Stan had just dropped Carla off after another successful date; so far it had been four. He watched her walk towards the house. She turned and blew him a kiss. He pretended to catch it and pressed it to his lips. She smiled at him, turned back and walked into the house.
They'd just put an ad the paper about lottery numbers for a new scheme. He felt like he was on pink fluffy clouds. He drove back to the motel feeling like this, got out of the car humming a tune, and opened the door, still in a romantic haze. Rick was in the room, sprawled out on the bed, wearing nothing but a pair of tighty whiteys.
"Hey Pines, did you fuck her yet?"
"Shut up, Sanchez!"
"So that's a no."
"Hey, she's a lady, and I want to take it slow."
"She ain't lettin' you."
Stan sat down on the bed and blushed. "I just don't wanna. Not yet."
Rick wrapped his twig-like arms around Stan's neck and jerked him backwards. Stan felt Rick's hot, moist breath near his ear. "I know what it is. You never been with a girl before. You haven't had a taste of that sweet, sweet pussy."
Stan pulled Rick's arms off him and sat up. "Yeah, so what does it matter?" He was still blushing.
Rick narrowed his eyes. "Nothin'. Don't get hot under the collar, Pines."
He pulled Stan backwards and kissed him, on the lips. Stan sputtered, but he felt a prickle of lust as he pushed Rick off him. But then Rick leapt, tackling him, and they wrestled on the bed. It was hot in the room, so Stan ripped his shirt off. They struggled together, TV blaring in the background, hot and sweaty.
Eventually, he'd pinned Rick to the bed. Geez, he was hard. Rick was looking up at him, hair a mess, smirking. He pried Rick's legs apart. He unzipped his jeans, pulled off Rick's underwear… then hesitated. What if this was cheating? What if Rick had some VD?
"We gonna do this, Pines?"
Stan looked down at Rick and the lust rose in a wave. He needed to fuck that skinny son of a bitch. He needed to be inside that ass. It wasn't like him and Carla were married. He stripped off his jeans and boxers, gave his cock a pump. Rick got the KY off the nightstand, got ready, put a pillow under his butt... And then Stan was inside him, pumping away.
It felt like flying, so intense, hot and tight and sweetly familiar. Rick's eyes were closed, his hand wrapped around his own cock, jerking it like the end of the world was about to happen. Stan thrust into that pucker fast and hard, driving it home, angling it so it hit that spot inside Sanchez that made the fucker lose control. Stan was leaning over Rick, his hands around the fucker's neck. Rick was mouthing DO IT. He was going harder, faster, Rick was gasping, turning blue, then Stan felt the warmth and heat inside him that meant he was gonna come. He tightened his grip and came hard, cursing himself, the act and Sanchez.
He released his grip on Rick's neck; there were marks. Stan didn't care, he was still hard. He drove it home as Rick's back arched; Rick spewed jizz from his dick and spanish gibberish from his mouth. Stan wondered what 'ti amo' meant, as Rick has spat it out like a curse.
Slumped and spent in the afterglow, Stan slid off of Rick's back and onto the bed. The air reeked of sex. Rick curved himself around Stan, arms over his chest. This was typical. Stan began to drift off to sleep.
Something shifted, in Stan's mind. Rick's weight seemed crushing, the heat of Rick's body suffocating. Stan didn't want Rick there anymore. He loved Carla. He was sure of that, and he didn't want to be tempted by this skinny asshole again. What if Rick had given him some VD? The thought repulsed him. Was he gay? Would his wrist start getting limper, and he start talking with a sissy lisp? NO, he was a fuckin' man! Rick was a whore (so are you, interjected the sensible part of Stan's mind). Rick was all over him, with his clammy hands, his boney sharp angles and his stinking breath in Stan's face. The repugnance and rage boiled to the surface.
Stan got out of bed. Rick slid off of him, waking up a bit. Stan switched on the light, and Rick goggled at him blearily.
"Hey… Pines, what gives?"
"I WANT YOU OUT OF HERE!"
"Wha?"
"IT'S GODDAMN HOT WITH YOU ALL OVER ME! YOU HAVE A ROOM, GO SLEEP THERE!"
"Geez," Rick got up. "No need to be an asshole about it."
"This has to stop, Sanchez. I'm no fag, and I don't need you turning me into one."
Rick glared at him. "So that's what this is about. Y-y-you find some piece of trim, and I get the shove."
"Look Sanchez, yer all right for a queer, but I ain't."
"Your dick says different, Pines."
"Yeah, well… that's biological. I'm not in control of my dick. We can still hang out, but no more of this foolin' around."
Rick raised his unibrow. "Yeah, whatever."
"If you touch me, I'll deck you."
"You try that and I'll fuck you up."
"You leavin'?"
"Yeah, asshole," Rick said and walked out the door, flipping Stan the bird with both hands. The door slammed behind him.
