 
### Kris Karton

### Dave McGee published by Smashwords

### Copyright 2011 Dave McGee

### Chapter 1: Campo Amor is born

Kris Karton MD, is 49 and lives with his partner Gordon in the North West of England. He works for _Canis Carcinoma UK_ , a local pharmaceutical company that develops drugs by - amongst other things - forcing dogs to smoke themselves to death. It's Kris's unhappy task to disembowel and analyse these poor creatures, but the Company pays him well, so that's OK. Kris is a smart little fellow, wearing only the best clothes and always appearing turned out immaculately. His trademark is his John Lennon specs, which make him look like a cross between Charles Hawtrey and Harry Potter's grandfather. But he's nobody's fool! Kris has been partnered to Gordon for almost twenty years, though it should be pointed out that the last eighteen and a half have been free from any sort of sexual contact. Gordon Chapman is Kris's opposite. He's a big, shambling bear of a man, with a craggy, but kind face and a welcoming personality. He also has many friends. Or as Kris sourly put it: 'You have a wide circle of acquaintances whereas I just have a wide circle.' Gordon is a schoolteacher and earns much less than Kris, something the latter manages to slide into their conversation daily. Last summer, something changed; maybe it was the prospect of spending another holiday in Southport with Gordon's mother that did it for Kris. He decided to holiday alone for the first time in twenty years. He'd visited Spain and it worked out better than he could have expected, but once he'd got back to work he felt stuck in the same old rut. His 50th birthday fast approaching, it was time to take stock of his life. And so one day at work, a few weeks ago, having just terminated the lives of several beagles, it was time to make that leap. He grabbed a coffee, put the 'do not disturb' sign on his door, and logged onto 'MINCE-MEET'

Feeling he still had a lot of love to give and that he deserved a second chance Kris decided to set up a profile and put himself on the market once more. Soon, he was deep in concentration.....'First things first, I need a good profile name. Get this right, and I'll be inundated with cock for the foreseeable future. Now what shall I call myself? What name works _and_ sounds good?' He tapped on the table: ' Tra la la lá, tra la la lá. _Man-ches-ter-whore, O-pen-back-door, Cam-po-a-mor. Campo Amor?_ God, how _that_ name takes me back! Has it been a year already since that seminal holiday in Spain? How I remember those mornings, as Luis and I woke to see the sun rise over the Mediterranean. The Nicaraguan gardener had only entered my rented villa to water the pot plants but he stayed over and ended up fertilising my man-garden. Pity he stole the laptop! Oh well. Now concentrate Kris. You need a profile name that speaks eloquently of who you are, the essential you: _Face-to-the-floor, I-can-take-four, Cam-po-a-mor._ _Campo Amor?_ Field of Love. Oh, those afternoons on the beach, when the cute deckchair attendant called by for the chair rent. And the odd way he thought I was some Spanish celebrity or other, Juan Kerr, wasn't it? And how I finally had to ask him to spell out the name in the sand. ' _OUANQUER!_ ' he wrote; I still don't know who _that_ is. Come on Kris, think hard. What is it you seek, your dreams, your innermost cravings? _O-lym-pic-jaw, Blow-till-it's-sore, Cam-po-a-mor._ _Campo Amor!_ Sounds so right: I cherished those evenings in town, the smell of jasmine on the cool night air, and that woman in the funny little tapas bar who told me I looked like Ricky Martin's brother. Well, she actually said 'Dean Martin's mother' but I think she was pissed. Yes, CAMPO AMOR it is! That's my lucky new profile name.' And, with that key decision taken, Kris launched himself into the murky waters of _Mince-Meet_ whose pitch was 'Our mission is your emission!', unless of course you opted for their _platinum service_ in which case it was simply 'a fuck within 24 hours or your money back.' Can't say fairer that that! But now Kris was confronted with the difficult business of completing the rest of the profile. He'd heard that, on sites like _Mince-Meet,_ truth and declared age rarely sit side by side. He was nearly 50, two thirds through his life. If he truly wished to appear younger he could either move to Harrogate, where he'd be less than half the median age, or stay put, and tell the cyber-world he was 39. It was a no brainer really.

There was a sharp knock on the door of Kris's office:'Oh for God's sake!' Kris minimised the page and defaulted to a screensaver of hamsters playing in the sunshine. Standing up, he pulled on his immaculate Valentino jacket, straightened his specs, then called:'Come on in.' The door opened hesitantly, a coffee tray acting as a battering ram. 'Oh you, Miss Haggard, I thought I said I didn't want coffee this morning?''I realise that, Mr Karton, sir,' cooed the old retainer, ' but I thought I'd bring it just the same: I've got some news.' Kris, only mildly interested raised his eyesbrows.'Yes, sir, they're slaying a batch of gerbils this morning and I thought Lady Gaga might like the livers.' Her boss pondered, finger to his lips.'Mmm, it's a tough one. She was poorly for weeks after I took her that pig's penis.' The pharmacist's mind wandered back to the incident. There'd been quite a rumpus when his cat was found tearing around Didsbury with swine genitalia trailing from its jaw.Kris knew it was hard enough for an established gay couple to live in any mixed community, but when the neighbours raised particular objections because it was a _pig's_ cock and balls, that was the limit! Their next door neighbour Mrs Hussein had put it more succinctly: 'Pleese, Mr Karton, never a peeg! Anything else, and make it _halal_ if you can. Think of the cheel-dren.' Oh dear. That was another time when he and Gordon had argued. His partner got on well with the neighbours and wanted very much to stay where they'd lived for twelve years. Kris on the other hand was always unsettled, and was constantly on the lookout for a house move that would take them upmarket, city central, away from prying eyes.

'Mr Karton?' Miss Haggard was still holding the tray. 'OK, just put it down. Tell despatch they can donate their gerbil livers to a worthier cause. You may go now, and make sure that 'do not disturb' sign is in place.' And he waved his hand in the direction of the door as his personal assistant tossed her head and left. Privacy restored Kris resumed completion of the profile. The pig's dick incident segued neatly into the next part of the profile - penis size? Kris felt his face grow warm, 'extra large, please' he muttered under his breath, knowing, sadly that the question referred not to his stated preference but rather what _he_ was putting on the table. But here, we should add Kris had an invaluable weapon at his disposal. Though possessed of a puny physique, he was a dab hand with the camera; if anyone could photograph a dick and make it look larger then it was he. Lord, how he hoped these questions weren't going to get any worse; just one more hurdle to leap, sexual preference. A deft click on 'I'm a bottom only.' ended Kris's ordeal and he proceeded to upload the photographs that were going to be the finishing touch, and raise _his_ profile above the sea of anonymity. Of course, he thought, quickly reigning himself in, I must not go too far – absolutely NO face pics!

The phone rang, Kris snatching it angrily: 'Pathology. Kris Karton here, don't tell me you've run out of Marlboros again!' 'Kris, it's me Gordon, what on earth were you talking about just then?' Kris puffed,'Oh, that doesn't matter, what is it anyway Gordon? You know I'd prefer you not to call me at work.''Well, yes, I know you've told me more than once. But I just needed to tell you that I've been called in to a parent teacher thing tonight.' 'But you assured me you weren't involved in that.' added Kris sharply. Gordon remained calm: 'And I shouldn't be by rights, but I subbed so much in physics last term that I've got to show up. I should be home by ten at the latest.' Secretly Kris was delighted with this turn of events, but, practised as he was in the art of turning any situation into one where he came out the victim, and the other person a shit, he whined: 'I suppose it'll have to be; and I'd planned some nice liver for tea.' 'Sorry, Kris; shall I bring something in?' his partner offered. 'No, you just sort yourself out, I suppose I can manage. I just wish you'd given me more notice. I've got to go now, some of us have _real jobs_ you know, unlike you teachers; catch you later.'And he crashed the phone down. At the other end Gordon blinked, looking only mildly surprised. He was used to this. Alison, Head of the English Department and his best friend in school looked up from her paper.' 'Everything OK?' 'I _think so_ ' She reached over: 'I can get cover for you tonight if it's really urgent' 'No, no. I'll manage. But thanks Alison.'

The afternoon wore on. To his considerable satisfaction Kris successfully uploaded many flattering images onto his profile, including some impressive rear shots. The day was going well and he felt he was on a roll. He rang maintenance and gave instructions for his car to be washed and made ready for his departure at 15.30 at the latest. Cancelling lunch, he surfed a number of sites ranging from Spanish resorts to Brazilian rent boys, and soon it was time to head home. Even the appalling traffic chaos of North West England could not dampen Kris's mood as he piloted his BMW 8 series through the snarl ups, graciously giving way to white van men, old ladies, bus drivers and others who, on a more typical day, he'd have wished dead. When he finally reached the large comfortable mid-war semi that was the home he shared with Gordon, he parked on the drive just as Mrs Hussein was bundling her three children out of the family people carrier. 'Hi, lovely day, isn't it?' he grinned. His neighbour, clearly in shock, replied inaudibly and quickly shepherded the kids indoors. Kris was carrying a large bag and she didn't dare think what might be inside. Kris went indoors and Lady Gaga came down the stairs to meet him, howling balefully. 'I'll feed you in a minute, sweetheart, let's just get the mail.' Kris went to the door at the end of the hall and gathered up the post. Top of the pile was the local newspaper; the headline read: 'Animal activists plan action against Canis Carcinoma!' Kris's smile gave way to a look of disgust. 'Why can't they leave us alone? Let them campaign around the council estates, there's enough animal abuse there to keep them busy, damn trouble makers.' Lady Gaga was surveying her master with narrowed, jade eyes. She always knew when he was upset - didn't care, of course - but knew. The headline news gave Kris the excuse he needed to go online, ostensibly to check out the activists, but also to see how things were progressing on his social networking site. He unpacked his laptop and switched it on. Frantically stabbing at the buttons, he logged onto _Mince-Meet_ and checked his profile. Each second he waited seemed like eternity. Then ping! Up it came. He had messages!

### Chapter 2: Who's Out There?

Kris's head was spinning with excitement as he sat down at his laptop. The first message received was from someone still online. Their profile name was one of those made up of punctuation marks and letters, and the message read: 'Hi. You up for it, in half an hour?' Kris gasped in disgust, then typed frantically, his bony fingers hammering on the keys like tiny, demented woodpeckers: 'Tempted as I am by your exciting offer, I work in a fish gutting plant in Grimsby, and by the time I get home, and wash the smell of rotting cod out of my hair, I may be running too late to meet your punishing deadline. Why not stretch your kind offer to ten minutes next time?' He was just about to check the next message when a reply popped up: 'No need to be so fucking obnoxious, a simple ' _no'_ would have done.' Kris had learned his first lesson; not everybody out there was as dumb as he imagined. Moving swiftly on to the next message, he saw that it came from ' _Ridiculously-large' -_ just the sort of member he liked! But as Kris read the text the colour drained from his face. 'Are you really 39? I like your pics, but judging by the _back door_ shots, I'd say you've been around a bit longer.' Kris fished around wildly for the 'block' button and consigned extra-large dick to cyber oblivion. This was not going well! 'One more attempt, then I'm done' he snarled. But the next message looked little better. It was from 19-year-old ' _FitYungHungChav.'_ Kris wasn't optimistic. A swift survey of the profile revealed scant detail, no photographs, and – Kris hated himself for this – ' _FitYung..'_ had described himself as 'extra large' Kris opened with a disingenuous apology: 'I think I might be a bit old for you' _Fit_ got straight back: 'No probs, I just like old guys with really hairy arseholes, so... Click, and he too was gone. Kris's optimism was evaporating fast. And Lady Gaga could read the signs; she'd seen those wild eyes before, and the way her master pushed his specs up onto his brow, and scratched the back of his head. It was time to clear out. Kris slammed shut his laptop and walked into the kitchen. He poured himself a stiff gin and tonic, stood by the window and stared blankly into the garden. This wasn't how things were meant to go.

Sipping the drink, he looked back over his life. He'd been raised in a rough part of Manchester. His parents, already quite old at the time of his birth, were kind and well meaning, but Kris, bright, wayward and sharp tongued, had often been too much of a challenge for them. School had been a particularly difficult time for the boy, even _before_ he _came out_. His neat clothes were envied, his academic ability resented, and his 'posh accent' mimicked. Wearing specs had earned him repeated beatings from the other boys, and when, one day, he foolishly let slip that he liked the Carpenters, that guaranteed certain death from his tormentors but for the intervention of several girls whose close combat skills proved more effective the bullies'. Of course, these fearsome females didn't find Kris attractive, but they _did_ value him as someone who could do their homework, and give occasional much needed advice on cosmetics and colour co-ordination. Kris should have learned then the value of friends. It was at university that he met the man who'd change his life, and ultimately prove to be the truest ally he had. Gordon Chapman was reading English and wanted to be a journalist. And his inventive mind, ready wit, and prop forward's frame would have equipped him perfectly for that, except that he lacked the rhino hide that such people need. For, sad to say, Gordon was sensitive beyond words. He'd met Kris at a college gay-lesbian disco; he'd first encountered the slightly built young man crawling around on all fours in the gentlemen's washroom. Kris had explained he was simply looking for a lost contact lens. Gordon couldn't understand why, in such circumstances, Kris should have his jeans and shorts around his ankles, but he settled for complimenting him on his 'cute bottom'. The kind remark had been like aloes to a scorched brow, and Kris was smitten by the man who was destined to be his knight in shining armour, lover and protector. Kris jolted himself back into the present. 'But that was then.' he thought, pouring himself another extra large gin. 'A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since and I need to make a new life for myself.' And with these thoughts he returned to the laptop and the cornucopia of carnal delights that is _Mince-Meet_

'Fancy a ciggie? Come on, let's go outside. I've got to get away from parents for at least ten minutes, or I'll scream.' Alison smiled manically and Gordon took the hint, picking up his folder and following her towards the emergency exit on the ground floor of Levenshawe High School. Parent evenings could be a grind at the best of times, tonight was no exception. They exited the building and stole over to the cycle sheds like a couple of kids making out for the first time. Alison stopped, then lit two cigarettes, handing one to Gordon. 'You would not believe what Natasha Wright's mother just accused me of.' But Gordon laughed out loud and squeezed her around the waist. 'Remember our deal, you don't mention any parents to me and I return the favour. Just chill, only six more weeks till the end of term.' 'How on earth do you manage to remain so positive about everything?' Gordon suddenly looked serious, his brow wrinkling, as if in sympathy with his unfashionably wavy hair. 'What's the alternative? Life's short, brutish and rough, or tough, or something like that, as someone once said.' 'Thomas Hobbes' Alison offered.'Smart Arse!''No, it _was_ Hobbes, Arse came later!' They both laughed, then drew on their cigarettes, creating tiny red semaphores in the blackness. 'So how's Greene doing? Has he got a job yet?' Alison's smile evaporated. 'You _are_ joking! He's the laziest thing on God's earth. Why couldn't I have had a sister? The latest craze is media and tourism. He goes to this night class, all free of course as he's unemployed, a complete waste of time.''Why's that?' asked Gordon. Alison looked tired: 'What can he do with media and tourism? I thought he only signed up for the course 'cos he fancied the tutor.' 'Sounds a good enough reason to me' laughed Gordon. 'You _would_ say that! Well, I've met the guy. Greene invited me to join them for a coffee. He's called Roberto' 'Oooh, se--xy!' quipped Gordon. 'You better believe it! Broad shoulders, great smile, eye lashes any woman would kill for, but I don't trust him.' 'That's a bit harsh' added Gordon, 'What's the guy done?' 'Come on Gordon, you know what it's like when you've got a bad feeling about something. This guy's 28, or something; years younger than Greene, but he's way more streetwise. We'd better be getting back.' Alison cast a nervous glance at her watch. 'So what's this guy done to get under your skin?' Gordon persisted. 'Nothing I can put my finger on, obviously, but he just has to clap his hands and Greene jumps.' 'Are they dating?' 'No, but they've had sex.' Gordon feigned outrage: 'I'm not even going to begin to ask you how you know that!' 'Good, 'cos I wouldn't tell you.' Alison stubbed out her cigarette and turned to go back in. 'Hey not so fast, I _was_ meaning to pick your brains.' countered Gordon, 'I've mentioned this before, but it's Kris's and my twentieth anniversary coming up and I wanted to surprise him. He's the sharp, switched on, stylish one. Just for once I wanted to knock his socks off with a really wild, sexy present. That's where you come in.' Alison looked thoughtful: 'Listen Gordon, if you've both made it through 20 years and are still happy that's pretty much the best present you could have.' Gordon suddenly looked wistful.'I _knew_ you would say something sensible like that. But give it some thought, won't you?' 'I can do better' added Alison, 'why don't we go for a drink after this is done and we can talk about it then?' 'Great! I'll give Kris a call' Then it was time to return indoors and face the hordes of breeders.

