made the boy's nearly falling head-first out of the van a little earlier that much funnier. AKA actually laughed.

"What . . . you laughin' . . . at?'

There was a slight trace of spume around the boy's lightly hissing nose. He sniffed. The spume was sucked up. He snorted. The spume re-emerged. The arsenic again.

There was no time to lose. The coughing fits had softened Randy's cock a little.

AKA bent forward and engorged the big dick in one fell swoop. This was not AKA's favorite thing to do, it should be said. In fact, when giving head, AKA usually gagged and gagged badly to begin with. Especially if the dick was as big as this one. But Randy's fabulous legs were so hot to feel--and AKA's hands were slowly moving up and down them with every bob of his steadily sucking mouth--that AKA did not experience his usual repugnance. Not that he intended to take a mouthful of cum. He didn't. When the kid got close, AKA would pull away a safe distance and watch the throbbing geyser gush.

As it turned out, AKA almost blew it. His face was still close enough to the kid's dick that when the moment came exploding sperm actually splashed right across AKA's saliva-wet chin.

"Aiiii!!!" young Randy exclaimed.

Sputum immediately bubbled up along the lips in the wake of the ecstatically expelled air.

Clearly confused, the kid wiped at his lower face, then coughed again. That resulted in a fresh frothing at the mouth. Far from being horrified, however, the Beer Brain idiot actually giggled, as if the lung-whipped spittle was just a new spin on the overall wild and crazy fun.

"I bet you have never been fucked," AKA said as he wiped the cum from his own chin.

Randy seemed not to hear. He was still fingering the unnaturally white, frothy gel that continued to ooze from his mouth and nose.

Settling back on his haunches, AKA grabbed the boy by his sturdy little ankles and proceeded to pull him away from the wall.

It was only when the back of his head bumped against the van floor that Randy seemed to realize he was now somehow prone, on his back. Why?

He lifted his head.

"What?" he rather groggily asked as AKA hoisted both ankles into the air.

The pressure on the kid's torso created by his suddenly raised legs forced even more sputum up into and then out of his mouth.

He tried to speak but choked instead.

His face went a bright scarlet red as he struggled to clear his throat.

Extending his arms, AKA spread and then braced the fabulously muscular little legs up in the air.

There is was! As cute a bud of an asshole as he had yet seen! And as virginal as they came too! No doubt about it!

Afraid that he would soon be engaged in a bit of necrophilia if he didn't hurry, AKA settled the kid's legs onto his shoulders and, freeing his dick and quickly lathering it with a scoop of handily place petroleum jelly, moved in and bore down.

Vaseline or no Vaseline, the boy was going to be damned tight.

He was.

It took three hefty heaves to actually bust the boy's cherry.

Frothy yelling accompanied each dick-hard, ass-splitting heave. AKA was forced to turn his head away to avoid the flying spittle.

Beer Brain Randy soon resembled nothing so much as a ragdoll in the process of being violently electrocuted. The boy flopped, he kicked, he jerked, he slapped, he flexed, he spasmed, he twisted, he turned, but he remained well and truly impaled on the spit of AKA's cock. As a result, AKA didn't so much fuck him as let him fuck himself. All the while fresh foam frothed at the radically gaping teenage mouth. All the while his noisy, fast-filling teenage chest ramped and wried in increasingly desperate efforts to take in oxygen, any oxygen, no matter how small a trace.

The kid was still doing his rabid ragdoll routine when AKA came.

"Fuuuuuck!!!!" AKA exclaimed as he rose up and plunged his dick deep down into the upended, violently contracting, no-longer-virginal, indeed well-and-truly violated teenage asshole.

Beer Brain Randy was unconscious by the time AKA pulled out. Spasmodic spasms rippled through the boy's body, across his shoulders, down his arms, along his flexed, tightly muscled young legs. His slim toes twitched. As did his attractively tidy, clean, and compact fingers. He was still in the land of the living, but clearly not for long.

Rubbing his cock, AKA sat back and watched.

The ragged, shallow, uncertain, froth-filled breathing continued.

And continued.

And continued.

Get it over with, AKA commanded. Enough already.

