CHAPTER 13
Truman
I had the motel guy mail the postcard and we were on our way.
“I’ve got my Glock,” said Alessio, “so we could do a gas station.”
“We don’t want to hit up the average everyday guy, you know? I think we’re building a Robin Hood rep. We should keep it.”
“Definitely. Let me google the worst part of Tulare and we’re bound to find the dealers.”
That’s exactly what we did.
We drove to a rundown section of town with homeless tents lining the sidewalks, people staggering everywhere, not giving a shit if they were doing deals in plain sight.
Nobody cared. What would cops do about it?
They’d be back on the street the next day unable to pay their fine but somehow able to pay the dealer.
Alessio looked tougher than me, so he was elected to ask around, “Who’s got fentanyl? Who’s got meth?” I really needed to steal some less square clothes. Listen to this. Less square.
Then the squeal of a few cars doing donuts a block away. A takeover. These sideshows were popular, full of drugs, and dangerous for bystanders. And. Lots of cars were left with keys in the ignition as people waited their turn to do spins.
Alessio casually returned to me, loping along. “Excellent. I got about five hundred. One customer protested ‘Hey! I need those drugs!’ when I took them from the dealer. I said ‘No, you don’t.’”
I stopped him by gripping his bicep. “Hey. Listen.”
His gorgeous face lit up as he heard the shrieking of rubber one street over. “Let’s get our car and get closer to the action.”
The takeover intersection was so packed we had to practically part the sea of guys in hoodies with our own front bumper.
When I finally gave up and cranked off the key, Alessio said, “Did you see the ’22 Charger we passed? That’d be amazing.”
Did my eyes shine too? “I’m with you.”
Leaping from my poor old Honda, I pounded on the roof as a way of saying goodbye.
I took some Tums and Chapstick. The blankets we’d stolen from the motel, the Les Paul, our daypacks.
I mean, they’d know it was my Honda immediately.
We couldn’t, nor did we want to, wipe it clean.
I left the keys in the ignition, knowing it’d encourage the new owner to pretend to be me, confusing anyone tailing us.
Already smelling the smoking rubber, I grabbed Alessio’s hand so as not to be separated.
It was difficult to see the actual cars burning out, spinning and sliding, what with the ocean of lifted spectator cellphones filming the action.
Smoke billowed from tires as we passed a cop car.
The pig just leaned with arms crossed, blandly eyeballing the action, probably knowing he could do nothing about it.
In California every TikTok video and Snapchat post was evidence they could nail people with later, but no one seemed to care about the threat.
Even if you were a hundred feet away you could face felony charges if you posted about anyone getting injured, but people just got bolder.
A few weeks back there was a takeover on the Bay Bridge, shutting it down for an hour at midnight.
As we squirmed our way closer we saw the spins at high speeds, the skidmarks, the fireworks popping off. Acrid stench wrinkled my nose. When a figure eight came too close for comfort, people ahead of us nearly bowling us over, we backed up a bit, and that’s when we saw it.
A person on fire.
Literally a guy on fire, with flames roaring two feet from his body.
He must’ve been standing originally, now fallen onto his back, his intact hands and feet splayed.
No newspapers, fast food containers, or used tissues nearby caught fire.
There was nothing in his hands to indicate what had set him off, like a cigarette, but a guy yelled,
“He just burst into flames!”
“Fireworks must’ve flamed him!” shouted another, as people’s terror vaporized and they stepped closer to the aflame man.
“No! I was standing right next to him! He was drunk, but didn’t spill any!”
I shouted at Alessio and yanked his arm. “Let’s get the fuck out of here!”
We lost no fucking time in weaving through the mob away from the burning man.
The bystanders boiled together in a blob like a pot of bacon and beans.
No one was inside the metallic purple Charger, but Alessio urged me to the passenger side as he leaped into the driver’s seat.
I threw the guitar and other shit into the back seat.
It sure roared like a 797 horsepower when he turned the key, as people’s palms thudded against the roof and windows.
Guys pounded on our hood as we slowly backed out, shouting things like “Dood!” and “That guy spontaneously combusted!”
I don’t know if Alessio was as thrilled as I was, but his agape, blissful face showed me he was. We shared our spirits, eyebrows raised.
“Dood!”
“That guy was fat! His fat caught on fire!”
“Like a wick!”
We breathed freely once out on an empty street. “Where we going?” I asked.
Alessio shrugged. “Find a barn?”
There’d be enough of them between Tulare and Barstow, but it was already past midnight. We needed to find Les Moore the next day, rehook up with the others, make sure Denmark had a new visor.
As Alessio drove serenely down 99 in the slow lane, only passing trucks when necessary, I looked for news on my phone, particularly for Jack Hoffman to see if he’d received my postcard.
Sure as shit, I quickly came to a video of ol’ Jack striding around Leonard Skinner’s taped-off house, neighbors and various other lowbrow rubberneckers.
I turned the phone up as high as it would go.
Jack proclaimed, “With celebrity comes controversy. It’s true, the Undisputed Truth Club robs fentanyl dealers.
News coverage deifies and demonizes them.
But dealers aren’t sympathetic figures. They’re considered enemies by many Americans.
Dealers have no consideration for patients who need these drugs to kill pain.
For these folk, Messina and Oakley offer revenge, sticking it to the rich and powerful. ”
My heart actually swelled with pride. Hoffman had figured out who I was, and even flashed a not-too-awful photo of me, taken from the Establishment Club webpage. I looked like the square do-gooder that I was, or had been until recently, slicked back salt and pepper hair.