Manchester. Night approached and the great metropolis began its daily transformation. Shops closed, workers left, traffic eased and even the birds retreated to the trees. Then the lights appeared, gently at first, like a carpet of stars, but growing in intensity as the darkness deepened. By late evening they strafed the night with garish brilliance. And somewhere amidst this kaleidoscope of neon was the club _Spurtz._ The club was at capacity but it was two people, seated on high stools at the end of the bar, who were commanding most of the attention. A barman approached them: ' _Miss Morales,_ you're on in ten minutes.' The recipient of this intelligence threw back her head by way of acknowledgement, and blew smoke into the air. Luce Morales was a tribute act, _homage à_ Dusty Springfield, and no-one did the late, much loved diva better. Luce, though past her prime - nobody quite knew her age except the GUM clinic and the Inland Revenue – could still give an account of 'Yesterday when I was young' that moistened many a hardened, Mancunian eye. But for once, all eyes in the room were turned not towards her but her companion. Relaxing, with all the assurance of one who knows he's the most attractive person in the bar by a factor of ten, Luce's new friend looked casual in his oatmeal linen suit and white shirt. His eyes were blacker than her mascara and his smile, when it came, was dazzling. For nearly half an hour the two sat, chatted and sipped sparkling water. Getting into rôle, Luce's voice developed a sort of Diana Dors sultriness as she turned to her handsome neighbour: 'Will you stay to watch the show?' 'Of course, and once again thanks for all your help.' 'Glad to be of help, sweetheart. Kris and I go back a long way. There's nothing about him I can't tell you.' So saying, the diva stepped down off the stool and headed off to the washroom to re-apply. The vision in linen didn't waste a second. He glanced rapidly at his Tag, adjusted his cuffs, took one contemptuous scan of the room, and strode out, confident in the knowledge that all eyes were on him. On the street, the stranger hailed a cab, and, as it drew up, made a call. 'I've managed to get most of what I wanted, though the drag act couldn't be sure which house Karton lives in. I'll get that tomorrow. See you later.'

We don't know what we don't know. Kris's day, which had started out so well had ended drearily. The stellar evening he'd planned online had not materialised. If Mr Right was out there he was lying low, and most of the messages Kris received were depressing if not outright insulting. As the night wore on the contributors to _Mince-Meet_ appeared to be drunk, drugged, demented or desperate, and in some cases all four. Kris got ready for bed; his own bed in his own room. He was spikier than usual because Gordon had rung and explained he'd be late because he was having a drink with Alison. Would Kris have been kinder had he known that his partner was planning an anniversary surprise for them both? Possibly not. Would he have replied a little less sharply to Gordon if he'd taken time to reflect on just what _he_ 'd been doing all evening? Probably not. And would his sleep have been just that little bit less disturbed if he'd known exactly what someone out there _did_ have planned for him? Certainly not!

### Chapter 3: Sound Bites

Kris sat down at his desk, catching sight of himself in one of the many mirrors that adorned his office. 'In some lights I look rather like Michael Caine' he mused. It's doubtful Michael Caine would have derived any comfort from that. Just then Miss Haggard knocked on the door in timid, genteel fashion. 'Come in.' She bustled in, the tea tray welded to her stomach, making her look like a cinema usherette of the 1950s.'What would you like today, Mr Karton? Chef tells me the sausage rolls are nice.' 'Oh, just get me a coffee and a Beagle.' Miss Haggard recoiled at the inappropriateness of the remark, but Kris brayed, sounding like a goat on acid. Picking up the tray, his personal secretary prepared to leave: 'It's probably as well you don't have anything right now, sir, there'll be coffee and biscuits at ten when we all meet in the conference room.' Kris barked: 'What! What are you talking about?' 'Haven't you heard yet? You'll get a shock when you check your mail.' That's nothing to the shock she'd have got if she'd checked his mail. 'The builders are arriving today to start work on our new extension, the state of the art laboratory, over by the kennels.'

Kris melted at the mention of the word _builders._ For years he'd fantasised about them, stemming from one incident in his youth. Nowadays it would be fair to say that Kris is a _catcher_ rather than a _pitcher,_ but it wasn't always so. Many years earlier, when he was yet a student he'd worked on a building site. He was required mainly to clean equipment and make tea, but one day he found other services were required of him. Though he could scarcely believe it, a ripped, hot builder, stripped to the waist, had enticed him over to the workmen's portacabin. Once inside he'd closed and locked the door behind them. They were alone. Kris took a swig of water, lubricating his mouth for what, he imagined, was shaping up to be a marathon throat job on the god with the hod. But to his shock and amazement the fit labourer dropped his pants, leaned over the table facing the wall, and said: 'Go to it, sunshine! But when I call out Jesus F****** Christ, you stop, OK' Happy days! Then it was time to rejoin the room. 'Mr Karton!' Miss Haggard put down the tray. 'And you'll not know what else has happened?' 'But you're going to tell me' added Kris wearily. 'Well someone in the media has leaked news our new planned laboratory to the animal rights activists. They're going to be here early afternoon. They're having a demonstration.' Kris was depressed. He'd bookmarked the morning to trawl for cock in all the Manchester postcodes and beyond. This news was the last thing he needed, _and_ it was about to get worse. 'Mr Blumenthal, the CEO in Milwaukee is staying up all night. He's going to talk to us on the video link; how exciting!' 'Yes, very' Kris had buried his head in his hands. 'And that's not all, we've got some American _Peta_ coming over.' Kris brightened up immediately. 'American peter? I'm up for some of that.' Yes Kris, we know; American peter, Canadian cock, Dutch dick, Polish prick, French phallus etc, but Miss Haggard persevered: 'No, Mr Karton. You don't understand. It's those people who believe in the ethical treatment of animals. And one of the top interviewers from American television is coming too, to interview _you.'_ 'Interview me? Are you mad, woman? Go and get me that coffee right now.' And as she left the office, he reached into his drawer, withdrew the hip flask he kept for emergencies, and drained it to the last drop.

Greene Carter lived with his sister Alison - sometimes. He lived with his mother sometimes too, and _had_ lived with a series of partners, roommates, and boyfriends at one time or other. In fact, so used had Greene become to his itinerant life that he'd managed to slim down his worldly possessions to precious little, and to store it in boxes, bags, and carriers, ready for the inevitable next move. It was sad, because Greene was a nice guy; everybody said so. He'd reached thirty eight, but little else. His tall, willowy stature, and fine, dark, floppy hair suggested he might be younger; and his predilection for A & F fashion might have confirmed it. But the game was given away when he stared at you with those restless, tired eyes that spoke more eloquently than could he of the many disappointments he'd endured. Greene had no job; in the past he'd flirted with degrees in fashion, diplomas in design and much else, but nothing lasted. Time and again his sister Alison bailed him, Greene readily drawing on any resource she offered him, save the very one he needed most – her advice! Recently she'd suggested he might consider the care profession. Days later he'd come home and told her he'd signed up for some media course. She'd been incandescent and had found it hard to speak to him. But this morning curiosity had got the better of her. It was mid morning, and it appeared that Greene did have somewhere to go. Alison broke the silence, 'You look very smart. Going somewhere special?''I don't expect you'd approve, but Roberto has singled me out from the group and today, he and I, just us two, are going to the pill factory. It seems there's going to be a major row today, demonstrators, police, television, and he wants me to see how the media are involved in these things.'Alison was dubious, but, anxious to repair things with her brother, she decided to keep her thoughts to herself and sit this one out.

The media _had_ leaked news to animal rights campaigners about Canis Carcinoma's new laboratory, but the police too had got hold of the same information, and when Greene and Roberto arrived on site they found a massive security presence, and were able to get within only a hundred yards of the main gate. Steadily, the news teams from around the UK and from further afield began to gather. The latest to arrive was from the US. 'Oh, this should be interesting. It'll be a chance for you to see how an American news team operates' enthused Roberto. But as the SUV pulled up, and all personnel climbed out, Roberto drew back, staring in disbelief. Out of the back of the vehicle stepped a slightly built woman in her early forties. She had _Carole King_ hair, but the eyes, nose and mouth of a bird of prey. This was Jezebel Roth. If you had only one place left at your dinner table, you'd invite Rasputin ahead of this woman. Greene now sensed that his companion would rather be elsewhere. But Roberto was in no way a low key person. Looking like a refugee from _Fantasy Island_ he was utterly out of place in the all pervading gloom of England _._ The bird of prey looked about her, then spotted the Latino: 'My God, it's Javier Sanchez, or whatever you're calling yourself these days.' She made a beeline for him. 'So you finally managed to get a green card, did you, guapo? Pity it's the UK, I thought you were in the market for an upgrade.' Roberto's eyes were flashing, but with perfect composure he replied: 'I'm afraid I have no idea who you are. We've clearly never met before.' 'My, my, _that IS_ good. I'm loving the Hugh-Grant-accent. You're a real piece of work, aren't you?' They eyed each other for the longest five seconds Greene had ever experienced, until she broke the spell and turned away. 'Who's that?' rasped Greene in a suppressed whisper. 'I have no idea, some stupid _bitch_ who's clearly mistaken me for someone else.' But try as he might Greene couldn't shake the notion that these two had meant something to one another in the past.

Kris's morning had been chaotic. First there was the ten o' clock meeting of all staff, followed by a special emergency get together of the managerial grades. This led directly into an executive lunch during which the wine flowed. That over, Kris retired to his office for a much needed rest. But it was not to be. Miss Haggard thumped the door: 'Mr Karton.' 'Yes, for God's sake, what is it now?' 'The chief says he wants you in the car park in five minutes, ready for your first interview.' Kris gulped, straightened his tie, left his room, and walked down the hall, out of the building and into the media scrum. The journalists and camera crews were ready, and slavering. Jezebel Roth's crew surveyed the scene with deadpan expressions. They'd noted in particular the pasty faces of the assembled factory staff, a crew member commenting: 'Good thing we're not indoors. I don't think we've enough make up. These Brits are so white they look like they've just stepped out of _The Mikado._ ' Just then Kris appeared, Rod, the cameraman giggled: 'Uh oh, it looks like he's already in makeup!' But Kris had heard him. 'Excuse me! It's gentlemen's foundation and a touch of guyliner, essential for coping with unexpected, damp conditions.' 'Bit like his boxers, I expect' added the other, turning away. But if anything was going to cause an accident in Kris's underwear it was the appearance of Jezebel Roth herself. With a voice like a buzz saw through a chalk board, she opened her presentation: 'This is Jezebel Roth, from Vapid News – _Keep it rapid, keep it Vapid_ , reporting from a very wet and unpleasant Manchester, England. I'm here at the site of Canis Carcinoma's main European production. The workmen have just arrived to start work on a new laboratory. I have with me Mr Kris Karton. She advanced threateningly towards Kris: 'You the guy that chops up the animals?' She thrust the mike into his face. 'I think you'll find I'm the senior pathologist.' 'So what do you make of all these demonstrators, do they have a point? Kris cleared his throat, looking nervously about him: 'Of course, this is a complex issue, and too involved for sound bites, I think I can best....' The harpy's eyes blazeed: 'Sound bites? This is a serious interview.' Chris smirked, looking fouler than ever: 'Oh come off it love. Everybody knows that the average viewer of _Vapid News_ has the attention span of the Venezuelan dung beetle.''CUT!' Jezebel Roth aimed her laser eyes at Kris, fixing the puny creature to the spot. 'Are you for real? They told me you'd been briefed. Do you know how any of this works?' Kris recovered nimbly. Fifty years, as a gay man on the streets of Manchester had given him the most acid of tongues, and he wasn't taking this lying down, as he did most other things. Jezebel turned to her cameraman simultaneously consulting her Blackberry. She spat out her instructions: 'Rod, make sure we're on a flight out of here by six at the latest. I don't care if we have to go via Atlanta, just get me out.' Kris stepped forward: 'And not a moment too soon, 'chop up animals' How dare you? I'm a scientist, a qualified pathologist.' 'Yeah, whatever' Jezebel had already decided this interview wasn't going to fly, but Kris persisted: 'Why didn't you visit the plant in Milwaukee? They 'chop up' animals too?' 'Yeah, but they're not about to be burned down by a group of activists.' 'Burned down?' Kris's head had begun to spin. He'd been up since five thirty, it was raining, cold, and he'd spent the day mixing coffee with whisky, steak with red wine, and bagels with rum. His vision was blurring. 'Oh no, the buzzard's attacking me'....Then his guts cramped and convulsed: 'Bloooooaaaaarrrrrggggghhhhh!' And the entire contents of his stomach found a new home over Jezebel's Armani slacks and Gucci loafers.'You _little_ asshole' she screeched. Oh boy, she got it sooooo wrong there! That's not the Kris _we_ know.

Kris cleaned up, packed up and shipped out. He took a sleeping pill when he got home and crashed for an hour or so. Gordon was as solicitous as usual but his kindness was curtly declined. Then just before eleven, with Gordon retired for the night, Kris got up, went downstairs to the kitchen and made a cup of tea. In the silence he sat down and opened his laptop. He checked; there'd been no messages. Maybe it was for the best, he'd had enough drama for one day, but just as he was about to log off contact was made: 'Hola, I'm Roberto. I just have to meet you'

### Chapter 4: Musical Chairs

'It's crap. You must do better.' Roberto closed his laptop and looked at Greene: 'You don't understand. This needs analysis. I need evidence for each side of the argument; why animals have to be tortured for the sake of scientific research, and, conversely, why that position is intolerable, unacceptable.' Greene looked winded. It was bruising enough that his first foray into studying The Media had been so comprehensively rubbished, but the scorn hurt all the more coming as it did from a man ten years his junior. Roberto Subero could often look sophisticated and mature, but right now he looked younger even than his 28 years. Subero gazed out of the window for a while as Greene gathered up his papers and case. The would-be student was just on the point of leaving when his mentor turned: 'Wait! I realise that I have a responsibility to guide, encourage and sustain as well as criticise. I've been a bit harsh. This is a complex brief.' He walked over to Greene and stood in front of him. Being slightly smaller than his student Roberto was obliged to look up at him. Greene put his bag down on the desk and met Roberto's eyes. It was true, they weren't brown, but black! black as Hell, and devoid of warmth, compassion, even lust. Greene studied his seducer, powerless to escape or resist. The Latino's features were near perfect, the voluptuous lips, faultless, white teeth and finely trimmed goatee. When his lips touched Greene's the latter's fate was sealed. They kissed long and hard, then fell to the floor, undressing, enjoying each other, arousing, pleasuring and being aroused and pleasured in turn. But deep in his heart Greene knew how it would end. Almost without warning Roberto sprang up and sat astride his lover. The mood had changed: 'Stay where you are, don't move.' His face was frozen into a mask of arrogance. Roberto reached over with his left hand and held Greene's head down firmly to the floor. With his free hand he continued to stroke himself until his carefully planned moment. And when the time came his urgent pumping delivered full and equal measures of satisfaction and humiliation.

