The Screw (Part 3)

NONE ENTERED BY AUTHOR

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The Screw (Part 3)

By ByrdMan




	Cal put the small tube of solvent back into a pocket-
sized first aid kit. He had been carrying the metal box in 
his breast pocket when he was admitted to the prison; one 
of the guards had looked inside it but saw nothing 
suspicious.  When asked why he carried it, Cal had 
explained that it contained prescription medicine for his 
asthma, as well as contact lenses and solution.  He had 
breathed a non-asthmatic sigh of relief when the box was 
returned to him.  The kit contained the medication he took 
to prevent erections as well as the glue and the non-toxic 
solvent he used on his cock.  It also contained a small 
microphone, a battery and a tiny transmitter that was tuned 
to the same frequency as that of a receiver/recorder in the 
central security center that was just outside the warden's 
office.  At the moment, the transmitter was turned off.

	"Excuse me, I've got to shower and put my cock back 
in," said Cal, rising and walking toward the bathroom.  
Gabe was standing in his way.

	"Now, hold on a second.  I agree that shit happens 
sometimes, and it's already happened to me a lot, but why 
should I dump another truckload on myself?  It seems to me 
that your little plan has to work perfectly, or it won't 
work at all.  I can think of a dozen things that could go 
wrong, even if I agreed to play my part in it." 

	"You haven't understood what I've said, have you, 
Gabe?"

	"Understood what?"

	"You don't have any choice.  As Julius Caesar said 
when he crossed the Rubicon River on his way to Rome, 'The 
die is cast.' You've already crossed your Rubicon, pretty 
boy.  All you can do now is try to survive the Ides of 
March," Cal said, reaching out and giving Gabe's genitals a 
painful squeeze.  Gabe brushed his hand away.

 	"Fuck your Julius Caesar.  Anybody who's read history 
knows that he was stabbed in the back by his best friend on 
the 'Ides of March.' Are you trying to tell me that's going 
to happen to me?" asked Gabe, growing red in the face with 
anger.

	"No, Gabe. It's an expression.  I'm just trying to tell 
you that we're already committed, for better or for worse. 
Let me put it this way: I've put my ass on the line for 
you, kid.  You didn't know it, but I was in the back of the 
courtroom yesterday when you were sentenced.  I saw you 
being led away to prison, and I couldn't stop it.  The 
judge's hands were tied because you pleaded guilty.  He 
can't change anything unless we get the goods on Chester. 
Your say-so isn't enough, neither is the fact that we've 
found a prison screw named Chester with a black SUV.  The 
judge has to have proof.  I can't figure out any other way 
to get it.  And I'm in as much danger as you are, if not 
more," said Cal, putting his arm around Gabe's shoulders.

	Gabe was somewhat mollified but not entirely 
convinced.  He gently broke the embrace and noticed that he 
had an erection again.  Trying to ignore it, he said, "But 
what about that bartender in Scarborough?  Can't he give 
testimony about Chester's brother and Zack?"

	"Dead men can't testify.  He was found dead in his car 
yesterday morning: there was a bullet hole in his head.  
His name was Manny Sikes.  Somebody had nailed him in the 
alley right after he closed up the bar for the night."

	"That sucks! I mean, I'm sorry the poor guy got 
killed.  I hope he rests in peace," said Gabe with a sigh.

	"Pieces.  Someone, and I think we know who, had cut 
off his cock."

 	"Dear God," said Gabe.  He was not so shocked that he 
didn't notice that Cal's cock had gone soft during their 
conversation.  It was embarrassingly small now and probably 
wouldn't be missed much if someone were to cut it off, Gabe 
thought.  He also wondered why men with such great bodies 
and big balls often had such small cocks.







	     

	Chester Morse was finishing his lunch in the kitchen 
of the apartment he shared at Rosemary Dorm with another 
corrections officer named Rich Garrett. Rich was fair 
complexioned, short and stocky, with his head completely 
shaved in the style of a skinhead punk.  Concealed under 
his uniform shirt were tattoos on his arms, back and 
stomach.  His appearance contrasted dramatically with the 
classic good looks of his tall, dark, clean-cut and usually 
well-groomed roommate.

	This morning his hair was uncombed, and there were 
dark circles under his eyes.  The events of the last two 
days and nights weighed heavily on Chester's mind - so much 
so that he hardly tasted the tuna sandwich and the potato 
chips he distractedly chewed gulped down.  He had picked up 
the simple fare at the cafeteria on his way in to work to 
save time and effort in the apartment's kitchen.

	"Chet, my friend, I guess you know you missed your 
morning rounds.  I had to cover for you," said Rich.  He 
was eating a plate of spaghetti that he had offered to 
share, but had been turned down.  He noticed that Chester 
looked very tired, as though he had not slept well.

	"Sorry I'm late.  Had some stuff to take care of at 
home."

	"What was her name?" asked Rich, laughing.

	"It wasn't a woman this time, I'm sorry to say," said 
Chester, who didn't seem to be amused.

	There was a long pause while they finished eating.  
Rich finally got up and put his plate and fork into the 
dishwasher, but Chester left his cellophane wrappings and 
empty soda can in front of him and just stared into space.

	"I see you don't want to talk about it, but sometimes 
it's good to get things off your chest. I'm here to listen, 
if you'll let me," said Rich.


	"Thanks, but I don't think you can help."

	"Is it about your little brother?"

	"How'd you know that?" asked Chester, looking at Rich 
with wide-eyed surprise.  He got up so quickly that he 
knocked over his chair.  He confronted his friend with a 
belligerent expression.

