~1974 Boston~

The bar was a dive, the plaster was cracked on the wall, the furniture was patched with duct tape and there was a haze of cigarette smoke and it stunk of stale beer and cigarettes. Stan was only here because Loretta the bartender was letting him stay at her place, above the bar, while her husband was on his tour of duty He also had no money and no job. Boxing was out, he'd thrown so many fights he'd been blacklisted. He'd picked the pocket of a plain clothes cop, and there was a warrant for him. And no one would hire him, no references, because the last three jobs he'd had… well not all the money made it in the till and they'd found out somehow.

Worse, his sanctimonious twin brother refused to help him out. So a lumpy couch (and sometimes the bed) in a crummy apartment was all he had. It wasn't so bad, a lie he told himself so many times, but Loretta thought he was funny and let him have free drinks. Loretta wasn't much to look at, bleach blonde hair, heavy make up, spotty skin, a tattoo of a rose above her right breast, and she didn't have all her teeth-But she tolerated him and her body was warm.

Stan had almost convinced Loretta to let him have just a shot-that's not much— of scotch, when there was a commotion in the bar. This tall skinny fellow in a lab coat with the wildest brown hair who had been putting it away all night, staggered from his seat and crashed into a huge guy who looked like a cross between a bulldog and a warthog. Stan swiveled on his stool prepared to watch the fight.

"Hey! You made me spill my drink, asshole!" the wartdog wartdog takes his ham sized fist and smashs into the skinny-guy's face. The skinny guy reels, almost falls, but re-balances blood trickling from his lips. He began laughing, a mad cackling laugh. This was getting good, the smart money had been on wartdog but anyone who laughed like that had some crazy up his sleeve and Stan had to see that. The wartdog charges the skinny guy who takes out something that looked like a very small silvery gun from his lab coat, the gun sparked and the other man's shirt is on fire. The skinny guy high tails it.

It was the funniest thing Stan had seen all night! The big man with with the flaming shirt flailed around screaming for a few seconds until someone grabbed a glass of something from a table and poured it on the guy. It was some kind of cocktail. Stan thought he'd bust a gut! It just made the fire worse! Stan couldn't stop laughing. Then he noticed Loretta on the phone. The cops would be here, and they had a warrant out for him, so Stan got the heck out of there. The sirens were already blaring when he stopped to catch his breath in an alley nearby.

The skinny guy was there pissing against a wall, calm as a cucumber. He shook the last drops off, zipped up, then looked at Stan with a strange bug-eyed stare.

"Hey," Stan said. "I saw what you did back there, it made my night!"

"S-s-so," The skinny guy stuttered. "You like random acts of violence?"

"Well funny ones," Stan said and put out his hand. "I'm Stan Pines by the way."

The skinny guy didn't offer his hand. "You know I just finished h-h-holding my dick…. you m-might want to re-think that."

"Uh," Stan withdrew his hand. "Right. What's your name?"

"Rick Sanchez," said the other man. "It certainly puts a dent in my evening, Punching Pines."

Stan startled at his old boxing name. "How'd you know that?"

Rick took a flask out of his lab coat and took a swig. "I saw you fight in Detroit, you know back when you actually tried to win."

"There's better money in losing fights," Stan said with a laugh.

"Besides a white jewish, boxer? I bet managers we're just i-i-itching to promote the great kosher hope." Rick added sarcasm dripping from his voice. " 'Punching Pines, the Hebrew Sledge Hammer', t-t-that was on your posters right?"

For a moment Stan was angry, ready to knock the lights out of this sarcastic long-hair, but of course he was right. The anger faded as quickly as it came, he crumpled and looked at Rick again.

"You got balls, talking to me like that," Stan said. "But you're right. I never had a chance, I don't even keep kosher."

"I-I-I know, I saw the fight in Detroit." Rick commented.

Stan remembered the fight, that riotous hateful crowd, the slurs and spit. The guy he was fighting 'Royal' Leroy Washington wasn't a bad guy, they'd worked out in the same gym and sometimes got drinks. But in the ring it was different. The name of the game was be hit and hit back, after all. The more ground he gained, the angrier the crowd became. To them Stan was every slum lord and pawnbroker, Leroy was them, the poor oppressed black boy. If he'd won that fight, he might have taken a purse but he'd be dead by the end of the night. So he swallowed his pride, ignored his trainer and took a fall.

"What was that thing you used back there, a lighter?" Stan asked.

"No, something I I-i-invented. It wasn't supposed to do that," Rick said. "I need to make some changes."

"So you a student at one of the colleges, Rick?" Stan asked again.

"N-n-no, I w-w-work there," Rick said. "B-but less chitchat Punchy, we c-c-can't go back to that bar and we need to get f-f-fucked up."

