Copyright© 2005 by Kien Reti

"Now don't get me wrong. I have nothing against them personally. It's just that..."

This was right after he had left the latest of his victims bleeding and lying in a pool of vomit in an alley. Nice guy, Biff was. He'd go to one of the familiar haunts, plop down on a barstool, order a beer, and make like he was lonely and looking for a good time. It was only a matter of minutes before someone sat down next to him and made a move.

"Hey, dude. You're new here, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"Not much action tonight. Thursdays are usually slow. But, it can get interesting. Buy you a drink, stranger?"

"Wouldn't mind."

It didn't take long to get past the small talk, exchange smiles and maybe an "accidental" touch or two.

"I'm Dana. And you're... ?"

"Biff. My place or yours?"

A piece of meat, that's all his pickup was. Sure, Biff might accept a blow job if offered. But, that was the absolute limit, he insisted. Hey, it wasn't as if he actually... Once, though, in a late-night drunken confession, he had let on that what he was really after was getting up the the back passage. "Tighter'n a pussy, and not as sloppy."

"Well, look," I said to him then, "if you're getting what you want, do you have to pound the shit out of your partner afterwards?"

"You for real, Jimbo? I'm straight, dammit! A man! Not a fuckin' fairy. Sure, I grab what I gotta have, and, sure, get me a piece of that nice round brown. But, you know, it ain't a sex thing, really. When I'm deep inside, all the way up a queer's hole, it's like I'm on top of the world. Hey, if I can use a guy like he was a women, then what does that make me? Superman, right? I fuck him I own him. Right? Right?"

"Right. You've got him over a barrel."

"Over a barrel. Good way to put it... over a barrel. Yeah, man, it's all about power. Raw, naked power."

You might wonder why anybody would hang out with a certified asshole like Biff. He isn't my kind of guy for certain: a scumbag and a thug, a lout who's as dumb as your average box of rocks, a closet gay in extreme denial, and a sadistic bully to boot. Well, he needs me. I protect him from the consequences of some of his more outrageous behavior, bail him out of jail when necessary, lend him a couple of bucks when he's broke, give him a temporary place to stay when he's been kicked out of his lodgings, and listen to his whining.

Sure, it puts a dent in my social life. I've lost quite a number of friends on account of him and he's spoiled some perfectly good relationships with girlfriends of mine by his disgusting behavior. Still, I don't know that I have much choice. You see, he saved my butt a few years back. It was in one of those little brushfire wars in the Near East. I had taken a burst of shrapnel from a grenade, and he carried me on his back all the way to the evac helicopter. Sure, I may not care for Biff much, but, damn it, I owe him. Sometimes, I have to wonder, though.

That did it! Biff went too far this time. He had to pick on Art. Art was one of my oldest friends. We went way back. Now, I hadn't known for sure that Artie was gay, but I'd suspected it for a long time. Not that it would have made any difference to our friendship. And, I was careful to keep him far, far away from Biff, of course, knowing what I did about Biffy's little hobby. But, as they say, the best laid plans...

Artie came knocking on my door at four in the morning. He was in tears. And much the worse for wear. Bruised up. Clothes dirty and torn. He had been beaten up. And raped. Anally raped. And, the fine fellow who had done it was none other than... good old Biff.

Damn it! I'd have to teach Biff a lesson. A lesson he'd never forget. But, short of castrating him, I couldn't think of anything appropriate. So, I asked Artie what he'd consider suitable payback. And, what he came up with was nothing short of inspired.

Give Biff a taste of his own medicine, huh? Arrange to have his ass kicked, maybe? "No," Artie chuckled, "not kicked. Fucked."

There was this club downtown. It catered to a certain segment of the gay community. It had a whimsical name -- Roll Out the Barrels -- and its specialties were bondage and anal sex. And, once a week they had a rather unusual ritual.

"All right, Biff, tell me why you did it."

"Fuck you, man. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. And, fuck your friend Artie, too. Fuck all your friends. Fuck the whole world!"

"I'm glad you're willing to be civilized about this. Care for another drink?"

"Yeah, Jimbo. Pour me some more of that rotgut. Yeah, the Scotch."

"Scotch it is. Straight up." But, that ain't all, Biffie.

His voice was starting to slur as he continued spewing his trademarked mixture of resentment, self-pity, and unfocused anger. Then, without warning, he slowly sagged, then fell off his chair onto the floor in a limp puddle. He was still conscious and his eyes were open, but there was no spark of awareness in them.