The other guys who had gone the arsenic-laced joint route had taken a while to cork off as well. But then they had been bigger to start with. AKA had assumed young Randy, given his size, would be a faster die. Once again, however, the kid's small-guy reserve of energy seemed to have kicked in. There was also the amount-smoked factor to consider, of course. Now that AKA thought of it, Beer Brain had actually inhaled a lot less of his joint than his two immediate predecessors had. Still, he was definitely on his way out, right?

Standing up as far as the van roof allowed, AKA pushed his still aroused, but not-quite-ready-to-cum-again cock back down into his pants and rearranged his clothes. He then gathered Beer Brain's pitifully few belongings and shoved them into a small plastic supermarket bag, an exact replica of the bag AKA had used to asphyxiate bagboy gayboy Grady. There was an extra one if Beer Brain didn't shuffle off the mortal coil relatively soon, but AKA decided he would give the arsenic a little more time.

A momentary depression rose up in AKA. This kill had been fun in its way, no question of that. Hunky little Randy had definitely been worth the risk. His brawny little sun-bronzed hardbody had just screamed, Kill me! Kill me! Please take me and kill me! But as he moved about the van AKA suddenly felt a bit let down by it all. He decided he didn't really like the poisoned joint trick. It was too easy. He wouldn't use that method again. He would go back to how he had done it at the start. Convincing a guy to let him tie him up. Or, if aggression was required, taking control with a sharp knife and a pair of handcuffs. Unpredictable though this last approach was, it was a much more exciting way to begin THE GAME. AKA had tried the arsenic. Now he knew. Trial and error, comparison and contrast--they were a natural part of learning to play THE GAME after all.

The metallic rap on the side of the van made AKA jump in his shoes.

What the fuck?!

He quickly looked down at the still prone, still motionless, but still breathing Beer Brain Randy. The kid's lungs produced a low hiss with each inhale, a low hiss with each exhale. But he was otherwise quiet enough, a limp nude bag of slowly dying bones.

The rap returned.

"Hey!" a voice called.

Craning his neck to look between the gap between the seats, AKA detected motion just outside the driver's-side window.

Who the fuck was out there? And what the hell did he want? This was posted property after all. Property owned by AKA's own parents. So who was out here trespassing, for God's sake?

"Yeah! All right!" AKA called back.

He quickly switched off the overhead, stumbled his way forward--back through the divider, between the front seats--then tumbled awkwardly onto if not exactly into the driver's seat.

Although they had been in the same class in high school, it actually took AKA a second to recognize Joe Wickham. They had barely been on speaking terms, it was true, but then AKA had had no real friends to speak of--or to--back then. Joe had definitely been one of the in-crowd guys. Not the class president or star quarterback, but he had certainly been friends with the one and best pals with the other. AKA had always rather admired Joe. From a distance, of course, since Joe's popularity, combined with his rather sharp-featured all-American good looks--not to mention his ideally slim and impressively fit all-American body--made Joe a prince altogether out of AKA's league.

AKA saw at once that the last few years had been very kind to Joe. Very kind indeed. The good-looking all-American teenager was now an even better-looking all-American twenty-something. His facial features--still a bit sharp, the nose in particular--had firmed up, noticeably matured. His body--so far as AKA could tell anyway--was still admirably lean and fit but with a new, flattering, slightly stockier manliness, especially in the upper body. At least, that's what the sleeveless check shirt he was wearing suggested.

"You!" Joe exclaimed.

"Yeah. Hi," AKA managed.

A rather impressive camera dangled from Joe's right hand.

"Man, it's good to see somebody! Can you believe it? I got fuckin' lost out here! I've been walking in circles for three hours at least, trying to get the hell back to my boat. Wherever the hell it is!"

"You've been taking pictures?"

Joe grinned a sexy, sparkling, heart-throbbing grin.

"Yeah. Nature photography. It's what I do now. Well, I write some too, but I got into environmental studies in college and then combined it with photography. Which I messed with some when we were in high school. Maybe you remember."

AKA didn't.

"Oh, yeah. Sure," he said. "So you have been out in the woods? Taking pictures of animals? Plants? That kind of thing?"

"All of it," Joe replied. "I'm interested in river life mainly--thus the boat I mentioned, the canoe I paddled downriver to get here--but the woods looked so inviting I couldn't resist wandering in." Joe shook his head and grinned a second sparkling, heart-throbbing grin. "Yeah, go ahead and laugh. So I'm an environmentalist with a poor sense of direction. What can I say?"

