Cereal 7: Raising Hell...

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Breakfast of Champions
Seven: Raising Hell

Consciousness was tugging at Paul’s nose in a way that was growing more and more intolerable by the second. He would know that smell anywhere. His love, his addiction, his security blankie, his cigarettes. Maybe he could get a smoke in before the apocalypse pounded his ass. He didn’t feel so hot. His mouth tasted like a two week old marinade of several half-smoked packs of cigarettes in a soupçon of JD. He couldn’t breathe right. He thought about opening his unbungee’d eyes but was preempted by Dave’s hand which came down from above to force consciousness on his right eye. Sleepy time was definitely over.

Paul looked around, as much as he was able. Not promising. There was ash all over his space age retro cotton barbecue god shirt. He deduced, correctly, that someone had been using him as an ashtray. What sort of inconsiderate bastard would kidnap someone, use them as an ashtray, and worst of all smoke INDOORS?

He looked up.

Dave was using him as a park bench. No wonder he couldn’t breathe.

Dave was holding an Old Gold in one hand and a three quarters empty bottle of JD in the other. Paul had yet to figure out whether Mister and Mrs. Sanity were resident in Dave’s cranium, had left for Barbados for the barking mad season, or were just out on a fifteen minute coffee/smoke break . Paul was hoping for a smoke break himself.

"Um, Hi." said Paul.

"WHAT," roared Dave. It wasn’t a question.

Dave’s cigarette was hanging a little too loosely from his fingers for Paul’s taste. The cherry was millimeters from Paul’s face. He was way too hung over to be dealing with shit like this.

"MY FACE! My beautiful beautiful FACE!!" He had just gone through another expensive session with the dermatologist; he was damned if he was going to end up with more scar tissue.

"SHUT UP."

Paul did as he was told.

"Do you accept Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior?"

"OWOWOW!! I mean yes, goddammit!"

"Man. I didn’t even get to do anything to you yet." Dave sounded disappointed.

"Oh. I guess we should start over then."

"OK! That’s the spirit!"

"Whatever," thought Paul. "Uh huh," he said. "I mean yes, yes Jesus is way cool. I’ll tell you I’m Saint Francis of fucking Assisi if you want you goddamn loon just GET THAT CIGARETTE AWAY FROM MY FACE."

The cherry moved a millimeter closer to his skin. Dave moved his mouth next to Paul’s ear. "I’ll tell you what college boy," he whispered, "you better stop taking the piss out of my religion."

"OK I’m a Christian GODDAMMITT!"

Dave burned him. "You didn’t mean that."

"Motherfucker." There was just no pleasing some people. "How the hell do you expect me to be sincere when you’re torturing me?"

Dave blinked. He stood up and started pacing on the minuscule portion of the two card tables not occupied by Paul’s skinny body. He took a swig, then a drag. Drag, drag, swig. Drag. Dave was smoking Nazi style. Very theatrical.

"Figures," thought Paul, "I always fall for the drag queen."

Swig.

"Maybe you should think about untying me?"

"Maybe you should shut the fuck UP." Dave was pouting. "YOU do not have any choice."

Dave stopped pacing. He clamped his feet into Paul’s hips. Dave knelt and attempted to pour some of the JD into Paul’s mouth, mostly dribbling it on Paul’s chin. He stuck his cig resolutely between his own lips and wrinkled up his forehead in a vague but concentrated attempt to focus his energy on pouring the liquid. He dropped the bottle on the table, making a soggy translucent mess out of Paul’s shirt.

Paul was nearly in a swoon. Dave leaned in; Paul realized that if Mattel had chosen to market a serial killer Ken doll, Dave was the perfect model . So, so blonde. The tendons in Dave’s neck stretched out like iced tea spoons poured out of skim milk marble. Paul felt the heat of the lit cigarette like some tiny hot dime on the skin below his right ear. The diffuse heat of Dave’s skin made Paul flush as fast as flash paper going up.

"Oh hell," said Paul. "Oh hell."

The cigarette moved away from his ear and a few inches farther down to the neck proper.

"Mmmmmnh…."

Dave dug his index fingernail into Paul’s skin, tracing a road between the two burns. He burned and traced Paul down to the clavicle. Each red circle sent out expanding, concentric circles of pain through Paul. Each one hurt just a little bit more; each time he moaned just a little bit louder.

Dave fumbled with the buttons on Paul’s shirt. He fiddled with the bungees. His drunken fingers weren’t agile.

He was quietly singing something Paul could barely make out: "Connect the dots…la la la…connect the dots… la la la… connect the dots…"

He managed the buttons and continued down, marking each spot where the nub of thread connected buttons to Paul’s shirt. He paused when he reached the button-fly of Paul’s pants as if it was a sexual ‘Severe Tire Damage’ sign.

"Please…please…" whispered Paul. His eyes glazed over. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold out.

Dave fumbled with the button-fly. He was trying to concentrate again and the veil of booze was making it difficult. The cigarette dropped out of his mouth onto Paul’s stomach, ruining the previously perfect road map to his nether regions.

"Oh Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t know what… I thought… Oh…. Sorrysorrysorry so so sorry."

"Please, please."

Dave unbuttoned Paul’s pants and jerked him off.

Paul fell asleep.

Dave started crying.