"So, how'd you get here, kid?"

Drake Parker sighed.

"It's a schlong story."

Drake looked out, from his aisle seat on the airplane, out the window that once held his freedom. If he wasn't handcuffed to the seat, he could almost reach out and touch it. How did this happen? Even Drake is fuzzy on the details, but one thing is for sure—it was all because of that goddamn letter.

THE UNTITLED DRAKExJOSH FANFICTION

ACT II

Motion

Drake hastily collects his meager possessions. A few shirts for the journey, a passport, and enough money to get there and back. Though Drake had spent much of his life under the care of others, his time on the streets is a memory too painful to forget. He knows now that whatever happens, money or no money, he can survive. He looks from his shop, out and over the city that he owes his life to.

With one hand stroking his meat stick, his other cradling his (other) head, Drake reminisces about where he came from, and where he is about to go. Stroke. He thinks of the family that raised him, unsure of how to feel. SStroke. He thinks of Helen, hoping that she's somewhere safe, safe and alive. SSStroke. His hand slows as he thinks about his brethren. Drake thinks about Megan (not in that way sicko) every day, hoping that she's safe inside the belly of the beast— San Diego. Szsztroke. Josh. He has no idea what has become of his brother. Rumors from passing sea merchants claim that he is dead—though they held their salty tongues as to how, where, and why. A tale too grisly to recount, they told him. And … it's not that Drake can't believe it. Terrible things happen every day, to everyone. And with the mystery surrounding his upbringing, there's no way of telling if foul play was involved. The problem is, he refuses to believe it. He refuses to believe his brother would roll over so easily. And where he plans to go, he can only hope there are answers waiting.

H-E-L-P M-E. It's a simple message, but Drake Parker is no simple man. Or so he thinks, in very simple terms. Put very simply, the simplicity of this message only goes to show the complexity of the man holding it. Drake Parker. A complex man. A man on a mission. A complex man on a mission. A man with a complex. Drake had to clear his head (the southern one) of several jars of that sticky stuff before he could figure it out.

Drake had overlooked one crucial part of the letter. He had since tugged his flesh rope (several, several, several times) to the envelope, the dick pic, even the HELP ME message (dark day, don't ask) in hopes that a magic spell would activate, or something. Only one thing came of it and that was cum. Scores of loads going every which way, crafting a web even stickier and more hazardous than the web of lies he left in San Diego. Even more useless to him, he would argue. It wasn't until his uncontrollable animal libido forced him to sex himself while looking at the stamp in the corner: a 1991 commemorative "The Promised Land" stamp featuring the image of a rotting peach ensconced in gold foliage to the left and right. Rotting fruit is one of Drake Parker's few turn-offs, and it took him a while of mental searching to sexify the image before him. The Promised Land… maybe a sexy female God? That's too non-misogynist for Drake. How about Jesus? Drake loves dirty men and jerking off to religious iconography, but something about it didn't feel right. And it wasn't until he was staring the answer right in the face that he realized what was wrong.

The answer was Oprah. It had to be. Both the sexiest relevant woman to his sex quest, and the answer to the envelope. Oprah's Promised Land Estate in Montecito, CA. The last of the fluids in Drake's body ejected themselves from his short, fat pingus and aalllll over the floor. Drake fell unconscious.

Patient #771 awakens in a small, padded cell. Name: Megan Parker. Codename: Akira. No information has passed in or out of the bolted steel door in front of her, not for years. Still she knows it's time to leave. Still seated, sleep clouding her vision, she lifts her weathered hand up, palm facing out against the door. She gently curls her fingers in, forming a fist. The steel door, as if made of wet cardboard, follows suit and crumples to a heap of metal. Akira stands.

Even the soldiers stationed there couldn't stop Akira. Nothing has stopped her before. Megan wanders the halls of Aurora Behavioral Healthcare Hospital without a care in the world. Bullets flew in the air around her but none ever found purchase. A single look at her aggressors was enough to send them flying.

Drake snaps back to reality, oops there goes gravity, mom's spaghetti. His head is foggy, and he feels almost as if he had a dream. This is strange. He hasn't had a dream, certainly not one as lucid as this, since he left America. Drake sits up, rehydrates, and takes a nice popcorn bubble bath.

That's better…

Drake finally feels like he has his head on the right way again. The memories of his discovery flood back in soon after. The more he thinks about it, the fuller his Star Wars-esque realization becomes. Someone sent this letter to me, Drake thinks. Given the sparse contents, the sender must have been afraid of interference or monitoring. Obviously, there must have been a message greater than a great big meatstack dick attack—a hidden message must be somewhere. HELP ME appeared to be no more important than its surface content, so it must be the stamp. And only one person would think to send directions to anything Oprah-related. Oh. Oh god.

Drake rushes to the toilet and throws up just a gosh-darn lot. He is sickened by the thought of incest, just like you wanted, okay? We're all in agreement, alright? Incest is gross. And boy howdy we must all be so awful proud of ourselves for drawing that line in the sand. Sure, they're step-brothers, with no blood ties, but since they were technically in a family you all are the dick police now aren't you? Can't let good enough lie. And you'll go through your lives, so goddamn proud of making this character blow nasty chunks into the shit seat that your dick's probably hard and wet yourself, you sick creep. You gonna blast that rope, bad boy? Just be careful that you don't THINK ABOUT YOUR FAMILY MEMBERS. Fuckin sicko. One day you'll die and you'll meet my fictional character in hell which you condemned him to and find that all your holier-than-thou attitudes and gatekeeping on sexuality for hopes of praise landed you right on top of the shit heap you cast my creation down into. And yes, I don't think incest is okay. But by whose hand is this edict enacted? Think about that. Society.