There was a line of perspiration above Joe Wickham's upper lip, and his face, despite its deep outdoorsman's tan, was noticeably flushed. Both the result of the unexpected round of exercise and its attendant frustration and embarrassment, AKA decided.

A low whine suddenly came from the rear of the van. It sounded more animal than human, but AKA had no doubt what it was. Shit! Was the little prick not dead yet?

Fortunately, Joe Wickham appeared not to have heard the sound. But what was AKA supposed to do now? Give Joe a lift out of the woods? With Beer Brain still dying in the back of the van?

"So . . . ah . . . where did you leave your boat exactly?"

AKA was buying time as much as anything.

Joe shrugged, half-humorously, half in irritation.

"You'd think I know, right? I mean I know I paddled down three or four miles or so from where I'm camping, but the truth is I don't know this area for shit. If and when I get back on the river I will be able to find the spot where I pulled in. I know that. But all I see to do now is get back to camp, get in the truck, and go get another canoe so's I can find the first one." Joe shook his head. "My little brother's going to rag my ass bigtime about this one!"

"Your little brother?"

"Yeah, Billy. Thirteen going on thirty-five. You know the type. Mom and Dad thought they were through with kids, then Billy up and came along. You probably don't remember him, his being that much younger than us."

"No. I don't think I do," AKA replied. "So how long have you been out here camping?"

"Just since yesterday. Billy said he was gonna stay at the site, swim, and maybe explore around our camp. Funny, right? I warned him not to go and get lost if he did go exploring and here I am the one that up and fucking does it."

Despite the smile he managed to flash in AKA's direction, Joe's face reddened.

"So whose property are you camping on?"

"The Macleys. Friends of my dad's. Do you know them?"

AKA did. And thus knew what property Joe Wickham was referring to. It was a lot further away than three or four miles, though. By land anyway.

A second low whine suddenly came from the rear of the van. It was quickly followed by a muffled bumping, then a sharp and much louder yelp.

AKA was not so lucky this time. Joe Wickham had heard. His eyebrows lifted even as his head turned to look in the general direction of the noise.

"You got a dog in there?"

AKA tried to stay cool.

Don't panic! he admonished himself.

He managed a nervous, rather unconvincing laugh.

"Damned mutt," he muttered. "Hold on a minute."

Turning about, he once again made his way to the back of the van.

The sun was more or less set by now, the rear of the van darkening by the second, but AKA had no trouble seeing that a far-from-dead, totally nude Beer Brain Randy was up and kicking. Literally. First one, then the other bare foot began to slam against the rear doors even as young Randy half leaned on, half wrestled to get them open.

AKA looked about. He needed a weapon. And fast. Where was the fucking tire-iron? The extra-long one he had bought half-thinking it might come in handy as a weapon some day?

It was suddenly in his hand. How, AKA didn't know, since he couldn't say he had actually seen it, much less picked it up.

Stepping forward, he drew back.

Whack!

Yelp!

Whack!

Yow!

Whack!

Bang!

AKA had hit the metal roof the third time, not the writhing, arms-flailing, arsenic-debilitated young Randy at all.

"Hey! Hey! What the hell's going on in there?" AKA heard from outside.

Then the back doors opened. But not because randy young Randy had finally managed to do it. Indeed, he was as thrown off-balance as AKA. Even more so, in fact. Indeed, he tumbled right out and into the arms of a totally startled Joe Wickham.

AKA lurched forward, even as Joe bent to lower the wailing nude kid's body to the ground. As a result, Joe never saw the lifted tire-iron, never saw the desperation in AKA's face as he brought it down on the top of his head with all the force AKA could muster.

Crack!!!

It wasn't exactly an egg-breaking sound, but there was no question that something pretty serious gave way in Joe Wickham's skull. He flattened out across Beer Brain's body in a single spasmodic jerk of his legs, which flew out behind him, the toes of his boots trenching deep into the leaf-moldy earth as he went down.

Breathing hard, AKA hopped down and raised the tire-iron for a second blow.

But he stopped the swing halfway through.