Few drinking establishments on the Manchester gay scene are as celebrated as ' _Twisted Fister' or 'The Fist'_ as it is known locally. The bar was the brainchild of Frank McBride, businessman, developer, and avid follower of American heavy metal bands. Nobody knew how 'Sister' managed to become 'Fister'. Some argued it was the natural consequence of a bad speech impediment Frank had; others, that the signpainter was pissed the day he called round. But all were agreed that whilst the bar had never been graced by the presence of the band Twisted Sister, numerous fisters, twisted and otherwise _had_ made the pub their home. Kris, too, was no stranger to 'The Fist' so when his late night caller Roberto suggested meeting up in that very place, he raised no objections. Kris arrived first and breezed through the door, confident of recognition by staff and clientele alike: the barman greeted him: 'Hi Kris, what'll it be? your usual?' His customer smirked, 'Usual? There's nothing _usual_ about me, lover. I'll have a cider.' 'I have a nice pear?'remarked the barman. 'So I've heard. OK, I'll try your nice pair.' Ripple of laughter, as the barman poured. 'Shall I fill it right up?' 'Many have tried _that_ , and failed.' Machine gun laughter. Cabaret over, Kris walked to a window seat and sat down. He positioned himself so that he could survey the entire bar _and_ keep an eye on the entrance. Then he reflected on recent events: my Lord, what a week it had been, and how unfair of everybody to blame _him_! Jezebel Roth had been enough to cause the PR Officer at work – the only member of the team trained to deal with the media - to flee to the toilets, where he'd barricaded himself in. Kris had been their second choice, and his encounter with Jezebel was now history. The doyenne of American networks was a laughing stock, images of her puke-soaked garments topping over five million hits on YouTube. And it wasn't just that he'd used her legs as a vomitorium: more importantly nobody had got the message that animals _must_ suffer if research into cures for human disease is to make progress. The whole horrible affair had been death to Kris's career; the managing director had given him a dressing down, ordered him to take time off - which he never ordinarily did - and to keep his head down, which he often did! Kris sipped disinterestedly his cider as the minutes ticked by. All about him, _The Fist's_ customers were resorting to time honoured devices to mask the awkwardness of being there alone. Mobile phones were checked and re-examined, cigarettes lit, magazines perused. And from time to time eyes would look up as a newcomer entered the bar. But nobody caused more eyebrows to rise than the next customer. Roberto Subero walked through the door and paused for the briefest of moments. It gave him all the time he needed to take stock of his new surroundings. Scanning the room, he identified his target and, displaying no emotion walked directly towards him: 'Campo Amor?' he queried, stretching out his hand. Kris almost choked when he saw the apparition in a suit. 'Can I get you a drink?' he spluttered. 'That would be very nice. A small New World Chardonnay in a chilled glass, if it's no problem.' It wasn't a _problem_ , it was an impossibility! Kris made a rapid calculation that the only part of the request _The Fist's_ bar staff could meet was 'glass.' Roberto, sensing at once Kris's discomfort, amended his order, and in a scathing tone added: 'OK, how about water? And I'll settle for sparkling _or_ still, no ice, warm _or_ very warm, with a dirty glass, and slice of day old lemon, à la your wonderful British customer service?' Kris walked to the counter, aware that he was colouring. He liked the idea that the most glamorous man for miles around was sitting at his table, but he was stinging from the barbed tongue.

He returned with a fairy respectable attempt at the refreshment, and set it down before Roberto. The Latino barely acknowledged, took a tissue from his pocket and dusted the table. Kris responded feebly: 'We can always go somewhere else if you'd prefer.' 'You mean you can take me to another festering shithole?' Kris remained silent, Señor Subero continued: 'Now tell me about 'Campo Amor.' The little man felt on safer ground and began to gush: 'Well, that comes from my love of Spain, I'm sure _you_ can appreciate that.' 'You think so, considering what Spain has done to my country over the course of the last four hundred and fifty years? If ever there was a non sequitur this was it so Kris gave no reply. Roberto stood up, stifling his irritation. 'Let's go for a walk, along the side of your city's delightful canal, and we can talk.' Kris dutifully followed. For the first few moments nothing was said, the Latino glancing up at the buildings, down at the cobbles, into the murky water. Then he broke the silence: 'So have things settled down after the debacle at Canis?' Kris was rather startled but could hardly be surprised that his contretemps with Ms Roth had reached the ears of his companion. But before he could reply Roberto went in for the kill: 'It really seemed like you weren't prepared for that interview.' Kris found his voice: 'It's not my brief. I was pulled in at the last minute. And nobody told me I'd get that harpy for the first interview. I've met some hard boiled eggs but she's ten minutes!' Had Kris taken the trouble to look into Roberto's eyes at that moment he'd have seen a light of recognition at the mention of her name. But none of that mattered after the next communication. 'My apartment's just along here. Maybe you'd like to join me?' The Latino stud had already been through his paces earlier that day with Greene. But he was still up for more. And for Kris it couldn't be simpler; when would he ever get a chance like this again?

Elsewhere, another meeting of gay men was taking place. At Levenshawe Community Centre the monthly gathering known as ' _Man Overboard'_ was getting underway. This forum existed to provide comfort, advice and practical help to gay men who'd been abused at home and, in some cases, thrown out. Amongst the benefactors present was Kris's partner Gordon.And tonight the victim in focus was Justin, a seventeen year old who'd been badly beaten by his mother's boyfriend. The police had refused to help and there'd been nobody else to turn to. Gordon had already spoken to Justin and decided that he must offer the boy shelter for the night. He tried contacting Kris at home and by mobile to clear this with him, but he could not get through. Other members of the group too were showing concern for Justin, one of the most prominent and influential of them being Horst Von Hung, principal flautist with the Royal Manchester Philharmonic Orchestra. Horst had an impressive record for rescuing young men; his opulent residence lay close to the city centre and boasted, among other things, an indoor pool and sauna. In Horst's mind only one thing was better than sharing his Jacuzzi with a sixteen year old, and that was sharing it with two. The flautist was born in Bavaria, and raised in a rather austere Catholic family. He'd grown up believing that the performance of good works can improve the condition of one's soul, and he was determined from a young age to help his gay brothers. His devoutly held belief was that, though any gay man in desperate need was worthy of help, special priority _must_ be given to those who were under twenty and cute. And he was comforted to know that many of his gay brothers shared his point of view.

Gordon was no stranger to the wiles of Herr Von Hung and had in the past offered his own humble, but safe alternative to the lecherous old musician's. Horst had of course already sounded out the young man, so Gordon, realising that urgent action was required planned to spirit Justin away during the break. Nine o'clock came and cups of tea and watery orange were handed around. Gordon broke through the throng engulfing Justin and whispered: 'After the break Horst presents a slide show. Tonight, it's 'Cottages and Public Toilets of the North West.' He'll be trapped, operating his projector, that's when we'll nip out.' And that's exactly what they did, though Gordon's exit was not quite as stealthy as he'd have liked. Horst Von Hung saw it all. He pursed his lips in suppressed rage, as though he were about to blow a high 'c' but there was nothing he could do. Justin was happy to accompany Gordon. Though the boy was young and inexperienced an inner voice was guiding him. He reviewed the different approaches to him that evening by both Gordon and Horst. Gordon's first question to him had been 'How's your mother coping?' whereas Horst's was 'Have you ever tried a water bed?' Justin made the right choice. When they arrived home Gordon braced himself for the frosty reception that awaited him whenever he turned up with 'waifs and gays' as Kris put it. But to his surprise he found his partner relaxing in the lounge, watching comedy on the television and sipping a gin and tonic. Kris turned in his comfortable chair, his little bespectacled head popping up above the arm: 'Oh hello love, I see you've got a friend.' Gordon was taken aback. 'Yes, it's Justin. I've told him we'll shelter him for a few days, till he can contact his mother and get himself sorted.' 'Of course, the spare room's ready, and I can make some tea if you like. Hello, Justin.' Gordon was relieved but puzzled. This wasn't how it normally went, but he was grateful anyway. Justin declined the offer of tea and said he just wanted to turn in. Gordon returned downstairs and grabbed a beer from the fridge. He sat in silence in the kitchen while in the next room his partner sniggered at some banal sitcom. He felt that something wasn't quite right. Oh Gordon, if only you knew!

### Chapter 5: The Worm Turns

The call came from _Canis Carcinoma_ inviting Kris to return to work. His absence had created a depressing backlog of work for him, but he was nonetheless glad to be back. Where else could he enjoy daily fresh flowers on his desk, access free phone calls, _and_ have the services of Miss Haggard fetching and carrying? Not that he was grateful to her, oh dear me no! The faithful retainer greeted her boss with genuine delight: 'It's _so_ good to have you back again, sir.' Kris looked up, face twisted with spite: 'Have you been at my biscuits?' 'Certainly not, Mr Karton.' 'Don't act like it's not possible! Judging by the size of your backside, I'd say you're no stranger to the cookie jar, and I was sure I left a _full_ box of gypsy crèmes. This is what happens when I'm gone five minutes.' The insulted PA departed, slamming the door. This, of course was exactly what Kris wanted, and going online he logged onto _Mince-Meet_ and found the profile for 'Guapo-Robo' one of Roberto's many soubriquets. Immediately he fired off a message to his one-night-stand lover, gushing: 'OMG, It's true what they say about Latin men! I just had to tell you the other evening was _the best_ time! I still can't sit down, I'm so excited. I know you said you never do second meets, and I respect that, but I'd love to take you to dinner. Please send me a picture AND lose the clothes! I need something to get me through the day at this doggie-death-camp, ever yours, Kris, XXX.' With a flutter of his finely manicured fingers Kris despatched the sickly sentiments. But there was no time to savour the moment; being online on such sites as _Mince-Meet_ carries a downside, and opens one up to many uninvited attentions. A message popped up; but it was not from Guapo! Instead it was: _'SickStalyLad'_ of Stalybridge. 'You've got a nice hairy hole,' observed the youth. Kris was not cheered by this unflattering, if accurate statement and was about to quit when,'do you like cider?' Of course he _did_ , but, puzzled as to how the sick messenger could know this, he foolishly prolonged the dialogue. 'Yes, I do, why?' 'Cos I'd like to stick a cider bottle up your hole, and film it. Would you be up for that?' Kris sank back in his chair, momentarily depressed. Days earlier, an Hispanic Adonis had enriched his life beyond all expectations. Now, this uncultivated yob was offering to impale him anally with a bottle of Woodpecker. How could both men be moulded from the same clay? Life was an enduring mystery. And, fearing lest the scrapings of the British underclass assail him with more obscene offers the senior pathologist clicked off. Reaching into his desk's bottom drawer he withdrew an impressive dildo, reputed to have been fashioned on Jimmy Hendrix's manhood. He stood the tumescent torpedo end up on the desk, and observed ruefully that his _in tray_ was piled higher even than the mammoth cock; it was time to get back to work!

Greene Carter sat patiently in an empty class room on the first floor of the Bridgewater building. As instructed, he was half an hour early for tutorial, awaiting the arrival of Roberto. Greene knew only too well how Roberto had profited from this surplus time in the past. He winced as he recalled their first encounter, how he had excitedly reported to Alison his meeting with the new tutor, and how she had spent five minutes trying to brush some of that excitement out of his hair! This time he wanted to take back something to his sister that he could count as an achievement. But that was easier said than done. Roberto was like a juggernaut driving all before it, and Greene feared that, once he was in that domineering presence all his best intentions would evaporate. Roberto entered the room, swept over to Greene, smiling broadly, and kissed him tenderly on the lips. Setting down his laptop on the desk he switched it on, then said, 'I liked your last paper, much improved. I think we can really start to make progress now.' Greene felt like a dormouse in the presence of its most feared predator. Had he got this right - Roberto was in the mood for study rather than sex? Then his tutor's phone rang. Checking the caller, the Latino laughed out loud,'hola, chaval!' A rapid fire conversation ensued in Spanish, and after less than thirty seconds Roberto ended the call, ran to the window, and waved wildly at someone in the car park. Without even glancing at Greene, he left the room. The abandoned student was bemused rather than interested, but after a few moments he too went to the window. Below he could see Roberto run across the campus car park to where another male was standing beside a rather vulgar sports car. They embraced, generally making a fuss of one another, then walked over to a burger van to order a snack. Greene watched as the two friends stood eating, laughing, and catching up. Struggling to suppress waves of rejection and worthlessness; he determined to fight back; and what came into his mind on this occasion was inspired. He glanced at Roberto's unsecured laptop. It interested him to learn what his tutor-lover might have written about him or his work. His first instinct was to search the computer for 'Greene Carter' but he found nothing. When, on the other hand, he decided to try 'Canis Carcinoma' he was deluged with a bewildering amount of material! Taking from his pocket the flash drive he carried to all his tutorials he decided to copy all the files. Greene's motive was silly and rather pathetic; he felt he might learn something material that would help him when preparing written work for his moody master. But he had no idea just what he was accessing. He moved the laptop close to the window to check that Roberto was still comfortably occupied with his friend in the car park. Sitting down, he composed himself and began to monitor the files, one after another, till all were saved. Greene had no idea what he'd just done, and the impact this information would have. But in the contest that is life he'd turned the tables – completely, and the dormouse had become the cat!

Gordon loaded the dishwasher with the breakfast pots and plates, then glanced at the clock - school in less than an hour. This was the one day a week he went in late, and as such it was a rare treat. Justin was showering upstairs. The rescued youngster had settled in well and was showing no signs of wanting to leave; he had brought sunshine into a house occupied by two men who'd increasingly gone their separate ways over the years, and both were very fond of him. Gordon could hear the sound of running water in the bathroom. The older man, deprived of physical love for years, ached to go upstairs and watch as the boy washed and groomed himself, but he restrained the urge and let his imagination do the work instead. At seventeen Justin had still not filled out, but he had the bloom of youth and his pale body was firm and unmarked. His wayward honey blond hair, grey-blue eyes and freckles gave him an innocence that Gordon knew masked a truly wicked sense of humour. How Gordon loved that sense of the ridiculous and the jokes they'd shared! He longed to laugh with Justin, to drink, to hang out, to make out, to be young again. Then he shrank inwardly from the grotesqueness of his irrational thought; he was a teacher, and thirty one years older; end of. A knock came to the house door; Gordon was surprised, no-one ever called by. A tall, thin elderly woman, dressed in black with her grey hair tied back and pinned under a black hat was standing there. Her eyes were balls of haematite on fire: 'Good morning. You won't know me but I'm Sister Agnes from the Church of the Hardened Heart, Salford. Word has come to us that you are holding an innocent here, shackled by chains of vice and shame.' Gordon raked through his curly mane of hair, and squeezed shut his eyes in weary disbelief, 'come again, love.' 'We know that Satan and his dark forces hold sway in this abode. I'm here to take back that child.' Gordon was bewildered and stood, scratching the back of his neck. The creature in black continued: 'I seek a boy called Justin Openshaw. I know he's here. God grant he hasn't yet fallen prey to your vile perversions.' Justin meanwhile had finished his shower and come down to see what all the fuss was about. He came to the door, clad only in tracksuit bottoms, languidly towelling dry his hair. 'Is this _the one_?' Sister Agnes cried out. Justin grimaced, turned to Gordon and shrugged, 'Oh Christ, not them again! And, pulling from his tracksuit bottoms a very respectable cock, swollen by the twin stimuli of warm showering and a vigorous scrubbing of the knob-head, he turned to the old woman, 'here Sister, is this what you've come for?' And he shook his turgid todger at the ancient hag. Sister Agnes gasped, falling backwards into the privet hedge. Gordon turned to Justin, 'I really think you need to go to your room and dress. I'll deal with this.' He helped the batty old witch out of the bushes and propped her upright, but she was undaunted. 'I see the Evil One has already left his mark on this child. But a greater burden of guilt rests on him, the corrupter of one so young and chaste.' Gordon's patience was up, 'I don't know who sent you here but you need to leave now.' But she persisted: 'You are to know, the day will come when..' 'Fuck off.' The hag stared wildly at Gordon for a while then uttered her valedictory curse. 'May you have your portion in the lake of fire that burns for all Eternity.' 'FUCK OFF!' Gordon slammed the door and returned indoors. The big man was shaking and upset. Justin on the other hand appeared unfazed. 'Do you know her? Gordon enquired. 'Not her personally; she'll be one of those God botherers from Salford.' 'So how did she know you were here?' 'Beats me.' 'But you said 'not them again' as though this has happened before?' 'Look Gordon, just leave it. There's no problem.' But Gordon wasn't convinced.