After incinerating the incriminating photo in the furnace, Drake hastily collects his meager possessions. A few shirts for the journey, a passport, and enough money to get there and back. It is night when he is ready to leave. He is sure about his destination. He is prepared to meet whoever is there. Drake Parker takes his canvas bag outside and locks the door to his shop, knowing he may not be back to his home for a long time, if he comes back at all. Hesitantly, Drake affixes a cardboard sign to the door: "Back Soon". Turning to the street, Drake blinks tears away as his hand signals for a taxi. Headlights swerve and stop at the curb in front of him.

"Where you headed, bub?" A gravelly voice calls from the cracked window.

"Airstrip, about three or four miles from here. You know it?"

"Yeah, man. Hop in back."

"Um… About that…"

Drake absent-mindedly taps the wallet in his bag with his foot.

"I only have money for the plane. Is there anything I can trade you for a ride there?"

The driver sighs. Before Drake can react, a foot emerges from the driver (he can't see where from) and kicks the windshield with such force that the glass, instead of fracturing, simply turns to dust and blows away on the crisp night air.

"Bring that sweet ass. Now."

Drake is on the hood of the car by the end of that sentence, primed and ready to go. Fully nude, doing a hybrid of downward dog and the splits. Like, like his legs are making an isosceles triangle with the roof of the car. The driver goes to stand, and the roof of his car evaporates with the force. Holding the steering wheel like on a boat, and pounding away at the boy meat splayed out before him, the driver speeds away like a really sexy Mad Max.

Drake's ass has never felt more right. Despite the driver's violent and powerful appearance, his meat pack is surprisingly gentle as it crushes Drake's guts. It follows a strict 2/3 time signature and is really hard to follow, which makes eac sweet gooshy surprise. Often, the driver would stand statue-still, and use the gas pedal to move that plump Drake butt up and down on the disco stick. And every time a sharp turn came, so did Drake. How does that happen, you ask? Well the answer is: you don't want to know. Like, if I know you as well as I think I do, you Don't Want To Know, You Super Don't Want To Know. And by that I mean, Driver Dick Barrel Roll.

After three or four miles of orgasmic bliss, Drake is barely conscious enough to call out when he sees the entrance to the airstrip. Despite his insistence on not wearing pants, Drake only lets people who are special to him see him naked. Like Helen. And the driver. Oh yeah.

"Hey, what's your name?" Drake asks.

The driver pulls over to the side, and sits back in his seat. He flashes Drake an amused grin.

"Josh."

Drake's eyes widen in an all-you-can-eat buffet of emotion. The driver removes his dark sunglasses and bowler cap (standard night taxi clothes). It is a man in his mid-20s, with red hair billowing down past his shoulders. This is 100% certified not his brother.

"You're not Josh Nichols."

"Uhh… yeah. My name's Josh Dosh."

"Wait, why did you take your shit off like you were revealing something?"

"I was revealing how hot I am."

Yeah, okay. Wow. Josh Dosh is hot. Josh Dosh can Fuck. Josh Dosh is 100% not related by blood or family ties to your protagonist, Drake Parker. It unfortunately doesn't change the fact that Drake has just been majorly disappointed.

"I, uh. I have to go catch my flight now. Are we good?"

"Your debt is settled, Drake Parker." Josh Dosh winks as the car shifts into gear and goes screaming backwards into the forest surrounding the road.

Drake Parker sex-limps towards the airstrip. His contact, Denny, said he would be waiting on the right, where the treeline recedes before the sea. He can only see one plane there, a fancy private jet with four figures standing around outside it. They may have some idea where Denny is—or maybe they're all Denny—but as he gets close enough to make out what they look like, he freezes from the mental overhaul.

Two of the figures are, without a doubt, his stepfather. Walter Nichols. Both of them are picture-perfect copies of the same man. Behind them he can make out two figures, but even in the light of the airstrip they look like silhouettes. Flat, somehow. He begs his feet to move, for his mouth to open, but his thoughts cloud all his actions.

Why is he here?

Drake Parker is helpless

Where's Denny?

as he watches his two stepfathers calmly retrieve assault rifles strapped behind their back,

Why are there two of him?

load the gun with a fresh cartridge,

What's wrong with the other people with him?

take careful aim,

Why me?

and the sound of two loud gunshots send him into blackness.

Megan soon found she had outgrown the clothing she was wearing when she came here. Instead she raided personal lockers until she found a style that suited her fancy.

Megan left her prison dressed to the nines, a present from a "Dr. Sandolin" who, along with the bouquet of roses and ring in his locker, likely planned to propose to their spouse this evening. Very generous of him really. Must've known she can't resist a tuxedo.

Megan only made it out a few steps before she was stopped, for the very first time, dead in her tracks.

No army, no tanks and assault helicopters. The sky is free and the parking lot is clear, save for one man. He holds a crude cardboard sign that says "Megan Parker". The man opens his mouth:

"Took you long enough, Akira. Maybe I should have helped you sweep up your mess after all."

Megan focused all her willpower, and was only able to squeak out a simple question.

"Spencer?"

"Crazy Spencer."

I