For one thing, it didn't look as if it was going to be necessary. Joe's body was shuddering from head to foot, his right hand flung free and flapping palm-down on the cool leaf-mulched forest floor. The other was trapped underneath the body of Beer Brain Randy, who, blitzed and foam-mouthed though he continued to be, was nonetheless engaged in a mighty struggle to get out from under the heavier, older guy on top of him.

"You," AKA muttered.

Dropping the tire-iron, AKA caught Joe Wickham by his ankles and slowly pulled him off the boy.

Young Randy gasped to inhale as the weight was removed.

But one raspy inhale was all he was allowed.

Retrieving the tire-iron, AKA straddled the boy's chest, sat, and, having gripped the tire-iron in both hands, shoved it down onto the front of the boy's hard-working, phlegm-clogged throat.

The face immediately darkened in the increasingly darkening light. In seconds, the tongue protruded in what looked like a final fuck-you sneer as the kid went out. This time--thanks be to the Dark Gods!--all the way out. AKA made sure. Only when he was certain the boy was indeed once-and-for-all, no-resurrection-possible fucking dead did he sit back and relax his hold, angry and aroused--both at once. He hated when this kind of thing happened. Talk about a close fucking call!

AKA turned to look at Joe Wickham.

Blood was quietly pooling near the top of Joe's skull. So his heart was still beating. Otherwise, there would be no blood-flow, right?

His face was turned toward AKA. There was a surprisingly normal look on it. The eyes even blinked in a fairly normal way, not that there was much to be seen in them. Because Joe Wickham was no longer "at home" really, whatever his fucking heart might think.

AKA stood up, then looked down at the sprawled figure of his dying--already brain dead?--former classmate.

Joe's sleeveless shirt had risen up on his back. His bare, smooth torso tapered into the waistband of his butt-hugging jeans like that of one of the sexiest magazine models alive.

AKA hardly had to make a decision. Of course he was going to fuck Joe. He had dreamed for years of fucking Joe.

AKA knelt and removed Joe's scuffed and dirty boots.

First one, then the other.

Then the thick, green, sweat-pungent socks as well.

Moving up beside the body, he reached under and fumbled Joe's belt and pants loose.

The zipper gave him some trouble initially, but he soon had it down, far enough to do the trick anyway.

Returning to Joe's newly bared feet, AKA grasped the bottoms of the jeans and slowly pulled them off.

The jockey shorts came partway down in the process, exposing the top of the gorgeously smooth butt AKA remembered from so many awkward--for AKA--post-P.E shower sessions in high school. AKA had had to endure a lot of teasing during those sessions, not because he was physically odd in any way--he was actually pretty regular looking when all was said and done--but because his own marginally geeky, virgin-shy manner made him vulnerable to mockery.

AKA soon had the jockeys completely off as well.

After that, the shirt. AKA didn't even bother to undo the buttons. He simply ripped it free of the torso by main force. It felt really good to do that too.

AKA then rubbed his hands along the top of Joe Wickham's back. He savored the hard boniness of his muscle-tight shoulder blades, the subtle shallow cleavage of the long straight spine, the enviably smooth and narrow waistline. Then, the sudden rise of the white, luminous, sun-starved hips, the soft swelling of the perfectly mounded pair of buttocks, and the dark, vulnerable, deliciously inviting ass-cavity so neatly outlined in-between them.

It felt like a dream actually. Maybe it was the light partly. Or the slowly failing presence of the light. Darkness was now coming on fast. Whatever the cause, AKA fucked Joe Wickham with an intensity no previous fuck had ever come close to achieving. It was a totally unique combination of hyper-ecstatic cock-focused sensation and emotionally stratospheric mind-numbing rapture.

God!

God!

God!

God!

Despite the intensity of his passion. AKA was somehow aware when Joe finally died. He was in fact aware to the second, he felt. It wasn't just a matter of blood-flow. Or, at that point, the final complete lack of it. Nor was it a matter of the suddenly stilled lungs, which had continued to draw shallow breaths from the spongy bottom of the forest floor. No, it had more to do with something very mysterious giving up deep inside Joe Wickham's fabulous, long-desired body itself.