### Chapter 6: Love's the Drug

Kris fussed about arranging the items on his office desk, liberally spaying a cloying air freshener around the room. He'd just learned that the boss was due to visit him in five minutes, purpose unknown. A knock \- Kris sprang up and answered the door. It was Miss Haggard: 'Oh, it's just _you.'_ 'Mr Davidson's due to see you, presently, and I just wondered if you needed me to take notes.' Kris scowled: 'Hardly' came his tart reply, 'and I suspect it's _confidential.'_ 'Very well, I'll leave you to it, but I think you might want to consider removing _that.'_ she added, gesturing towards a shelf that housed the prized, Jeff Stryker, limited edition butt plug. Her boss's face was vinegar, 'I don't see any problem with my _displays_ , that's a rare Polynesian pink toadstool, presented to me by the grateful people of Tonga, a reward for bringing drugs to their island, and curing foot fungus.' Miss Haggard wasn't convinced. The item bore the porn star's signature and read, 'Think of me every time you sit down on this.' The faithful retainer withdrew silently; hardly had she closed the door when the Managing Director Stuart Davidson bustled past her and into Kris's room. 'Don't get up, Karton' he said to the senior pathologist, who was still on his feet. 'It's only me, let's keep this informal. Fact is you've had a pretty rough time lately, with the media and all that. I must say it was touch and go whether or not to keep you. But I said to the board, 'everybody is overloaded with work at one time or another, and nobody can take a bigger load than Kris Karton, maybe we should keep him. Anyhow, Kris, to cut a long story short, we've decided to send you across the pond for a while; see how they do things in Milwaukee. You could learn a lot. Just remember, you'll be in the States; stay away from churches and children, co-operate with the management, and if you must keep your head down, don't do it in public rest areas! Six months there sound alright? If so I'll start the paperwork right away.' Davidson clumped out, leaving the door ajar and Miss Haggard entered at once, like they were both revolving figures in a German weather clock. 'How are you Dr Karton, can I get you anything. You look like you need to sit down?' But Kris was struck dumb. He hadn't even the wherewithal to retaliate for being addressed 'doctor' which he hated. And he could not have been in a state of more shock, had he sat down on Jeff Stryker _himself_

Times Square, New York - newsroom of Vapid News. An incoming phone call from the UK was taken, asking for Jezebel Roth. It was Roberto. 'Take a message.' barked the harpy. 'Says he's gotta talk with you, Miss Roth.' 'Ask who it is.' Pause. 'Some guy called Javier Sanchez.' Extra long pause. The vixen sauntered over, faking nonchalance. 'OK, I'll take it.' She moved to a place as discreet as the environment allowed. 'Right, you son of a bitch, I'll give you ten seconds then I'm done.' 'Easy Jez, I know you're mad, but we're working together here.' 'Fuck YOU! You _used_ me to get material for your story, then bailed. And you let me walk into all that shit over there. You know I hate England, it gives me the creeps.' 'There was a change of plan that day, you must believe me, I didn't know they'd wheel out that wimpy, little guy.' 'Really? My reputation sucks, thanks to that worm Karton. I'm a journalist, but right now my phone rings 24/7 with offers to do dry clean commercials, and Vogue want me to model a new range of vomit resistant street wear.'Roberto piled on the charm: 'Be reasonable Jez, I couldn't know he'd puke all over you.' 'You were the one who told me Kris Karton was behind all this, I had to give it a shot.' 'He is! I've met the guy and got to know him. And I know I can go in deep. He's definitely behind all this. Just trust me.' 'Yeah, I know how _deep you go in_ , remember? I just didn't realize it meant anything with a pulse.' 'Trust me on this, Jez.' 'Trust _you_? Are you freakin' crazy?' 'It's better if we work together. I know you've done a lot of good work on Canis Carcinoma in the States. But the operation in the UK is in deep shit, and it's nearly all down to Karton. I can bring this.' 'I need time. Right now I don't know what to think. Leave your contact info, and whatever name you're using right now.' She put down the phone abruptly. At the other end Roberto smiled. The exchange with Ms Roth hadn't gone as badly as he'd feared. He'd clearly lost none of his charm. And, speaking of charm, that reminded him of the other love interest in his life. The Latino love god had not seen his puny amour since their _una noche de pasión_ , despite several pathetic pleading messages from the latter. He checked his organiser for Kris Karton's number: perhaps it was time to make Kris's heart beat faster once more?

Kris's long suffering partner Gordon got home, parked up and went to the rear of the house. He always entered by the back door. He hoped Justin was home and he was glad when he discovered he was right; the boy made such a difference to the house. 'Justin!' Gordon set down his books, briefcase and shopping and slumped into a comfortable chair. A frantic clumping on the stairs announced the young lodger's approach. 'Cup of tea, boss?' asked the youth, enthusiastically.'You're just trying to get on my good side.' 'Do you have any other side?' 'Flatterer!' Gordon read the paper until the tea was ready, then, cradling the hot cup gingerly, he got serious. 'I need to have a talk with you.' 'Uh oh!' 'Kris and I have been discussing this.' 'Oh fuck!' 'HEY, language!' Justin looked faux-sheepish; Gordon took a sip of the hot tea.'You really need to tidy up after you. I noticed this morning that you left the house bathroom in a hell of a mess. And what's all that wet cardboard lying about in the basket?' Justin looked vaguely embarrassed: 'Can I be frank with you, Gord?' Gordon thought to himself, 'Oh no, here we go.': he'd come to realise that their house guest was nothing if not forthright. Justin continued: 'You know when you finish off a toilet roll or kitchen roll, you're left with one of those cardboard tubes?' Gordon nodded, but was puzzled. 'Well, when I have a bath I make loads of really thick soap suds, fill the cardboard tube up with them, and slide it up and down over my hard cock.' Gordon buried his head in his hands. Justin was on a roll, literally. 'It's great; I just imagine it's the _best_ blow job. But kitchen rolls are even better, they're longer, so your _bell end_ stays inside and rubs against the tube, wow! It's wild, and a great way to recycle!' Teacher lifted his head up, raising his eyebrows; could there be more? 'But the tube gets wet and comes apart, so you've pretty much got to blow your wad before the cardboard turns to mush, and gets mixed up with all that soap and spu..' 'Yeah, YEAH! I've got it' Gordon held up his hand, saying stop. 'You're an attractive young man, surely you'd have no trouble getting a blow job?'He instantly regretted what he'd just said, but Justin was unconcerned. 'Yeah, probably, but I don't fancy guys my age. It's like whenever I go to 'Spurtz' or any of those places. I have an OK time but those guys aren't my thing. I like older men. I want a _real man_ to blow me.' Gordon could hardly believe this conversation was happening, much less the part _he_ was playing. 'Justin, listen to yourself! A ' _real man'_ as you put it doesn't perform oral sex on men.' But Justin smiled coyly: 'Maybe they should. I'm in no hurry anyway. I'm waiting for a sexy, older guy to have a shit load of fun with, that's me.' Gordon needed to change the subject quickly. How could this kid so easily unsettle him? He knew instinctively that any easy, convenient reply he gave Justin would be rejected automatically, but at the same time he couldn't really talk to this boy as an equal, could he? He pressed on: 'Anyway, as I was about to say, Kris and I have been talking about this, and we're happy to have you stay here until you get yourself sorted.' 'Yeaaahhhhh!' Justin jumped from his chair, leapt over to Gordon, and threw his arms around the big man's neck, kissing him on the cheek. Gordon was left breathless. 'But you've _got_ to keep the place clean. And try to find a more hygienic way to wank!' 'Thanks so much Gord. I love you man, LOVE you! You are the _best!_ ' What is it about words; uncut diamonds scattered over the beach of life, without significance except to those who are so desperately looking for it? Gordon realised that nothing he'd just heard meant a thing, but to his starved heart the young man's words shone a treacherous glimmer of false hope.

'Penny for them, Greene' 'Since when have my thoughts ever been worth a penny?' Alison stopped the ironing and looked at her brother. In truth few people had _ever_ been that interested to know what Greene was thinking, but she was not like other people. 'I know there's something troubling you, let's have it.' She switched off the iron and sat down beside him. Then Greene explained the lot, the illicit meetings with Roberto, the opportunity he'd taken to download from his tutor's laptop, the commodious material about Canis Carcinoma, and the many references in the documents to Kris Karton, whom Greene had met on only a few occasions but whom he knew to be Gordon's partner. Alison listened attentively then inspected the files herself; she admitted that she was unable to make any sense of it. 'There's only one thing for it, we've got to let Gordon have a look at all this. If it seems to say what I think, then he has a right to know.' Greene was anxious not to involve Kris, but Alison was able to reassure him. Gordon was returning to school that night for an adult evening class, an English degree course, discussing the various merits of Jane Eyre with a class of mature women students who looked old enough themselves to have _met_ Charlotte Brontë. But the Gordon whom Alison spoke to on the phone seemed oddly abstracted, compared to the dear friend she'd joked with at school earlier that day; that said, he kindly agreed to meet up and help if he could. When his class was wrapped up, around nine, he located a quiet room and sat down with the couple and their data. As the minutes ticked by Alison tried to look constructive by making cups of hot chocolate, Greene just studied the classroom walls. Gordon's face grew graver and graver. After forty minutes or so, Gordon asked Greene if it were OK to make a copy. Greene complied and asked if there was anything else he could do to help. Gordon hesitated for a moment, everything about his body language appearing ready to say 'no' But Greene looked so sincere. 'Yes, I think you might. Ring me tomorrow, and we'll sort a time for you to come over to my place. Kris will be out at his flower arranging class.' Greene looked genuinely pleased to be included, but the smile on Gordon's face was weak and short lived. As he turned away, Alison saw her friend's countenance change, and that craggy, characterful face crease up with anxiety. Gordon bade them goodnight and drove home. It was a hellish journey, not simply because of the dreadful Manchester traffic. His mind was burdened with concerns he could never have dreamt of hours earlier. Then, the worst he had to deal with were his ill conceived feelings about Justin. But tonight's revelations threw him into a new league of despair. If the documents given him by Greene Carter were true, the man he'd spent the last twenty years with was complicit in a major drugs cover up at a global pharmaceutical firm, involving the lives and careers of thousands of co-workers, and sums of money that no-one could yet conceive of.

### Chapter 7: Men at War

Midday in Manchester, and _Spurtz_ opened its doors to the lunchtime trade. During the day, the club didn't so much ' _spurt'_ as dribble. In fact, if the semen analogy is to be pursued further, the discernible daytime activity rarely amounted to more than a moist Jap's eye. But the bar opened all the same, providing toasted snacks to a blindly loyal clientele who neither minded waiting endlessly for their food, being overcharged when it came, nor ignored when they complained about how shitty it was. If customer service - possibly worse in the United Kingdom than anywhere else in the developed world - reaches its nadir on the gay scene, then _Spurtz_ deserves the Oscar! But today, like most days, the club witnessed another transformation - that of drag star Luce Morales into plain, anonymous Harry Hind. Harry took his accustomed place at the end of the bar and lit up. Taking several deep draws to secure a sufficient hit, he threw back his head, and held aloft the cigarette, ensuring that even the least observant must recognise that – gowns and greasepaint aside - he was _she_. And to be fair most did, including Greene Carter, who'd ventured to the club, secure in the knowledge that Harry would be there. Like all divas Harry required deference. 'What'll you have?' asked Greene timidly. 'Large vodka and soda. Whatever's good enough for Chelsea's good enough for me.' The defrocked star looked around as though awaiting applause, but none came. He took the drink, without thanks, and gave Greene a sickly smile: 'So how _are_ you love, not seen you in ages?' Greene looked serious. 'Actually, things haven't been that great, and I've got a real problem right now.' Harry took another deep drag on the rapidly shrinking cigarette, blew smoke, and looked away disinterestedly: 'Well, we've all got a story to tell.' But Harry had never been known to give a hearing to anybody's 'story' save his own. His visitor persevered: 'You know Kris Karton, right?' 'Yes, lover, I do. As do you; you were serving behind the bar here when Kris and Gordon used to come in. That must be twenty years ago now.' Greene gazed abstractedly at the spirits optics, as though he'd discover on the nicotine stained glass shelves where the years had gone. 'Yeah, but I didn't know either of them well. My sister teaches with Gordon these days, so I know him better. Somebody was telling me the other day that a dead fancyable Latino was in here recently.' Harry looked arch, 'I don't know where you get your info from, but they should have reminded you of Rule Number One.' Greene imagined the drag artiste must be referring to the 'don't grass' policy, but he overlooked the fact that most of Harry's principles were liquor based. He ordered another large vodka in readiness, and the star's throat, unlocked by the promise of more alcohol, gained momentum. 'Yes, he _was_ in here. And he was gorrrgeouss! He did ask a lot of stuff about Kris, but I was the soul of discretion. I couldn't tell him that much anyway, I hadn't seen Kris in ages.' Greene, unpractised in the art of interrogation, stalled and ran dry: the old _artiste_ took pity on him. 'So, like I was saying, I hadn't seen him in ages, but funnily enough I did see Kris walk past here, last week, and the hot Hispanic guy was with him, so they must have hooked up.' Greene remained silent, Harry continued. 'You're not very good at this, love, are you? Well, the hottie has an apartment just along the canal from here, and it looked like they were both heading in that direction.' Greene was embarrassed, Harry remained unconcerned. 'Aren't you staying for one?' But Greene was on his feet. 'No, I'd love to but I've things to do.' 'Yeah, I bet you have.'

Judith Openshaw was late thirties, slightly built, with dyed blond hair and a pale complexion. Looking nervously about her, she sipped the coffee she'd just ordered. Whose crazy idea was it to meet at a supermarket café in Ashton, and one situated outdoors right beside a railway and canal? Café society, huh? 'Mam!' The sound gladdened her heart and she smiled, transforming her appearance. Standing up, and embracing Justin, his mother kissed him on both cheeks, and buried her head in his mop of curls. Fighting back the tears, she mock-scolded him: 'What do you think you're doing, bringing me all the way over here?' 'It's safe. And I wanted to give you a treat. They do fab tuna melts here.' 'Never mind that, I've eaten. So how about you, how are you?' 'Great, the guys I'm hanging out with have kinda said I can stay there as long as I want.' His mother looked unconvinced. 'I'd feel better if I met them.' 'Look, Mam, I told you before, why don't you listen?' His mother raised her hand to drop the matter. She knew too well the quick temper her son possessed; and she was chilled by his maturing, deepening voice - so redolent of his long absent father's. Judith knew she was treading that agonising line between alienating or appeasing her son, and that this morning, once again, he'd win. 'I just need to know you're happy as well as safe.' 'Yeah, well I am.' Moodily, Justin got up and went to get himself a Coke. When he was out of sight his mother rummaged in her bag for her purse, ready to give him all the cash she could afford, and some she couldn't. In that way mothers do.