Jack Hoffman cut to a few people raving about us. Fans, I guess you could call them. There was an NA counselor who pointed angrily at the ground. “These guys are doing a much-needed service! ****tards like this can’t be allowed to get away with this ****!”
They’d interviewed Dr. Stringfellow Hawk, the guy I’d left in charge of The Establishment Club.
“Truman Oakley had his heart in starting this rehab center. We’ve saved countless addicts who would’ve just died on the street, successfully rehabbing them into the mainstream.
If Truman is on the road doing this, it’s for a very good reason. ”
Another anonymous chick, speech slurred and spiderweb wrinkles far too many for her age, concurred.
“I was like that for years, man. Truman’s club gave me a new life.
Now I work at the Humane Society saving dogs, like Truman saved me.
I can’t say enough good about him. And of course, Alessio Messina rocks. ”
Alessio queried, “I wonder how long ‘til they figure out what we just did?”
“Well, hopefully whoever steals our car will send them on the wrong track.”
“Yeah, drive back toward San Francisco. What CD’s in there?”
Ejecting it, I found a Nickelback CD. I tossed it into the back seat, but had no other options to play. “We’ll have to steal a VW van next time to get music we like.”
Alessio chuckled. “Or a Plymouth Prowler.”
We did find an unlocked barn that didn’t seem to have any cameras, and to our luck hay bales were stacked.
Taking the blankets from the Charger, we also found a black leather jacket, too small for me but just right on the skinny Alessio.
Shrugging into it, he said “We’re gonna have to rob people with good taste in clothes. ”
“Yeah. But how do we get underwear and socks?”
“Ask people for them. They probably did a bunch of retail theft too.”
We did pull over along the way to pose for an arrogant selfie.
Leaning our backs against each other, we dangled our pistols from our fingers and almost made fish pouts.
That’s how haughty we felt. In the middle of the night, there was nothing in the background to show our location.
Giggling like twits, I sent it from my burner to Jack Hoffman. Let him post to X.
A flashlight—and bag of Snickers bars—was also in the trunk, so we were set.
Turning some bales into pillows, we sat leaning back on a headboard of hay, blanket over our knees.
Horses softly chewing was a soothing sound, a scent of molasses emanating from their direction.
Moonlight shimmering through the roof cracks lit up flecks of floating hay.
“What happens when we nail Les Moore?” I asked.
“Well, we’re on a pretty good roll. Why stop?”
“I thought you wanted to get the asswipe who supplies Moore.”
“Yeah. That’d be good.”
It wasn’t cold at all, so I whipped off my shirt and helped Alessio off with his leather jacket. He curled to face away from me, so I ran my hands up his back, scratching, tickling, and swiping the shirt over his head.
Heaven.
Clawing his skull, I took deep whiffs of his scent, a mix of patchouli and his manliness.
Now I heard the horses crunch their teeth, my erection nearly popping my jeans buttons.
Alessio stretched and unfurled his spine, pressing his shapely butt against my hardon.
I had no choice but to set my cock free, and it slapped up against his hot, naked lower back.
Sliding my hand around, I unbuttoned his jeans and slithered them down to reveal his shapely butt.
Of course I wanted so badly to fuck him.
Spitting into my palm, I oiled up my penis, but didn’t dare impale him.
That was his job. I knew I was a switch, but never so ultimately that I’d fuck him.
On some hay bales. In a barn. That was up to him.
So I merely thrust my erection between his thighs, my cockhead meeting up with his full balls.
“Oh God, yes.” Alessio helped out by humping the blanket.
We set up a rhythm with our screwing, me stopping occasionally to renew my lube.
I plastered my chest to his bare back, reveling in his shimmering muscles, kissing and biting his shoulder blades.
He reached one hand behind him to weave through my hair.
“Don’t ever fucking stop. Come against my balls. ”
He lunged against the blanket, my cockhead stroking his bulging testicles.
I furiously chewed the sinewy back of his neck out of frustration and lust. Occasionally my penis would miss its mark and I’d be fucking his butt crack.
But it wasn’t up to me to grab that upper hand, to take charge, to be the Dom.
That was Alessio’s job. I was merely topping from the bottom.
But he sure seemed to be reveling in my mastery, thighs splayed with invitation.
“Do it,” he groaned. “Come against my sack.”
Something about his surprising passivity got to me. I’d seen him in videos stalk around the stage with mastery, whipping his conductor’s baton, directing the horns, the drums, the keyboards. Never in my reincarnations had I envisioned him begging to be reamed like this—especially by another man.
Spurts of jizz flooded the length of my dick.
I didn’t realize how loud I was groaning until much later.
Our grunts spooked the horses, making them buck and snort several stalls over.
I shuddered my hips against Alessio’s rump as surge after surge of come flooded between his thighs.
The way his ass cheeks clenched let me know he was jizzing too, and I snaked a hand around his hip to feel his long, thick cock squirt.
“Oh yeah,” I urged, I don’t know how many fucking times. “Oh yeah. Do it. Come for me, Alessio. Oh yeah.”
By the time I caught a normal breath, Alessio knelt, palm against the wet blanket.
He slapped his chest as his panting slowed, and he shook his hair out as if to rid it of sweat.
Wrapping my hand around his throat, I took big sloppy bites from his neck and shoulders, snorting hot puffs against his delicious skin.
“Oh fuck,” he groaned. “I’m going down to hose off.”
I grinned like an imp as he clambered off the hay bales, kicking off what remained of his jeans around his ankles. Sun replaced the moonlight through the barn’s cracks, the horses returned to munching, and I knew this was the start of the best part of my life.