It was an emptying unlike AKA had ever quite experienced before. The spirit finally leaving? It felt like that certainly. Yet it was profoundly physical too. As if the intestines and the heart and the lungs and the liver and the kidneys and everything else that made Joe Wickham uniquely Joe Wickham suddenly gave up the ghost at once. As, AKA guessed, they had. However you explained it, the sensation of a loss beyond loss, of a life-abolished nothingness made magnificently, viscerally manifest, suffused AKA's own body as he came to climax.

Spectacularly.

Soundlessly.

Worshipfully.

AKA hated to pull out, hated to break the spell. Indeed, he lay atop the imperceptibly cooling body beneath him for what seemed a long, long time. Minutes for sure. A full half-hour perhaps. He even drifted off at one point, blissfully cushioned on the deliciously skin-soft yet muscle-hard young corpse below him.

He buried them together, of course. It made no sense to dig separate graves. Besides, it was titillating to fashion an eternal 69 in which a face-down Beer Brain Randy eternally blew an upturned, heaven-directed Joe-Boy Wickham. Joe deserved that much, right?

AKA kept the camera. He even later--much later--developed the film. Joe had been talented. Very talented. There were beautiful panoramic river shots. Handsomely framed forest photos. Stunningly sharp close-ups of various both familiar and unfamiliar plants and trees. There was even one shot of a calmly grazing deer, the animal completely unaware that a handsome young human voyeur was silently recording his quiet, remote woodland meal.

There was no funeral, of course. But there was eventually a memorial service once the family finally accepted that Joe's body would never be found. Neither it nor the canoe, as it turned out. AKA spent much of the next day looking for that canoe. He had to. It was important that he determine that it wasn't on or even near his parents' property. The last thing AKA wanted to see was a huge search party stomping through the woods where his secret cemetery was to be found. It was good he did look too. Because Joe had in fact pulled up not that far from his parents' cottage. The canoe would have been discovered. There would have been a highly dangerous scouring of all the land thereabout. Thanks to AKA, however, there was nothing to direct anyone to the location at all. The canoe went into AKA's van for a while, then into the basement of his parents' house. "Yeah, it belongs to a friend," he informed his father. "He's gone on a long trip and asked me to store it for him. Do you mind?" About a year later, AKA removed it and sold it for a surprisingly nice sum.

Randy Gantham Crudup--that, as it turned out, was mop-topped Beer Brain's clumsy-sounding name--merited a small picture plus a brief front-page article in the local newspaper, mainly because he had been a star wrestler at one point in his short, useless little life. He was indeed seventeen the paper revealed, but, except for a few "Missing Boy" posters posted here and there, he soon dropped out of sight (not to mention mind) altogether. And good riddance too, AKA thought.

The coverage of the unfortunate "drowning" of Joseph Martin Wickham had been more along the lines of "promising young career cut short." The very well-attended memorial service had been of the all-trumpets-blaring angels-and-saints variety. Okay, Joe had been a nice guy. Hell, even a talented guy! AKA was willing to believe all that too. But give me a break! he had thought as he sat slumped in his pew. Nobody's THAT damned good!

More interesting was the glimpse of young Billy Wickham AKA got at that service. AKA had gone to bed the night after killing Joe wondering about Billy, alone out there in the dark, waiting for an older brother who was never going to return. He was only thirteen, Joe had said. Could he drive the truck Joe had mentioned? If so, how long would he wait before going for help? As it turned out, the kid did drive the truck away. But not until midmorning the next morning. A delay that helped AKA locate and then hide the canoe.

Thirteen going on thirty-five, Joe Wickham had described his little brother. Well, at least at the memorial service he looked more like the thirteen-year-old he actually was. A handsome kid, though. Well on his way to being even better looking than his brother, if AKA was any judge.

Five more years would pass before he came AKA's again. Having run out of gas all by his little lonesome out on a dark backroad in an entirely different part of the county one post-date late-night Saturday night. And, yes, he had indeed turned out to be even better looking than his brother had been.

AKA would always remember how Billy Wickham stared when AKA told him what had happened to his older brother. Words really couldn't describe the stunned horror that slowly filled those sexy, sea-green, eighteen-year-old eyes. Eyes which were eventually as empty as his dead older brother's had been, thanks to a deliciously prolonged, up-close-and-personal manual strangulation. But not before a securely cuffed young Billy--like any number of other kids before him--had been well and truly fucked in the back of AKA's hell-on-wheels Death Van.

THE END