Gordon answered the door to his guest. 'Come in Greene. Sorry about the change of plan, but Kris rang me earlier to say he'd be very late tonight. I'm sure we'll be OK at home here. Would you like to come through to the back garden?' The two men made their way through the immaculate house, with its tasteful 1930s furniture and expensive soft furnishings, to the garden, where Gordon had set out a table with two wine glasses. Gordon and Greene made quite a contrast. The older man resembled an explosion in a vintage clothes shop, the younger was dressed impeccably in khaki pants, linen shirt and Seersucker jacket. Greene declined the wine, but Gordon took his, and spoke: 'This could take forever, Greene, but I'll try to make it brief. You're aware that a company like Canis exists to do research and develop drugs. Well, for some years the British operation had been following a particular line of enquiry. It seems that about two years ago they referred their data to headquarters in the States. The news that came back wasn't good. Basically, the Americans said, 'You're on the wrong track here, drop it.' Gordon took a gulp of wine, Greene intervened, 'but they didn't drop it, did they?' 'No, they didn't. Such a direction couldn't easily have been ignored in the US, with all their openness, but here, in the UK, well, Kris was senior pathologist, in charge of everything. Nobody was prepared to question what _he_ said.' 'But why would he _want_ to persevere with worthless research?' 'That's what we've got to find out, Greene.' Both men fell silent. Gordon poured out a glass of red for his abstemious visitor. Greene took a deep breath: 'Gordon, there's something I just _have_ to tell you. I can't tell you how bad this makes me feel, but.. 'It's OK, I know. Kris is cheating. That's what you're going to tell me, isn't it? I can save you the awkwardness, I know already. It's not the first time anyway.' Greene longed to reach out and touch Gordon. The big man's face was a mask of pain, only his mouth retaining its handsome line. Greene broke the silence, 'Alison's probably told you about this guy Roberto. He runs a media course at uni, and I'm one of his students. I stupidly thought he was singling me out for special treatment, so when he suggested a 'special project' involving Canis Carcinoma I jumped at it. I did hear him refer to Kris once or twice, but when I found all that material on his laptop it was a surprise; seems he had done a load of research on him. Then I conducted some enquiries of my own, down in town, and found out what I'd suspected, that Roberto was a bit of a player as well.' 'And he was _playing_ with Kris?' 'Yes.' 'And this upsets you, why?' 'Because Roberto was playing with me too.' The two men stared at each other. 'We're a couple of schmucks, aren't we?' said Gordon. He turned away, hiding his tears. Greene rose, and stood behind his new ally. He laid one hand gently on his shoulder and the other on his wavy greying hair. The two men had to acquaint themselves with the wretched new dynamic of their lives. And, unknown to them, an unfamiliar element, who would play his part in the chaos, had just joined them: Justin had returned and, startled by what he'd seen from the kitchen window, he'd retreated to his bedroom. There he struggled to use seventeen years life experience to make sense of the drama he'd witnessed in the garden.

The thought of six months exile in the United States had driven Kris Karton almost to despair. There were many aspects of life Stateside that Kris admired; the affluence, modernity and of course consumerism. But, for reasons now becoming clear, he didn't wish his professional life to be submitted to too close a scrutiny by his American colleagues. Somehow he'd have to dodge this planned trip, but he knew not how. In the midst of this cloud of gloom he received probably the only news that could have alleviated his depression, a call from Roberto arranging a hook up. In his urgency to meet the Hispanic stallion Kris decided that a diversion home would be a nuisance best avoided, so he took full advantage of Roberto's suggestion and agreed to dine at _his_ apartment around seven. Arriving early, Kris checked in at the door intercom. He was relieved to hear Roberto's velvety tones inviting him up. Once inside, the visitor attempted a welcome kiss with his host but the reception was cool. Roberto ungraciously took the flowers Kris had brought and dumped them on the kitchen table. He returned a minute later with two glasses of powerful Chilean Merlot. He handed one to Kris. Walking over to the window of his fourth floor apartment, he looked down into the canal. 'How rundown and grubby everything looks here!' Kris tried to make light of things, smiling, 'you ought to have seen it when I was a child, if you'd fallen into the canal then, and swallowed any water, you wouldn't have survived the night.' But the host wasn't smiling. 'So how's that changed? The whole place looks a toilet to me, not just the canal.' Kris bridled, a true son of Manchester he was only prepared to take so much of this: 'It was the first major industrial city in the world, it's entitled to be a bit tired around the edges, things are much improved today.' Roberto sneered, 'and look the legacy, the mess the environment is in now, thanks to your Industrial Revolution.' ' _Our Industrial Revolution?_ I think you'll find that Germany, France and even Belgium were only a heartbeat behind.' 'Yes, but it was this poisonous country that first contaminated the world with capitalism.' 'The world was happy enough to lap up the material benefits when it suited.' Kris's voice was shrill and domineering. Roberto responded: 'So tell me, if it was such a great idea why is your country fucked now?' 'Well, pack your bags and get the fuck out if you like it so little!' Roberto could feel the hairs on his neck rise. He'd been in this position once before, only it had been in some hotel on 42nd Street, New York. There, he'd longed to rip his combatant from her sofa and hurl her out the window. Now he was staring at a diminutive man in specs, who wasn't giving an inch. Kris met his gaze with adamantine resolve. And he wasn't prepared to bow to this arrogant upstart, regardless of whether their argument should involve something as arcane as Manchester's canals, or a defence of the capitalist system. 'So, _you_ leave my city alone and _I_ will try _very hard_ not to allude to whichever shit infested barrio you managed to crawl out of.' The men were now eye to eye. Kris spoke very slowly and deliberately,'because, however tough _you_ consider yourself, by the time I was nineteen, I'd been gang raped by my boyfriend and his mates, and made to spend the night with their combined body fluids inside me. If you want to fight me, remember I've met you and your kind a million times before, _and_ dealt with it.' 'Is _that_ it?' asked Roberto, bravado dented but not totally spent. But Kris's fury wasn't yet spent: 'Just know this. _Mamacita_ might have taught you one or two nifty tricks with blades, but I'm a time served senior pathologist. There's nothing I can't do with a knife, and I can have your _cojones_ sliced off and stitched in your mouth in under a minute.' There was nowhere else to go. The men exchanged mutual looks of hatred, the one wild and flashing, the other, cold and clinical, but both lethal. After a minute or two to cool off, they agreed to have a drink and to change the subject. And they took some comfort in that other enduring truth known the world over; that whatever their differences, and however bitter the enmity, they'd still end up having sex with each other that night. Nothing was more certain.

### Chapter 8: The Age of Miracles

Following the men's falling out Roberto's plan was to take revenge on Kris by indulging in a bout of _Anger Sex,_ little realising that his bed mate could take all the ' _anger'_ he had to give, _and_ some! At half time the Hispanic visited the bathroom, grabbed one of his extra large condoms, and spitefully smeared its outer surface with jalapeño. But Kris was an avid fan of Indian curries: he'd experienced many rings of fire in his time, though nearly always as a consequence of what was _leaving_ his anus, rather than what was entering it, so even that prank misfired. In fact, despite everything that transpired between tempestuous sheets the ill starred couple parted on surprisingly amicable terms. It was Dr Kris Karton's habit to rise, shower, and leave the house by seven at the latest, taking a modest breakfast at work. Thus sometime later, when Gordon and Justin rose, they were privileged to enjoy a relaxed breakfast together without the feisty, little martinet present. Gordon chomped on toast and coffee, camouflaged behind his newspaper, until his peace was broken:'Gord?' 'Yes, what is it Justin?' 'Who do you think has more fun, tops or bottoms?' Gordon put down his paper in exasperation.'We're not doing this, Justin.' The big man was by now convinced that the sum total of the boy's sexual experience amounted to no more than five years incessant power-wanking. But the youngster's capacity to talk _crap_ was endless, and he wouldn't be put off. 'Oh come on, I need to know these things. Gary told me it's normal for young guys to start out as bottoms, and get to be tops later.' 'That's nonsense!' 'So tell me.' Gordon looked Justin in the eyes: 'What's important is to develop as a person. Some day you'll meet a guy and form a relationship with him, then you'll know automatically what feels right for you both, and you'll give and take.' 'Oh, so you mean we'll both be versatile?' 'I didn't say _that_.' The boy fell silent, and Gordon resumed his reading; but not for long: 'Gord, my friend Gary works at the auto insurance call centre, answering the phone. Guess what? He puts this orange under his balls, sits on it all day, and squeezes it.' 'Where are we going with this, Justin?' The boy's eyes were sparkling with mischief. 'There's this muscle near your ring piece, and it can be trained, just like any muscle.' 'The PuboCoccygeus' suggested Gordon. The boy appeared not to hear. 'It's the same one you use to stop pissing. Well, Gary spends all day squeezing down on this orange. No-one can see what he's doing.' Gordon smiled knowingly. 'The hours must just fly by; I guess call centres can be dull at times.' Gordon involuntarily twitched his own _PC_ muscle. 'And do you know what?' the boy continued. 'I dread to think.' 'When Gary _cums_ he can hit the bedroom wall from six feet away.' 'And is that _your_ goal?'Gordon asked wearily. 'Just saying.' Long silence. 'Gord.' 'WHAT!' The big man looked over at Justin, but the boyish sparkle had gone from his young eyes, and his mouth was set in a totally different expression. 'Who was the guy in the garden with you yesterday?' 'It was Greene, Greene Carter. Alison's brother.' 'Your fag hag at work, her brother?' 'Yes, but she's not my _fag hag,_ as you put it, she's a colleague.' Another long silence. 'Why was he holding you like that?'Gordon looked serious. 'We'd had a bit of bad news.' 'What?' 'I'd rather not say, it's personal.' 'I'm here for you too, I'm not a kid.' Justin looked sincere and Gordon softened. Then the big man saw a perfect, failsafe opportunity; should he take it? 'OK Justin, Say I need a hug. I _am_ down right now and I need comforting. Show me that _you_ could give me that support.' Without a word, the boy got up, as Gordon rose from his chair, and put his arms around him. He rested his head on Gordon's shoulder and the big man could feel the boy's breath on his neck. Then Justin squeezed him. It was electrifying. The strength of pure, young limbs, as yet uncorrupted by anything life had in store for them, took Gordon's breath away. There was no embarrassment, no insincerity, no gaucheness. Justin held on like he _meant it._ And he spoke quietly into the older man's ear:'I'm here every day, if you need somebody to listen. You don't need to invite people round. _I'm_ here!'

Miss Haggard breezed into Kris's office without knocking; enough normally to secure a severe tongue lashing at least, but not today. Kris's smile was oily. 'Tea, is it that time already?' 'Yes Sir. What will it be today? We have Earl and Lady Grey, or Darjeeling. I can recommend the Lapsang Souchong, smoky, with a hint of kerosene.' Kris beamed, 'Oh I'll stick with the regular tea, and a few cream puffs.' 'Very well, I'll see to it.' She turned to go: 'Dr Karton, can you hear something, a strange buzzing sound?'Kris pouted. 'NO, I can't. Now be about your business, woman!' And once the simpering spinster had withdrawn, Kris locked the door behind her and logged onto the Internet. Within moments he'd located yet another of Roberto's profiles, _Huge-Hard-Hot-Hispanic._ The profile was light on biographical detail, but it did feature an impressive shot of the Latino's nine inch love muscle. Kris gazed at the member, sighing in admiration. 'Just think, that tasty _chorizo_ was splitting me in half less than 24 hours ago.' But, as he squirmed uneasily on his inflatable ring cushion he hardly needed reminding. A small pump, thieved from the _Poisoned Fish Projects Lab_ was busily whirring away, maintaining pressure in the ring and relieving discomfort in Kris's ring. But none of that mattered, the senior pathologist was in love, and love does crazy things. Soon, his fingers were as busy as the pump, as they messaged the object of his affections! 'Mi Amor, Guapo Roberto, what I can I say? Last night will live in my memory forever. The wine I brought you, the meal you ordered in, the ambience by the canal, all was perfection, but as always you saved the best till last. I'm sorry about the little mishap in your bed. I'd eaten curry for lunch, but I'll pay for the dry cleaning. And I _did_ tell you I was practically a virgin, you naughty boy! I was so touched at the way you had spray lube ready when you got stuck half way in. But now for my surprise; I've booked us on a flight for a short break to my holiday villa in Spain, treat on me! Please say you'll come (Oops, I'm forever saying that!) Your adoring fan, Krissy XXXX.'

The Chapel of the Little Sisters of the _Divine D' île d'eau_ is located down a narrow alleyway, close to Deans gate, in the centre of Manchester. There, despite the passage of time – or possibly even because of it - the nuns still show great reverence to their founder, the French abbess _Bigue._ Born in the C13th, she grew up in the tiny Provençale village of _île d'eau_ (watery isle), which place possessed a magic spring that caused all the men who bathed therein to acquire huge hardons. Sacrificing her life to the church, she determined to found an order of nuns to evangelise the heathen English. So it was, that in 1296, her ass weighted down with several pitchers of the magic spring water, _Bigue D'île d'eau_ journeyed to northern England, where she soon attracted a cult following. Nowadays, seven hundred years later, there are few who know or care about the holy nun's legend. But there _was_ one! Kneeling contritely in the midst of the tiny congregation was a man who could give any _D'île d'eau_ a run for its money! Yes, it was Roberto. Ever since his childhood, when the padre used to bounce him on his knee, he'd heard of the wondrous holy water, and he'd vowed that one day he'd plunge his manhood into it. The Latino had wakened that very morning with a burning sensation on his cock. Fearing that some of the deadly jalapeño he'd used on Kris had made its way through the sheath, he'd given his tackle a good scrubbing in the shower. Had that stinging been a sign, a holy portent? Could the Madonna be blessing his tool with yet more inches? As he clasped his hands in prayer he focused intently on the altar; his eyes began to glaze over in rapture, and he could feel a profound buzzing in his depths: 'Madre de Dios, es un miraglo!' he whispered, fumbling urgently with his crotch. Some of the elderly Irish ladies in the congregation gasped in disbelief. The buzzing came again, this time more insistently. The Hispanic's trouser area, packed solid at the best of times, was now a frenzy of vibration. Now religion provides its adherents with many aids to self delusion, but sadly Roberto had to admit the ghastly truth, this was merely his mobile phone; a message, and the sender none other than Jezebel Roth. Had the journalist known just where her erstwhile partner was at that moment, and what he was up to, she too might have had a word with the God of Abraham, to see if divine intervention couldn't add an inch or two. But her communication had nothing to do with cock size. 'I'm Arriving Manchester train station at two. Pick me up.' Roberto made the sign of the cross, leapt to his feet and prepared to leave the chapel. But his way was barred by a young nun standing at the door. She had a collecting tin which she thrust in his direction. 'Sir, would you like to make a contribution to our holy work?' He returned his most dazzling smile. 'To whom am I speaking?' 'I'm Sister Impregnata' she replied. The lothario looked penetratingly into the nun's deep brown eyes, so like his own, and spoke confidentially. 'Since my youth, I have been fascinated by the legend of the magic spring which is at the heart of your Order. Tell me Sister, have there been any wondrous occurrences in recent times, concerning the water?' Sister Impregnata looked crestfallen. 'Alas no, many centuries ago our blessed founder, the Abbess Bigue arrived in England, at the port of Dover. Her Holy mission was impeded by a corrupt customs official, who seized a pitcher of the magic water and drank it on the spot. Immediately, his penis swelled to the size of an ox cart, and he fell into the sea and drowned. Pope Duplicitus III pronounced the whole affair a miracle, since when, sadly, no other comparable wonders have occurred.' Roberto held the nun's hand, making her shudder with excitement. He dripped insincerity: 'I should so like to help your worthy cause. But tell me child, where do the relics of the holy water now reside?' She hesitated, blushing, and her inquisitor correctly guessed she wasn't permitted to say. But he guessed that such of the penis-stiffening water as remained must surely reside in a land of macho men, who'd sell their mothers in exchange for a huge cock. Where could that be? 'Might it be the land of _your_ birth, Sister? He looked her in the eye. 'Su païs?' 'Tengo que mantenerlo.... Then she stopped, awkwardly; Roberto helpfully completed her sentence.'.... en secreto.' But it was too late for the nun. Her refined Galician tones ensnared her; she'd been caught in his trap and revealed the location of the fabled water. He leered at the innocent child. 'Now, I'll happily put as much as I can in your collecting tin.' How many women had dreamed they'd hear that?