"We? Look I like to party, but I ain't got that kinda money," Stan said. "You're on you're own."

Stan began to walk away, maybe the cops would leave soon and he could go back to Loretta's lumpy couch.

"I do." Rick said. "And I'll-I'll pay for your drinks, Stan"

Stan turned around and smiled. "Now that's what I like to hear."

So began the long debased night. Stan was far from innocent but he had a weird feeling Rick was attempting to corrupt him in some way. So? Let him. They had a few rounds at one bar, did a few shots, moving on to another where they started again. Stan could carouse with the best of them but Rick just wouldn't stop, beers, shots and some cocktails. Rick kept up a stream of babble to Stan about anything and everything, stuttering and mumbling. At first it was fascinating and refreshing, but as his mind got hazier Stan found himself nodding along not paying attention.

At around 1:00 am in the morning Rick seemed to have settled down. They were in, what was it? The Strangled Bishop? Stan couldn't be sure, then Rick smiled at him. "Stan give me a sec- I gotta gotta make an announcement."

Rick got to his feet.

"No- No… I don't think you wanna do this," Stan began.

Rick stood on the bar cleared his throat and yelled: "YOU ALL THINK YOU'RE SO GREAT! I'M S-S-SMARTER THAN ALL OF YOU! YOU'RE ALL ANTS COMPARED TO ME! MERE ANTS! WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE! THERE IS NO GOD! G-G-GOODNIGHT!"

It made a weird sorta sense to Stan.

But the bar went silent and Stan felt a hand on the back of his neck, a very large man was glaring at them.

"You two, outta here, now," The man said.

That's when Rick kicked the bouncer in the head.

"Come on Palooka! Fuck him up!" Rick shouted.

Stan grinned, why the fuck not? Sure the guy was big, but there were two of them and didn't he used to hit people for a living. He charged the bouncer, it felt amazing to be able to hit someone again. The rest of the bar joined in, fists, feet, tables and chairs flying. It went to hell, a delicious bloody hell where he was one of the chief demons.

They were cackling, bloody and bruised when finally the door slammed behind them. Stan wiped the blood from his lips.

"I like you Rick, you're crazy," Stan said with a laugh.

"Y-y-you don't know the half of it," Rick smirked. "My place is nearby, I've got a six pack in the fridge and some grass, you wanna hang out there?"

There was nothing better to do, why not.

Rick's place turned out to be an old dockside thirds of it were still warehouse and the rest was taken up by gadgets, half finished inventions and a an elaborate chemistry rig. It reminded Stan of his brother's side of the room back when they were kids. Rick had set up some rooms with boards and sheets on strings in the far left corner as makeshift living quarters. Nearby, up a rickety set of stairs was the bathroom and a bedroom in what was once apparently the office for the warehouse. There was a faint orange light of a floor lamp coming from the far left corner where a battered green couch stood beside the floor lamp. There was an old tv and a small record player, with the records in milk crates nearby. A makeshift coffee table, of a board on a milk crate, was in front of couch. Also lots and lots of empty bottles and cans.

"Mi casa es su casa," Rick said as he sidestepped around the tv.

Stan flopped down on the couch and muttered: "Gracias."

Rick was in another part of the 'house' set up and called: "Hablas espanol?"

It had been four years since he was in San Juan, trying to hawk his brother's 'miracle' vacuums.

"Cum se cum sa," Stan said, waving his hand back and forth. "I'm a bit rusty. Mostly It's just sales patter and askin' where the john is."

"I-I-it was all I was allowed to speak for the first four years of my life" Rick said reappearing from behind a sheet with two bottles of beers in one hand and a glass pipe in his other. "I learned English from the tv, if I spoke at home my Dad would beat me, if I spoke Spanish at school the other kids would beat me. Fucking damned if I do, damned if I don't, am I r-r-right, Stan?"

"Yeah I guess," Stan said with a smile. "My Granny liked adding all this…. Yiddish around us. She did it to mess with people."

Rick rolled his eyes. "Not my Dad, he was dumb as a brick, didn't know much English and he didn't want us talking shit about him in it."

He handed Stan one of the beers, sat down on the couch pulled out a lighter and lit up the bowl of the marijuana pipe. It glowed red as he inhaled deeply.

"Did you?" Stan said opening his beer and taking sip.

Rick finished his hit and handed the weed pipe to Stan.

"F-f-fuck no! He'd smack three kinds of hell out of us, if thought he heard any s-s-sass," Rick replied with a cough.

Stan inhaled deeply on the pipe, it hit like a heavyweight. He felt an overwhelming floaty bliss and almost laughed, remembering something Rick had said: "Us?"

"Me and my sister," Rick said, he seemed to hunch up when he said it. "My Mom for that matter too. But I don't want to talk about this sad crap."