Rick had left his underwear here. Stan kicked it away and took the top cover off the bed. He settled down to sleep, but he could hear the loud, obnoxious noise of Rick's music blasting from the other room. He put his pillow over his head, pulled up his sheets, ignored it, and eventually fell asleep.
It was the third day (night?) after Stan had kicked Rick out of the motel. Stan wasn't sure, because he had kept his eyes closed and pillows over his head. It did not drown out the noise of Rick's music, which was shaking the walls. Rick was listening to "Love roller coaster," and Stan had never hated anything so much in his life. He was sure that was the only record that Rick had been playing for three days. The insomnia openly fueled Stan's now blinding rage as he got up and stomped out the door of his room. It was daytime. He was about to pound on Rick's door when it opened at the slightest knock.
Stan stepped into the room. It was a jumble of machines, metal and the corpse of that monkey, laid out dissected on one of the double beds. One of the walls had been covered with photos, pins, and colored string leading from one to the other. Rick was passed out on the floor underneath, spread-eagled in a lab coat and gray underwear. Drool trickled from his lips. There were empties scattered around him.
Stan found the source of the music and unplugged it. He grabbed a felt tip marker from the floor and leant down to draw on Rick's forehead. That's when Rick yelled and leapt up, a dagger in his hand.
"RICK! It's me, don't kill me!" Stan pleaded.
Rick gave him a squirrelly look, then looked down at the dagger he was holding to Stan's throat.
Rick chuckled and threw the knife behind him. Stan began to laugh, relief settling inside of him.
"You scared the shit outta me, Pines." Rick was still laughing.
"Hahaha, you almost killed me!" Stan was also laughing.
They dissolved into helpless giggling. Rick was leaning on him, and Stan was crying with laughter.
They collapsed on the unoccupied bed, and the laughter trailed off.
"So what's with the wall?" Stan asked.
"I'm putting together the evidence, P-Pines." Rick said and sat up. "That—" He pointed to an image of a college campus: red brick buildings, majestic trees with spreading lawns, all that garbage— "Is Miskatonic university, I never studied there, visited the place. It gave me the jeebies." He pointed below it to a black & white image of a serious lab coat draped man with glasses and dark hair. "—That's the late Dr. West, he invented this serum that… makes things undead, Stan. No pulse, but it moves around. He was murdered in 1920… he was a professor at Miskatonic—" He pointed upwards to the two color photos also linked to Miskatonic. "—That's Dr. Traugott Garber." He pointed to a picture of a white-haired and stern man. "He has West's old post. Also there are rumors he was a Nazi scientist once—" Rick pointed to the photo of a smiling slight man on the right dressed in a tweed suit. "—That's Professor Julius Lebeau. He used to hold West's old post. He was a closeted homosexual. Left in a cloud of suspicion after the undergrad he was screwing attempted to blackmail him and he attempted to strangle the undergrad. The police got involved, and there were files missing after he left. "
"So they're the two main suspects?" Stan asked. "A Nazi and a psychotic homosexual… geez, this makes it hard to pick."
"And both are in the area. Dr. Garber summers nearby, and Lebeau is now working for some biomedical company in Yonkers," said Rick.
"So you have no idea who's doing this?" Stan asked.
"Exactly. But I've narrowed it down," Rick said.
"Are we gonna tail them? Or just rough them up until they confess? I could beat up both of them," Stan said.
"Naw, I'm gonna tail Garber and you can follow Lebeau," Rick said.
"You're gonna take my car, aren't you?" Stan sighed.
"You know it!" Rick said, and pointed his fingers at Stan. "Hey. It'll be in better shape than now."
Stan rolled his eyes. " So I have to take a bus to Yonkers."
"Yep," Rick said with a belch.
Stan didn't know why he agreed to this. He quickly found Julius Lebeau (or rather, the name Rick told him he was hiding under)'s address in the newest edition of the phone book. He followed Lebeau from home, to the little park where he took his lunch, and to his home at night. The man was laying low, as far as Stan could tell. Nothing out the ordinary.
It had been almost a week of following the little squirt and the only interesting thing Stan saw was a family of rats eating a dead pigeon like a Thanksgiving turkey. From what Rick said, he was having no luck with Garber either.
The Ratsgiving made him think of home, and for a brief moment, he felt a pang of something. Then he had a plan: maybe he could seduce the guy into giving him info.
On Friday of that week, he let Lebeau see him as he lounged by the park's public restroom. Hot and young, Stan imagined he looked like a fag's dream. As Lebeau passed him, he stepped in front of the little man and said meaningfully: "You got a cigarette?"
Lebeau gave a small, nervous smile and didn't quite meet his gaze, but said: "Yes I do." He went into the bathroom and Stan followed.
It was dark in there, the only light coming from high slits in the masonry. The smell of pee and stoney dankness filled the air. Lebeau was in front of him. He said: "I'm real sorry, but I owe him."
Stan puzzled over this for a second, then felt a sharp pain in the back of his head. He fell to his knees; someone had tried to knock him out from behind. Well, if they thought they could do that…
And then things went black.