Roberto walked away from the chapel with a spring in his step. What a day this was turning out to be! It had started out with a message telling him he was invited to spend time in Spain with Kris Karton. Then came the confirmation he'd spent his whole life awaiting: the magic water that would give him the _schlong_ of death was just one short flight away, and that petite Mancunian mug had already ordered and paid for the tickets. He walked the short distance to Piccadilly Railway Station and browsed a copy of El Païs, until his American visitor's train arrived. But Jezebel Roth's facial expression did not bode well. Roberto feigned gallant. 'So how was your flight?' 'Shitty.'she barked. 'I'm sorry to hear that.'her meeter soothed. 'Really? I hope this is worth it. I can't believe I've just spent half a day travelling to this shit hole. I could reach, say, Puerto Rico in about four hours if that's what I wanted.' She looked provocatively at Roberto. Within seconds of arriving she'd insulted the entire population of Great Britain and much of Central America, but she was just warming up. 'So this Barton guy, how's it going?' 'I'm making progress.' Roberto replied. 'Yeah, but have you pumped him yet, I mean hard?' The Latino winced.'Yes, till I was breathless.' 'And did you go in deep?' 'So deep I could hardly find my way out again.' The media harpy raised her eyebrows.'And?' Roberto lowered his voice; 'I'm still working on it.' 'Yeah, well, it's results that count, and from where I'm standing you got none.' The Hispanic snapped: 'If you could only shut your mouth for five minutes, I'll explain what I've got when we get to the hotel.' Ms Roth stopped and glared at him.'Have it your way. But I want a story out of this and I'm gonna see _you_ deliver.'

### Chapter 9: Fasten Your Safety Belts

The public address echoed around the concourse of Manchester airport: 'Passengers for PlebAir flight PLB6969 to _Gran Enculo_ , please go to gate 6.' Kris was giddy with excitement, but Roberto was less optimistic, believing, correctly, that PlebAir was, to flying what pigs are to ballet. The men approached the check-in desk, Kris smugly announcing : 'Dr Kris Karton and his companion Roberto Subero, flying to Gran Enculo.' The girl checked the paperwork, then flashed a smile at Kris. 'Congratulations! This is the tenth time you've travelled with PlebAir, so you qualify for a reward. Basically, you can use the in-flight toilet for free.' Roberto was staggered, 'you mean you usually charge passengers to take a leak?' The girl looked indignant: 'Of course, but it's only £1, and we give you a token so that after six pisses, you get the seventh free.' 'Who takes seven pisses?' asked Roberto, incredulously. The girl turned her eyes towards the cafeteria where a crowd of sun starved Brits were all busily occupied drinking their own weight in lager. 'Oh, I see!' Kris wasn't sure Roberto did, and patting his friend's bottom, he added, 'come on now, darling, we need to get through security quickly or we'll miss the flight.' So saying, he hustled the Latino towards the throng that was snaking its laboured way through security. Soon, all eyes were on the couple; for there was no doubt that Roberto stood out. Immaculate as ever, he appeared like a Roman senator in the midst of an orgy of Visigoths. The security officer eyed him suspiciously, then looked down at his feet: 'Take those off, will you?' Roberto raised his eyes in mock disbelief, leaned against the bench, then slowly and suggestively pulled off his hand-crafted, caiman skin cowboy boots, placing the wild, pointed things down on the bench. The security officer, who earned less in a month than this footwear cost, peered into the boots, running his fingers up and down the shafts, and examining the Cuban heels. Meanwhile, Roberto sauntered through the gate, bemoaning the fact that the airport's dirty floor was soiling his beige linen socks. A female security officer, with a face like a Moray eel was awaiting him. She'd reckoned that since he was wearing caiman skin on his feet he may well have something reptilian down his pants. In fact Roberto was travelling _commando_ , having rationalised that Spain would be somewhat warmer than the UK. And his relaxed fit Calvins were doing a pretty good job of concealing his dick. The hatchet faced female dropped to her knees, and methodically groped up each leg, before discovering that his _pole of plenty_ was hanging to the left. 'Have you found what you're looking for?' Roberto asked wearily, as she groped his organ. Sourly, she let go but Kris hadn't missed a thing, and was tapping his watch in irritation: 'Come on, come on, we haven't much time.' But Roberto took his time as he pulled on his boots, adjusted his jeans and prepared to resume the journey. Languidly, he added, 'what's your problem, the seats are booked? We'll make it.' Kris looked rather uncomfortable: 'Well, we _have_ seats, of course. But on PlebAir, you don't have them assigned as such.' The Hispanic's eyes flashed, 'you mean we have to scramble to find a seat?' 'I'm afraid so.'

And as Kris and Roberto were quitting the UK, an individual, who'd secretly spent a great deal of time researching the couple, was just arriving. Fresh from a JFK flight, Brad Chaytor grabbed his luggage and looked about for the person scheduled to meet him. He'd never been to Britain before so all this was new to him, but he took it in his stride. Twenty four years of age, and classically handsome, the Stanford graduate had already made his mark in the FBI. Repeatedly, he checked his watch, anxiously scanning the crowd to see if it would reveal the woman he'd been told to look out for, early fifties, tall, thin, grey hair, and attractive. Beth Coleridge had been with the bureau for years and was one of their most experienced operatives. Brad adjusted his tie, and sauntered out into the concourse; he wanted to make a good first impression. Within seconds he felt a light tap on his shoulder; turning around he saw a tall, elegant woman, in a maroon Mack: 'Hi. Welcome to the UK. Good flight?' 'Well.... yeah, yes, thanks. I'm Brad.' 'Yes, I know' she laughed. _'_ I'm Sister Agnes.' They both laughed.

Meanwhile flight PLB 6969 was progressing smoothly. And as with all budget airlines no efforts were being spared, _by so few_ , to hawk as much crap as possible, _to so many_ in such a short time. Then the captain made an announcement: 'Just had a communication from the flight ahead of us, and there's some turbulence in the Bay of Biscay area. I'll keep you posted, just expect a bit of rough air in the next thirty minutes.' But it took more than that to rain on Kris's parade. Despite a tiresome scrum to gain access to the aircraft, he and Roberto _had_ managed to get seats together, albeit seated alongside an eighty something, wearing headphones and listening to an endless loop of _Thriller._ Kris had a plan; moving close to Roberto he whispered,'you go to the loo. After thirty seconds or so, I'll follow and knock twice on the door; let me in.' Roberto, normally nobody's fool, was perplexed. Was this some twisted way of saving a couple of dollars in a bizarre part of the world, where they made you pay to piss on an aircraft? He took the token and entered the vacant toilet. Moments later Kris followed, and, after discreetly checking that no flight crew or passengers were nearby, he tapped on the door. Roberto cautiously responded, opening the door an inch or two. But his diminutive travelling companion pushed hard, overbalancing the bewildered Hispanic. Kris entered and, locking the door behind him, whispered,'why's your dick not out?' 'I don't want a leak?' 'That's not why we're here, lover.' The Latino hardly had time to martial his thoughts before he felt an urgent tug at his zipper. In less time that it takes to say ' _a blow job is the gay man's handshake'_ his jeans were down. And so was Kris, squatting like a temple dog, about to devour a bone. And what a bone! 'I can't do this' wimped Roberto. But if his protests were half hearted, Kris's throat was fully committed; and within a matter of seconds twenty two centimetres of finest Latino fillet filled it. Then it happened, they hit turbulence! Roberto lurched forward, propelling his punishing pole into Kris's greedy gorge. A gurgling ensued, but the little man stoutly indicated with his eyes that all was still well. Then came another air pocket, this time much worse. 'Aaaargggghhhh!' came the strangulated sound. 'We'd better stop this, I mean it.' urged Roberto, but Kris persisted and, wrapping his arms around the Latino's legs he locked himself into position. The rough air was relentless, and so was Kris's throat. Roberto was cross eyed when a knock came to the door. 'Is everything OK in there?'called flight crew. The Latino answered in the affirmative, but knew that _his_ words were accompanied by a wild gurgling sound that should have told the trained mind something. Kris meanwhile had got in the groove and his head was bobbing like a demented oil derrick; the time to gush was imminent. It was sometime later when the couple emerged from the toilet, and regained their seats: all eyes were on them. Roberto was mortified and experiencing a novel sensation, being shamed in the presence of Brits. But Kris was basking. He was the cat who got the cream.

Gordon heard the back door open, the signal that Justin had returned. The young man breezed into the kitchen: 'Hi Gord, guess what, I've just.... He stopped in his tracks and picked up a brochure from the kitchen table. ' 'Caribbean Cruising', wow, are you and Kris planning one of these? Gordon stood at the sink, looking into the garden. Justin continued, 'lucky fuckers, wish I could go on something like that.' 'No-one's going on any cruise.' The boy sensed at once that things weren't right. 'What's up?' Gordon remained silent. Justin broke the silence. 'Where's Kris?' 'Probably in Spain by now.' 'Spain, what's he doing there?' 'I don't know and I don't care. This was the cruise I was planning for our anniversary.' Justin suddenly looked resourceful beyond his years. 'You sit down, I'll get the coffee, and you can tell me all about it.' And within a short time, that's exactly what happened, Gordon telling Justin the pretty much unexpurgated version of the story of the last ten years of his life. It's at times like these that the friends we'd like to have around us are nowhere to be seen, and we find ourselves consoled, advised, and helped by the most unexpected of confidants. Gordon did wonder whether or not this unrestrained disclosure of his was serving any purpose. But Justin _had_ been listening, he continued questioning. 'He's not alone out there, then?' 'I shouldn't think so.' 'But you don't know who's with him?' 'Yes, I suppose I do, a guy called Roberto.' 'What a CUNT!' 'Justin, there's no need for that.' The boy paused for a moment then acted. 'Right, this is what we'll do.' Throwing the cruise brochure in the trash he continued, 'we're going to do all the things you never get to do 'cos Kris doesn't like them, go bowling, grab some fast food, and find you a real ale pub. And that's just for starters.' Gordon looked sheepish, 'Justin, I know you're trying to help, but maybe I need to think this all through first, and call Kris.' The boy looked pensive. 'Do you really think there's any point? You might as well have been alone all these years. There are some relationships that are so bad, being alone couldn't be any worse.' 'And how would _you_ know that?' Justin drew up his T-shirt and swung round, revealing the scar of a knife wound in the small of his back. Gordon got up and touched the spot softly. 'Who did that to you?' 'My mother's boyfriend.' 'What a CUNT!' Justin raised his forefinger in admonition, and added, 'she doesn't like being alone either.' Gordon gave the boy a hug. Nothing was said for a time, then he released him. 'Come on, we're going to have a day out on the town.'

Brad Chaytor relished the taxi ride with Beth Coleridge from the airport to her city centre apartment; the young Californian was fascinated by all he saw en route, Manchester's former mills, canals, railway arches, and cobbled lanes all veiled in a fine grey mist. Beth could almost read his thoughts: 'Remember, when you meet the locals they don't want to hear about all this old stuff, however captivated _you_ might be with it. Tell them you love their football teams, and the Trafford Centre.' Brad grinned, revealing delightfully natural _un-Hollywood_ teeth. 'Well I guess that's easy, I _have_ heard of Manchester United, who hasn't? But how do _they_ like your Sister Agnes?' Beth laughed, 'Sister Agnes? Well, I hope they bought it, I _think_ they did. I can't do the local Manchester accent, not a chance, so I opted for 'd'auld Oirish' ' Brad got serious. 'So what've we got on this case?' Beth was hesitant.'Not much, and I've just found out that Jez Roth's in town too, so we've to keep tabs on the media as well.' Brad wanted to show his interest wasn't waning.'And we've _no idea_ what Karton's doing?' 'No,' Beth continued, 'other than his pathology department has continued to work for nearly two years on research that was kicked into the long grass. What they're doing and, more to the point, producing, is a mystery.' 'But we have somebody in there?' 'Sure we do, at the plant, but dealing with his private life was more of a challenge. Karton lives with his _partner Gordon_ , as you'll be aware.' Beth gave a knowing look, and Brad seemed slightly uncomfortable. 'So that's where the Sister Agnes thing comes in?' he enquired. 'Mm. Wasn't easy though. I found somebody perfect to go in. But the kid's just seventeen, so we had to get indemnities to cover us. He's smart and has settled in well.' Brad tried not to sound too interested. 'So what about the kid?' 'Justin? He lives with Kris and Gordon. He's something else; nearly blew my cover first time I called round Karton's place. Got his dick out and waved it at me!' She smiled to recall it. 'But you kept it together?' Brad asked. 'Of course, ever the professional! Beth laughed. 'Anyways, you'll be meeting him before long. Let's just hope he doesn't show his dick to _you_!' Brad held the coffee cup close to his face, partially hiding what he assumed was his colouring face. Why had _he_ been chosen for this assignment? They _couldn't know,_ could they?

