Friday afternoon, we drive from San Francisco to the isolated home some friends of mine share in the Sierras. He does not know that my friends will be returning early Saturday morning to help me destroy him.
He's so fucking cute, and dumber than he looks. He has horrible, faggy taste-- he's happy like a kid when I let him hook his iPod through the stereo and play his "Glee" songs. I ask him about himself, about everything. I want to know every moment of this life I'm about to snuff out. I want to know his favorite foods so that Chef can make them out of him and we can send them to his family with a believably personal note so that they will soothe their mourning with his tender, savory flesh.
I want him to love me.
I'm not sure he's never gone away for the weekend with a man before.
I really turn him on, he says, he's never been with someone old enough to be his dad, or anyone with real muscles.
I tell him about my time in the service. Not about the fun parts.
I tell him that we are stopping for dinner, but he can't go dressed like that. It's a nice place. I've got a surprise. We pull over at a rest stop. I've brought a complete change of clothes for him: suit, tie, dress shirt, shoes. He's thrilled. He's equally thrilled by the sight of my body as I change into my suit. When he's dressed, I get out a joint. I tell him I can't have any, I have to drive, but I want him to taste everything tonight and this will help. He's a little shocked, but I've been smelling the meat for months. I know he's never passed up weed in his life. I tell him to have as much as he wants, I'll take our stuff back to the car.
I put my clothes in the tunk. I take his backpack and the clothes he was wearing, and leave them in the bushes for my friends to find later. They'll search through the for trophies and things that might be fun to use-- that ugly dildo if he brought it, pictures that might make him cry-- as we torture him tomorrow.
The rest they will burn. I won't get to smell that, but I'll see the video.
He's very happy and very distracted as he returns to the car. When we get to the restaurant, I open doors for him, treating him like the big pathetic girl he is. He loves his dinner. My friends own the restaurant and have prepared it especially for him. It is his dog, which they took yesterday from his parents' home. He's really worried. He cried a little when he told me about it, and I reached over and held his hand and told him I was sure it all turn work out.
Tomorrow he will watch the video of them torturing the animal to death-- the Sheik fucked it-- Chef butchering and cooking it, himself eating it.
He will be wrapped in piano wire as he watches. His balls will be gone. He will be realizing that he is not just going to be raped and to experience pain worse than he has ever imagined. He will know by then that he is going to die.
And that we will all be really glad that he is dead.
And that his death will no keep us from continuing to fuck him and fuck with him, forever.
That he himself will be eaten.
Now-- what was the little shit's name?