"Yeah," Stan said taking a sip from the beer. "To much of that."

Rick took another drag on the pipe and passed it back to Stan. "You're turn, Punchy."

The booze and weed were combining to make him feel very sleepy and things were starting to get hazy. He took the second hit on the pipe. He was way too stoned and drunk. They talked, drank more beer and smoked for a while.

"I want some music," Rick said jumping up. "Lemme put on some tunes, Stan. Is that okay?"

"Sure, fine." If Rick had said that the world was ending and there was no way to escape it he would have been fine at that point.

He watched Rick grab an album from one of the milk crates and put it on the record player with the care of the very intoxicated, gently setting the needle on the record and turning on the machine.

Stan heard the strains of guitar and the odd monotone voice of Lou Reed singing (well sort of singing) about walking on the wild side. He nodded his head to the beat, and smiled in a dopey way.

Rick was very close next to him. That was cool, so the guy had no real concept of personal space, it was his place. Then he felt Rick's hand on his thigh.

He squirmed and stared. "Uhh, what are you doing?"

Rick was closer than he thought, stroking his thigh. It felt weird, sorta good and sorta…. well it was a guy touching him.

"Relax, Stan. You'll like this, trust me." Rick said.

"Rick I'm flattered but I really like girls, ya know." Stan replied hazily, he should reach down and remove Rick's hand, he should punch the skinny bastard. But he didn't want to, that hand knew what it was doing.

"So do I," Rick said. "This isn't a marriage proposal Stan, it's called loosening up and having some fun. You don't mind it, right?"

Stan thought while staring at the thin hand that was higher up on his thigh then he remembered. "No, I guess not."

"W-w-when was the last time you had your cock sucked Stan?" Rick asked. "I mean really sucked, by someone who knew what they were doing, mmm?"

"You know I got a girlfriend," Stan said, but the idea of getting a good blow job, not the lazy, sloppy, half way, thing Loretta did when she was too tired to fuck… Well… his dick certainly thought that was good idea.

"Her?" Rick made dismissive gesture. "A married bar hag, who just does it out-out of pity? You're worth more than that." Rick's hand reached over and began to stroke the growing bulge between Stan's legs. "C'mon Stan, walk on the wild side. You know you want to."

Stan grabbed Rick's hand, he meant to knock it away but instead he held it steady. The way it felt was electric, amazing, there was pleasure dancing through his nerves. No! He was straight, he liked women! He was a real man! He used to box for god's sake he wasn't… but he needed it. He sipped his beer and considered, finally answering, "Well… it's not like anyone is watching right? And it's just a blow job, Rick?" Stan said.

"Sure, sure," Said Rick. He was already unbuckling and unzipping Stan's pants and reaching into his boxers… and up it popped. Rick was leaning down his tongue flicking at the head, it made Stan shiver with pleasure. "You need this."

And then he took Stan's length entirely in his wet, hot mouth, it felt, it felt….

…..rapturous.

Rick did know what he was doing, between the hard tight suction, the flickering tongue touches, and his other hand massaging Stan's balls; it felt like he was flying. It was electricity washing throughout him, ecstasy bubbling through him, but concentrated there… there…

His hand tangled in Rick's already messy brown hair, he didn't make much noise but Rick took every grunt, every hitch of breath as incentive and worked harder. At one point Stan wondered if had to reciprocate, that would be a disaster, really. Then he felt the building of sensation in his groin that meant only one thing. He gave a strangled cry, thrust into the other man's throat and released a stream of hot come. Rick's wide eyes went wider for a second but then he took in stride and afterward spit the load into an empty bottle.

"That was— that was…"

"..the best bj you've ever had…?"

"….Yeah…"

"Where'd you learn to do that?"

"A bathhouse in New York."

"But you aren't….?"

"…Naw, too c-c-confining, I like both sides of the fence."

"Right, good because I'm not…"

"You just got your cock sucked by a guy, Stan it's a bit late in the game for denials."

He thought, his brain wasn't as quick as it usually was:

"…Yep. So what do you want?"

"To get b-b-baked and a handie." Rick said, Stan gave him an odd shocked look."You can do that, just jerk it like it's yours, Punchy."

So that was how he ended up very stoned, pretty drunk, and still quite horny with another man's penis in his hand. Rick made even less noise than Stan did during the act. Just a small half-groan half-sigh heralded a very messy ejaculation. Stan withdrew his hand like he'd been drenched with acid.

Rick simply smiled then leant over and kissed him on the forehead.

"You can wash up in the kitchen Punchy," Rick said with a belch.

Stan scurried away holding his hand out like it was leprous and rinsed it off in a plastic old work sink. When he returned Rick was sitting up but snoring. Stan curled up on the other end of the couch, put his head down and was asleep in an instant.