### Chapter 10: Viva Espana

After a rather bumpy passage, flight 6969 landed at Gran Enculo and decanted its weary, drink-sozzled passengers into the baking Spanish heat. Kris and Roberto's antics on board had not gone unnoticed by their fellow travellers, and, as they queued at passport control, an occasional _tut-tut_ , mingled with 'fuck off and die you cock sucking fags' could be heard, demonstrating that – amongst the British public at least -full acceptance of the gay way of life has yet some way to go! But before long, our redoubtable couple picked up a hire car and, leaving behind the unwashed masses of Manchester finally headed to their destination. Reaching the outskirts of the town, a road sign proclaimed, 'GRAN ENCULO' 'How did you find out about this place?' asked Roberto. Kris melted at the recollection of happy times past: 'Well, when I was a kid my parents used to take my sister and me to the Derbyshire Dales for long weekends. One of the prettier villages we visited was _Gaping Hole,_ site of the biggest pothole in England. The place was a great tourist attraction, and popular with outdoor types. Many men ventured into that hole never to be seen again.' 'We could be discussing your life.' Roberto observed gloomily; Kris continued: 'In the 1960s _Gaping Hole_ was twinned with its Spanish counterpart _Gran Enculo._ When I was 15 I came here on a school exchange and visited it for the first time. One day I got into a friendly argument with some Spanish kids as to whose ' _hole'_ was bigger, the Spanish or the English. But all agreed mine was biggest by far. Oddly enough, I never got to see theirs. The years passed, but, when I found out last year that I could rent property here, I couldn't wait to find my dream villa. Now that I've got it - and you're here too - it's perfect.' Roberto was puzzled. Kris appeared to have 'holes' on the brain, but he was not prepared to burst the little man's bubble – yet! Arriving at the love nest, the two men unpacked and quickly settled in. Roberto, utterly blasé about sunshine preferred to chill out on the balcony and read. But sun starved Kris couldn't wait to strip off and prostrate himself under the rays. He disappeared into the bedroom, changed into swimwear, and returned, presenting his lover with a small gift. Roberto unwrapped the parcel, displaying all the exasperation of those who wish neither to give nor receive presents. The wrapping contained the flimsiest of thongs, made of diaphanous material, and scarcely big enough to contain the Hispanic's nut sack let alone his weaponry. 'You don't expect me to wear _that,_ do you?' Roberto contemptuously flung the item on the floor. But Kris was resourceful; picking up the underwear he re-wrapped it carefully and tried to remain upbeat. ' _De nada._ I suspected it would go nowhere near you, _Guapo_. So let's try out the nudist beach at _Los Pubos._ There, underwear won't matter. _'_ Roberto considered the plan. He didn't like beaches, nudist or otherwise. Even as a toddler, he'd drawn unwelcome attention one day, crawling on all fours naked over the sand, yet leaving _five trails_! But it was time to compromise so he agreed to visit the beach, on condition he could drape a towel over his enormous cock. They loaded the car with all the paraphernalia necessary for the beach, and got ready for the short drive to Los Pubos. Kris equipped himself with a variety of magazines, some paper and a pencil, while Roberto clutched what appeared to be a bulky, ancient tome. Kris was curious: 'What are you taking to read?' Roberto glanced at the book's cover, the way readers often do when asked self evident questions, and replied, ' _Relics and Reliquaries of Spain and their locations'_ None the wiser Kris looked away; Roberto countered, 'and what are you doing, what's the pencil and paper for?' Kris's face lit up. 'It _was_ going to be a surprise! I intend to compose a sonnet to you, a tribute to your manhood, _and_ in your native tongue. But there are some words you must give me the Spanish for.' 'Like what, for example?'The little man paused: 'Well, erm .... 'baby's arm', 'on a', 'stitched', 'lamb's heart', 'like a' 'cock' ' Roberto buried his head in his hands. 'Don't you ever fucking think of anything else?'

Manchester. Justin's decision to take Gordon bowling was not one of his most inspired. The burly teacher, these days tipping the scales at over 230 pounds, hadn't exercised in years and was, frankly, unable to lean more than 15 degrees forward of vertical without falling over! But Justin had been patient, and his arthritic, older companion reckoned that the least he owed the youngster was to try. All the same, he was glad when the time came to bail out of the alley and head for his favourite real ale pub _The_ _Badger's Scrotum_. For the benefit of the uninitiated, _real ale_ is an unfiltered, unpasteurised beer, often produced by micro breweries and, more often than not, possessed of ridiculous brand names. For Gordon, its chief appeal was that it caused him quickly to forget about the mess of his life, _and_ in the company of men whose lives appeared even worse by comparison. None of this was Justin's bag, of course, and, as he crossed the threshold of _The Scrotum_ he looked around at the smelly, ancient, and depressed detritus of straight, male society, and thanked his stars he was gay. But the barman was delighted to see such a young and attractive _aficionado_ and sprang to serve him _._ 'What'll you have, young fella?' he bellowed, setting twin pony tails of nasal hair quivering. 'Ooh, God..... erm, a Coke.' Not expecting this order the barman rubbed his filthy apron, rolled his eyes, then turned to Gordon: 'And yourself?' Gordon scanned the bar, but was in little doubt, 'a pint of ' _Auld Tom's Man Chowder' '_ The barman's relief was palpable. 'A wise choice Sir, if I may say so; strong tones of mackerel and ammonia, but the hops and sugar come through.' Justin glanced along the bar at some drunk ordering yet another beer. The old soak had methodically drained his glass in eight measured gulps, each leaving a revolting ring of froth, suds, and saliva sticking to the inside of the vessel. Justin gagged as this glass, and its bacterial Armageddon were offered up to the nozzle for refilling. But Gordon was enjoying himself, and he was determined to quit _The Scrotum_ only when he was no longer able to walk or talk. Staggering out of the pub, Justin piloted his weighty human cargo towards a fish and chip shop, where they took on sustenance. The youngster was banking on the greasy nourishment sobering Gordon up before they got to _Spurtz._ The big man was not on his best form, however, and he'd hardly got through the door of the club when he demanded to be taken to the toilet. Justin piloted his friend to the gents and stood beside him at the urinal. Gordon leaned over, propping himself against the wall, then he let out a howl of pain, 'Oh no, oh God!' 'What is it? What's up?' Justin shouted. 'My back, I'm seizing up. It must have been the bowling.' Gordon staggered backwards, clasping his back with both hands. Sadly, he'd not finished pissing, and his unsupported dick was spinning around like a fire hydrant. Justin danced around like a dervish, dodging the beery spray and trying to steer his rampaging friend from bouncing off walls or falling into pools of piss. Then he grabbed a chair and eased the gentle giant onto it. 'I don't know what I'd do without you' gasped Gordon. Justin looked concerned. 'Just as long as you're OK.' Gordon stretched out his arms, 'come here, and give me a hug.' Justin bent over, awkwardly, and put his arms around Gordon, giving him a big hug – it was an innocent enough gesture, and mild by comparison with what may be witnessed in many gay toilets, but on this occasion it was not so much ' _what'_ was witnessed' as 'by _whom._ ' Greene Carter had just entered the washroom and, unobserved by the odd couple, stood silently as they giggled, and hugged. He watched till he could take no more, and left.

Spain's _hot_. By three in the afternoon our travellers, wearied by the beach and overcome by a surfeit of sun returned home. Kris decided to take a nap. This was Roberto's chance: hastily scribbling a note of explanation, he grabbed the car keys and made off in the direction of town. There, he parked up and entered the public library. After about an hour, he emerged with a look of steely determination in his eyes, got into the car, and drove as though his life depended on it. Leaving the seaside town he drove inland, the motorways of the busy coastal strip giving way to ordinary roads, then country roads, then tracks. The dust and heat of the Plain was long gone: Roberto's route now climbed and snaked through mountainous terrain until, finally, twinkling lights proclaimed the whereabouts of the tiny settlement of San Cava, patron saint of cheap, sparkling wine. Roberto threaded his way through the tiny village. No-one was about; the only sound was the wind, as it sent eddies of dust scurrying across the street. Such shops as there were had closed and all doors and shutters seemed barred. But ahead lay a church, undistinguished and stark. The Hispanic parked up and circuited the modest building, checking, as he did so that no-one was about. The church's west door was locked, but a much smaller door, located in the north wall - and not overlooked - was still open. Roberto crept in: he knew that within minutes the rich orange glow of the setting sun would sink behind the mountain range, and the church be consumed by a Stygian blackness. The interior of the building was austere and bleak beyond comprehension. Accustomed as he was to the Church of Rome's predilection for the gaudy and theatrical, Roberto found the church impoverished, harsh, and alien. Then he caught sight of a small statue in the north east corner. Fully expecting it to be a likeness of San Cava, Roberto was astonished to find it was the image of a woman, and one, moreover, whose arched eyebrows and strange smile seemed to mock him. Roberto gasped as he gently laid his finger on the twisted mouth. 'Claro! Es Santa Bigue!' Increíble! He was just about to move even closer when he heard the door open; an aged priest entered. 'What is it you seek? I'm about to lock the church?' Roberto, recovering himself quickly, bowed slightly to the old man, 'I come to pay reverence to the Divine, Bigue, D' île D'eau.' The priest smiled, revealing dentistry not unlike the late Queen Elizabeth's, and gesturing towards the saint, he went on: 'As well you might, a remarkable woman! This statue is French, probably late sixteenth century. Note the interesting crooked smile the saint wears. No-one quite knows to what _that_ relates. Now, my son, I can see you are carrying a great weight on your shoulders. What is it that worries you?' Roberto looked arch. 'I can't say, father.' 'Then I can't help you.' Roberto pondered a moment or two; he'd come a long way and dreamt of this day for years. 'OK, I want a _huge cock,_ are you happy now?' The priest groaned. 'But tell me _why,_ why do you desire a massive penis?' 'Who doesn't?' 'How big is yours, may I enquire?' 'Twenty two centimetres in length.' The old priest fell back, clutching his throat and gasping, 'what is it about men, why is enough never enough? In the name of God, how much bigger do you want it to be?' 'I want the _Dick of Death,_ none shall possess a weapon its equal. I _must_ find the magic water that will deliver me the inches I crave, don't you see?' The old padre genuflected, and raised his eyes to Heaven. 'This sacred water has brought much pain over the centuries. First it was the English; Saint Bigue sought to make their cocks the biggest in Christendom, but, as you may know, Englishmen prefer drinking to fucking, so, when they discovered they could not easily piss with a stiffy, they abandoned the water. Holy Church decided to remove the magic elixir to France. Oh, what a grave error of judgement that was! In truth, the Frenchmen made better use of the water's powers, and soon their women were lock jawed, bandy legged and disembowelled. But there was another problem. Big knobs mean even bigger foreskins, and the Gallic men - _then as now_ strangers to basic hygiene - would not keep their _head cheese_ under control. Somehow or other this pestilential putrescence found its way into a stock of Camembert – they both looking and smelling the same - and ended up poisoning a third of the population. After that it was decided to remove the Holy Water to a secret place in the mountains of Southern Spain, where it remains to this day.' Roberto had followed all this closely, never taking his eyes off the old priest for a moment, 'but you're _never_ going to tell me where it is, are you, Padre?' 'The Holy Church forbids me, my son. Please, be content with the _schlong_ you already have. I foresee in the years that lie ahead it will cause many sphincters to spasm and eyes water. Let that be enough for you!' Roberto said nothing but he was far from content and now nursed a fierce determination. He'd visit this church again, soon, and – priest or no priest – he'd find what he was looking for!

### Chapter 11: Home Thoughts from Abroad

Life's not fair, never was. Greene Carter was one of the quieter types, and, for as long as he could remember, people had judged him for it. His silence was construed as timidity by some, sullen scheming by others: he had either nothing to say, or too much too hide: and in our era of frenzied communication _his_ quiet introspection was deemed reticence, disinterest, even arrogance. Fact is that Greene was none of this. He _was_ shy, insecure and often tongue tied, but he was also guileless. He thought, spoke and did none harm, and, beyond that, knew not what more he could do. If he had a fault, it was a harmless vanity in choosing career paths that were frivolous and unproductive, and a weakness for Vivienne Westwood fashion, which may have appealed to his taste, but exhausted his wallet. Greene had confided in Gordon Chapman about Roberto and, Gordon, realising that he and his informer were both sharers in a twin deception, had revealed his betrayal by Kris. In his heart Greene hoped the big man would develop feelings for him, but for the moment he suspected that that was just wishful thinking. Gordon's twenty year relationship was all but over, he needed support more than anything. Greene knew about Justin, and – initially at least - saw him as no more than another of Gordon's rescued _young_ men, not a rival. But the incident in the men's washroom at the club changed that. He'd seen with his own eyes how good Gordon and Justin seemed together. Which gay man doesn't want some pretty young thing on his arm, especially if he's bright, sexy and witty? But Justin wasn't simply young; he had attributes Greene would never possess. He was smart, lively, and capable. Nothing appeared to faze him, nobody overawe him. Youth of itself is pretty worthless; we all have that at one time. But Greene ached to know why this boy was the possessor of all the other good things; why he?

Brad Chaytor walked over to the window of his hotel room and stared at the slate grey sky. He was puzzled: just an hour earlier the sunrise was so bright it had wakened him. But now the scene was changing before his eyes. No country on earth does cloud better than Britain, and in less time than it took the young American to shower and breakfast, an unrelenting _altostratus_ had crept in from the Atlantic and reduced the sun to a pale lemon disc. Brad had never been further from the west coast of America and right now it had never felt closer to his heart. The young FBI agent was acclimatising fast to English life. His expensive Brookes Brothers suit hung undisturbed in the wardrobe. Beth explained he'd not need it – anymore than he would the $400 loafers. In the UK, even the men who _can_ afford to dress well rarely do. He glanced nervously at his mobile once more and her text. She'd advised him he could do worse that join Justin on a shopping expedition to the city centre. _He_ 'd know what did and didn't work in Manchester. Brad was apprehensive yet curious about meeting the youngster: he already felt some respect for the seventeen year old who'd posed as a battered step son, inveigled his way into a household occupied by two middle aged homosexual men, and gained so unreservedly their confidence. He checked the mirror, and got ready to groom his voluminous Californian hair. He recalled Beth's words 'Most men in the UK are bald by 30, you might like to consider losing some of that, unless you _want_ to show out.' That _was_ a bridge too far! Applying product, he flattened his thatch of mid brown hair and brushed it back. Preppy or not, he was good to go.

Kris sprang out of bed, stretched and broke wind. Giggling like a girl, he held a hand to his mouth in feigned outrage. He turned to Roberto, recumbent on their lately-soiled bed of lust, 'you know, the great thing about holidays is that you can forget work, sleep when you like, get up when you like, and generally do nothing.' Coming, as he did, from a part of the world where that was the norm Roberto couldn't see what the fuss was about. Languidly, he combed through his pubic hair arranging it to best advantage. 'You Anglo-Saxons and your ridiculous work ethic, what's it ever done for you? Life is first and last about the pursuit of pleasure.' Kris could not argue. He'd sampled some of that pleasure during the last hour and, now that his _mangina_ had stopped buzzing, was preparing to shower and freshen up. Roberto remained preoccupied with comb, musing aloud, 'do you think if I thinned out the bush my cock would look even bigger?' Kris pretended not to hear, and prattled on: 'Speaking of pleasure, tonight I've booked us into _El Comedor Rodrigo,_ over in Campo Amor. It's the best restaurant for miles around, especially their fish. _Nothing's_ too good or expensive for my lover.' Kris leaned over and planted a kiss on Roberto's flayed tool. The Latino grimaced as though dog faeces had just been smeared across the upper reaches of his goatee. 'You might have consulted me first! I'm allergic to certain fish, especially here in Spain. I think they ship the shrimp in from Viet Nam. The stuff smells. I _so_ miss the wonderful seafood we have back home.' Kris wasn't sympathetic. 'Fish is fish, the smell doesn't bother me. And anyway, you know what they say: there are only two things that smell like fish, and one of them _is_ fish.' 'And what is the other?' asked Roberto innocently. Kris brayed with laughter as he cast down his eyes on the Hispanic's throbbing portion, Roberto looked stricken. 'You British are inexplicably coarse at times.' Taking that as a compliment, Kris continued: 'They _know_ me at El Comedor. It's safe to say that I made a real impression when I visited last summer. Rodrigo the owner actually said, 'we don't get many like _you_ in here'. And the cuisine was amazing! I complimented the chef on some of the best pork I'd ever tasted. He told me 'I can see _you_ know your way around a piece of meat.' But Roberto's mind was elsewhere, flitting between the white sand and topaz water of his native land, and a tiny, gloomy mountain church nearby where he'd soon realise a lifelong dream. And the only face he could see was not Kris's, but that of a stony faced woman with a cruel smile and eyes wide with scorn.

Brad made his way to the Triangle Shopping Centre and stood near the big wheel, the spot where he'd meet Justin. The young American was no people watcher, and derived neither joy nor interest from the endless swirl of humanity as it ebbed and flowed around him. England seemed small, densely crowded, with narrow streets, congested traffic and omnipresent noise. Exactly on time he saw a young man walking directly towards him. Justin smiled broadly. Brad quickly took stock of his new acquaintance. Justin was pleasing rather than handsome. His nose was small and 'rétroussé', as the French say, or 'pig like' as we do. His fair skin was peppered with freckles, making him appear even younger than his 17 years, and his grey blue eyes sparkled with fun. Brad was curious about the unkempt curly honey blond hair, and reflected on Beth's words. If she was right, and Englishmen only keep their hair till they're 30, then it made sense that they ought to enjoy it while they can! Brad offered his hand, but Justin reached around and hugged him. At once the American realised that the kid was stronger than he looked. Justin took control of the situation, 'let's go for a Coke, or coffee if you like, in _here.'_ Brad understood instinctively what it takes many of us a lifetime to discover. There are two types of people; those who have no particular plan, and those who have a plan for everything: Justin was the latter. Inside the shopping centre the youngster ordered and paid for drinks and returned to the table. He handed Brad a decaf coffee, 'I've never met an American before, you're my first.' 'But you've met Beth surely?' Brad answered. 'You mean Sister Agnes. She's Irish, isn't she?' Brad laughed, 'I guess she's whatever she wants you to think. She did tell me she couldn't do the local accent ' 'Just as well, she'd end up sounding like John Lennon or something.' Both laughed: Brad asked, 'where's a good place to talk?' 'I've got that all sorted,' replied Justin 'Gordon's at work, we can go back to the house. His desktop is there. I understand you can interrogate his computer, you've got the gear.' Brad was a little unprepared for this: 'What about Karton? Do we know where he is exactly?' 'Not exactly. In Spain, with some guy. He won't be around.' 'OK. Sounds good. I'll need to grab my equipment first, or it's not happening.' Justin laughed coarsely, 'yeah, grab your equipment before I do. I bet I could make it happen.' And in a second, the gulf between them yawned as wide as possible, for Brad coloured and did not know what to say. Then he spluttered, 'erm, I thought we were gonna pick out some clothes.' Justin stared into the handsome American's eyes; he knew he was master of the situation. At least for now. 'No, you look great as you are. Let's just get over there.'

Wearing more jewellery than the Gabor sisters combined, and smelling like some rancid old dowager, Kris emerged from the bathroom and declared himself ready for the evening: 'Soy listo.' 'I think 'Lista' in your case, _and_ you used the wrong verb ' Roberto observed humourlessly. 'Whatever! Taxi's here.' The route to Campo Amor took them along a series of dusty, litter strewn roads, with the periodic bougainvillea-lined avenue for relief. Building work at every stage of completion engulfed them. Houses, some never used, some abandoned, some derelict sat forlornly in the evening sunshine. Roberto made some observation to the cab driver apropos the colossal and immoral overbuilding, and received a primeval grunt by return. Kris, of course, was happy to overlook any number of shortcomings, litter, debris, and vandalism included. So what, if there was the occasional exposed power cable, gaping storm drain and unfenced 100 metre drop? Kris was tired of the nanny state back in the UK. He found Spain refreshing in the way it invited visitors to take a more active interest in their personal safety. Before long they arrived at Campo Amor and the door of _El Comedor Rodrigo._ Kris was gushing with anticipation: 'Keep the change, mi amigo' he smirked, handing his ride a 20 Euro note. The cab driver grabbed the cash and took off faster than you could say 'been had.' 'I already paid him when we left the house.' observed Roberto tartly. Silently the two men entered the restaurant. Inside, a waiter approached Kris to take his coat, but Dr Karton MD had spotted the proprietor, 'Rodrigo! hola, cuanto esto?' Roberto groaned. The bar staff stared. The customers stifled embarrassed giggles. The restaurant owner spun round, stared at Kris, muttered something to his head waiter, and disappeared into the kitchen. But his second in command was the next target. ' _Caballero_ , la cuenta por favor.' The maitre D looked perplexed. Roberto hissed into Kris's ear, 'why are you asking for the bill, moron, we've just arrived? Don't you mean the menu?' But Kris ignored that and, taking both the waiter's and Roberto's arms, minced to the bar. ' _Garçon,_ let me introduce a very special friend. This is Roberto. I've been telling him about my time here last summer, and the special things you and I tried out together.' The waiter looked mortified, but Roberto had recovered the situation and quickly barked at him in his native tongue, 'you've never seen this guy before, have you?' And the waiter's reply was quite decisive. 'No, and believe me I'd have remembered!' But Kris pressed on, 'tonight we're going to have my usual, and a bottle of your best rosario.' The waiter, who'd have dealt better with an aphasic Mandarin speaker, turned to Roberto and pleaded with him, 'his usual? You're going to have to help me here.' Roberto sank into his chair, but Kris was back on his feet, arms waving and nostrils flaring like a pig discovering truffles: 'No, dos botelias, por favour, dos! We're going to celebrate.' 'And what exactly are we celebrating?' asked the bewildered Roberto. 'Well that profound _plugging_ I got this afternoon is a good start' smirked his friend.But Roberto felt like he had nothing to celebrate. This was turning out to be a really bad day. At least that's how it felt. But this was nothing: he was less than twenty four hours away from his worst nightmare!

### Chapter 12: Armed and Dangerous

Kris and Roberto's evening out at _El Comedor Rodrigo_ hadn't gone well. Asked to leave the restaurant, they'd tramped around the resort until they discovered two establishments – an Indian curry house, and an Irish theme bar – that had no history of ever turning anyone away. The bar in particular was delighted to discover that Kris was prepared to surrender his credit card, and be charged for cheap Spanish plonk four times the supermarket price. Thus the night ended, with Roberto having to carry home a very drunk, obnoxious, rubber legged partner. The following morning it was an irresistible urge to urinate that finally forced Kris to rise from his sick bed, and, blinking back a hangover that would have felled a Russian truck driver, totter to the bathroom. Dr Karton MD, trained to use his not inconsiderable powers of deduction, quickly concluded that his partner had not spent the night with him, and was nowhere to be seen. Kris sighed and threw half a dozen aspirin down his throat, washed down with a small cup of tepid eggnog, left from the night before. He returned to bed, catching sight on the night stand of the note left for him by Roberto. 'Kris, I've taken the car and gone to San Cava. I'm developing a real interest in Moorish architecture and believe I'll find something of interest in the mountains west of Gran Enculo. See you later this evening.' Kris threw down the missive in disgust, and muttered to himself, 'Moorish architecture my arse! This is supposed to be our holiday.' But his rant was interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. Nursing his head Kris shambled to the door: he opened it to reveal a small dark man in overalls. He blinked in disbelief, 'Luis, is it you?' 'Si, Señor Karton.' 'Luis, el jardinero?' 'Si.You like I do your gar-deen?' The previous evening's excesses had given Kris breath that would have stripped paint at one hundred yards, but he drew the hapless Nicaraguan gardener closer, making his eyes water, 'it's so good to see you Luis, and you remembered me from last year?' 'Si, Señor Kar- _tone_ , you were very kind to me. I alway ree-member.' 'And I shall be kind again.' The Nicaraguan beamed in appreciation and thrust a box he was holding in Kris's direction: 'I have mucho poison now, I can clear many _gatos_ from your gar-deen?' Kris pondered. Mmm? The cats _were_ a problem. He so admired the robust and unsentimental way Spain deals with the animals, and pets that have outstayed their welcome. Then he reconsidered: 'No, I don't think so Luis. The cats have gone, and the garden seems fine, but I _do_ have some plumbing work you can do.' 'Plu-meen?' 'Yes, my U-bend has a slight blockage, and I'd like you to clear it out for me. I _know_ you've got the equipment.' And with that he dragged the wretched colonial indoors and upstairs to where that equipment was going to be tested to destruction.

A cool evening breeze whined through the restless trees encircling the small mountain church. Roberto kept vigil at a distance. Presently, the moment he was anticipating arrived: the priest came out of the building and walked off in the direction of the village. The lustful Latino stole into the church and approached the altar. He knew that time was against him. Soon, the setting of the sun would end what little light there was. He gazed at the statue of Saint Bigue, what an enigma she was! He couldn't escape the feeling that the holy virgin was mocking him with her curled lip and arched brows. Then he fell to his knees in anguish and supplication. We can never know exactly which god it was he prayed to - presumably the god of superstition - but in that very moment, the dying sun cast its amber rays on the effigy itself, and settled around her genital area, revealing a gash. 'Exactamente!' Roberto leapt up and stood in front of the statue. Close examination of the saint's _snatch_ revealed a sizeable indent in the marble. Hopeful of a miracle, thousands of pilgrims throughout the ages had rubbed on the sacred, stony _slit_ wearing it away. Waiting not a moment longer Roberto stiffened his forefinger, and plunged it into St Bigue's _meat wallet._ Immediately there was a groaning of internal machinery, whereupon the saint's head sprang clear of her body and clattered to the floor. Roberto placed a chair next to the headless icon, and gazed into the aperture. There, in the body cavity was the vessel he sought. Heart thumping, the horny Hispanic reached into the depths, and withdrew the ancient jug. For a few ecstatic moments he clasped the container to his chest, but, aware that his considerable manhood was already swelling in anticipation, common sense told him to withdraw and relish the success of his enterprise in safety elsewhere. But since when has the voice of reason ever been heard when a cock is stiffening? Wasting no more time Roberto unleashed his mighty _manmeat_ , and prepared to dowse it with the magic water that would confer on him the status of _world class dick_. Frantically, he splashed the slimy, green brown liquid over his tool, but then without warning came a noise from outside: _'This is the Guardia Civil. The church is surrounded. You must come out and give yourself up. We know you're in there, and we are armed'_ It was a standoff, and both sides had weapons drawn.

Brad and Justin's progress through the city was slow. The young FBI agent just couldn't get over the fact that his guide didn't have a car. Making any journey from _a_ to _b_ by foot, bus and tram was something with which Brad was neither acquainted nor sought to be. But eventually they arrived at their destination, the affluent, tree lined lane that was Kris and Gordon's home. Once inside Justin led Brad into the conservatory and brought him something to drink. Justin was keen to learn the latest. 'So, you said you already have some theory on this Karton thing?' Brad cleared his throat. 'Well, yeah, I do. But it's just my take and it's kind of weird. Karton uses a code in the diary he keeps. And that's where I got my break' 'You've got me excited, now.' Brad wished Justin wouldn't use language that seemed to him so suggestive. But he remained calm. 'OK. Karton writes that one day at the lab they ran out of the brand of cigarettes they usually use on the dogs. By chance he had a pack of 200 cigarettes of his own he'd gotten when on vacation. Problem is they were menthol. No matter, he went ahead and tried them out on the Beagles. This is where it gets really weird. According to him, the dogs reacted to the menthol cigarettes by turning gay, and when they were let loose for recreation and toilet they started licking and mounting each other.' Justin was following closely. 'God, Karton could be on to something there. Did he do any real research?' 'I guess. It's in code and I need more time, but he tested different kinds of tobacco, American, Eastern European, Turkish, you name it. Each time the response varied slightly but the basics were the same. For instance, after they'd smoked the _French_ menthols Karton reckons the dogs were even shagging in threes! And the Dutch cigs, Jeez, the beagles were sticking rubber bones up each others' asses!' Justin couldn't hide his excitement. 'This could be dynamite. Think what it would mean if foreign powers got hold of it?' 'Absolutely, I totally agree. That's why I'm here. The world's biggest producer of menthols right now is China. We think they could flood the South East Asian market with these cigarettes, then guys from Laos to the Philippines, Cambodia to Singapore, Viet Nam to Borneo would be on a 24/7 shagfest. The whole Pacific Rim would be aquiver. If the Chinese invaded any of these countries they'd find the natives wanted to fuck not fight them.' Brad and Justin stared at one another for several seconds, but the latter's eyes were sparkling with mischief. Unable to contain themselves any longer both men burst into laughter. Just then a knock came to the door. Justin went into the hall, and checked the house door's security eyehole. He returned to the kitchen without answering the door. 'It's that guy Greene. Gordon works with his sister. I don't know why he's here right now. He should realise that Gordon's at school. Come on, we don't want to be disturbed, let's go upstairs.' Justin occupied the spare bedroom at the rear of the house, and had a fine view over the large back garden; but the room itself was small, and stuffed with Kris and Gordon's surplus possessions, leaving space for only a compact four feet wide bed. The boy had managed to personalise the space to some degree, and one of his favourite adornments was the wall calendar depicting fire fighters in almost total undress. Brad noticed it at once. 'Bet you can't wait for December to come round?' he quipped. Justin nimbly flicked back the pages and revealed December in all its majesty, hunk and hose alike. Brad tried to remain cool. 'So when did you know you were gay?' 'Who says I'm gay' Justin replied mischievously. Brad, looking slightly irritated gestured towards the calendar: Justin sensed this at once. 'Well, yeah, OK. It's obvious to me I'm gay. But I hate labels. I don't want to be put into some compartment, acting the same way as everybody else. That's almost as bad as being straight.' 'What do you mean?' 'Simple. Say I watch some girl band, and the lead singer looks hot, great hair, legs, rack. I can say that out loud. Doesn't mean I fancy her. But straight guys can't say that about another guy. Christ, half the men in England fancy David Beckham but they haven't got the guts to say it. It's pathetic. Do you know what I mean?' 'Sort of, but there must have been some experience – something that happened to you - that left you in no doubt, no?' Justin looked thoughtful. 'I was on a school trip; it was to see the AA Motor Rally up in Scotland. I didn't want to go, it wasn't my thing, but there was this kid at school called Don, he asked me to go. Don was arty, and had wild shoulder length hair, looked great on him. He wasn't gay, or anything, but we just got on well. So, this night we were travelling back in a mini bus, and we were in the back, sitting together. It was about two in the morning and we were both wrecked. He fell asleep. It seems stupid now, but his head just rested on my shoulder, nothing else.' There was a moment of silence between the two, then Justin continued, ... 'everybody thinks there's gonna be some big moment. It's not like that. Don was asleep, if he'd known his face was so close to mine he'd have been embarrassed and pulled away, but he didn't. It stayed like that for ages, just us two in the back, in the darkness. And I knew then that was what I wanted. I wanted him. My mind was going wild thinking about how good it would be if we were together.' He stopped. The mood had changed now and both men were quiet. Brad was summoning all his courage. Justin was younger but had grown up fast. Now it was time for Brad to do the same. 'May I lie with you on the bed?' To Brad's relief Justin didn't make fun or dismiss this, 'yeah, I'd like that.' Brad removed his jacket and lay down on the bed, next to the wall, Justin lay beside him. For several minutes they talked, each with his eyes fixed on the ceiling. The young American spoke quietly and earnestly about his background, his family, his career, his girlfriends. 'I don't mean to pry, but in some ways it's easier for you here.' Brad paused; he could almost hear Justin suck in the air in irritation. 'I just mean that you have legislation in Europe. You don't have the religion thing going on, and all the other societal pressures.' There was a longer pause, then Justin replied, 'you're right. That's all true, but in the end it's up to you. Only you can find out what you want and, make it happen.' He turned away, facing the wall. Brad reached over and put his hand on his arm. 'Here's the deal. I _know_ what I want, but I need support. And I feel stupid opening up to a kid like you, no disrespect but.... Justin had heard enough; he turned quickly and grabbed Brad's head between his hands, then kissed him. For the briefest of moments the young American resisted then sank back into the bed. He took Justin's mop of curly hair in his hand and went with the moment.