	"Take it easy, pal.  I don't have any insider 
information.  It was only a guess.  It was your kid brother 
who was driving you crazy once before, remember?  You 
thought he was turning gay or something," said Rich, 
regretting now that he had brought up the subject.  Chet 
was not just tired; he was touchy, a powder keg ready to 
explode.

	"I thought I had the little shit straightened out, but 
I go home this week to relax at my parents' house on my two 
days off, and I find out he's been sleeping with a fuckin' 
twenty-five-year-old bartender who works in a fuckin' gay 
bar."

	Chester, calming somewhat, walked into the living 
room. Rich followed.

	"Oh, yeah? What did you do about it?" asked Rich.

	"My first idea was to find the guy and beat the 
hell out of him, but it turned out I didn't have to."

	"Why?  What happened?" asked Rich.

	"The guy was held up by a mugger and shot dead night 
before last, right outside his own bar."

	"Nice coincidence.  Some armed bandit saves you the 
trouble," said Rich, quickly wishing he hadn't.

	"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" asked 
Chester, turning around to face him.

	"Please, Chet, I only meant what I said: it was a 
coincidence.  Don't get riled at me.  I'm your friend, 
remember?" asked Rich, more or less convinced now that Chet 
had killed the bartender.  He had read about the slaying in 
the morning's paper.  The front-page article had mentioned 
that the victim had been sexually mutilated and that no 
money had been taken.  It was a vengeful hate crime, pure 
and simple, and right up Chet's alley.

	"I'm sorry.  I'm still upset, and I can't even think 
straight," said Chester, flopping down on the sofa directly 
opposite the picture window that provided a splendid view 
of the mountains.

	"No offense taken, old buddy.  You're just tired.  Why 
don't you sack out for a couple of hours?  Bill and Jerry 
and I can herd the boys over to the cafeteria for lunch.  
You don't need to bother."

	"I owe you already for the morning; and today was 
supposed to be your day off."

	"No problem.  I was planning to stick around here 
anyhow," said Rich.

	"Doing my job for me is too much to ask, now that I'm 
here.  I'll be okay in a minute or two.  Anything important 
happen while I was gone?" asked Chester, standing up and 
stretching his arms toward the high ceiling.

	"Nothing much.  Oh, we admitted a couple of new guys 
this morning.  I put them into 124A.  These two look like 
centerfolds out of a teen magazine; I thought it must be 
some mistake, but they're both in here for killing 
somebody.  You'll see what I mean, though.  They just don't 
look like the usual flotsam we get."

	"Takes all kinds," said Chester.

	"You can say that again.  The one named Cal doesn't 
even have a cock."

	"What did you say?" asked Chester, looking at Rich as 
though he had just told him that Madonna was in the next 
room. 

	"You heard me right.  During processing this morning, 
I saw him naked.  Big balls, blond hair and a face that 
looks like a movie star's, but no cock.  One of the other 
kids told me his dad had cut it off.  The kid turned around 
and killed his dad and wound up in here."  

"Sounds like I'd better keep my eye on this one.  I'll 
see you later," said Chester, appearing to get a second 
wind; he no longer acted tired.  He was out the door without 
another word.


	

	
	 Gabe was totally unprepared to confront Chester when 
he stormed into the room without so much as a knock on the  
unlocked door to the hall.  Babe had one foot up on his bed 
(thank God he had just made both beds up) and just finished 
lacing his regulation sneakers when the infamous screw 
walked right up to him. Gabe snapped to attention.

	"Welcome to Rosemary.  I'm Mr. Morse, and I'm here to 
take you to lunch.  I thought there were two of you in 
124A," said Chester, looking around the room.  He spoke in 
the same high-pitched voice Gabe remembered from that 
fateful night on the mountain road. It took him a moment to 
realize that the man had not recognized him.  What 
incredible luck!  And what an incredibly handsome hunk 
Chester was, he thought, seeing him in daylight for the first time.

	"Oh, yes, sir.  I mean, there are two of us.  Cal, I 
mean Mr. Foster, is still in the bathroom, sir," said Gabe, 
remembering from the orientation session that only last 
names were to be used when talking to guards or other 
prisoner personnel. The use of "Mister" and "sir" when 
addressing guards was absolutely mandatory. For some 
reason, the use of these verbal niceties was thought to 
promote mutual respect.  Gabe remained standing stiffly at 
attention; he had seen other boys on the campus do it when 
spoken to by guards.  He would have saluted if he had known 
how.  Chester didn't even seem to notice or care.

	"And you're Mister -"

	"Lamb, sir.  Gabriel Lamb."

	"Hmmm.  You look kind of familiar.  Have you and I met 
before?"

	"Not that I recall, sir.  Perhaps I look like someone 
else, sir," said Gabe, still standing as stiff as a board.

	"At ease, son.  I won't bite you or anything.  We're 
not on the drill field, and I don't expect you to know the 
drill yet.  You've just arrived.  Enjoy yourself while you 
can," said Chester.

	"Thank you, sir," said Gabe, trying to relax a little 
but not quite succeeding.

	"May I tell you how fine you look in the Scarborough 
Fair uniform?  Where'd you get those good looks, son?" 
Chester asked, looking at the bright red shirt and the 
fresh, new blue denim pants Gabe was wearing.  Gabe 
had the face of an angel - perhaps that's why he had been named 
Gabriel.

	"Yes, you may tell me that, sir.  You're very kind, 
sir.  I suppose it was from my mother, sir. I never knew my 
father, sir.  He left us when I was a baby, sir."

	"That's too bad.  Of course, I've been empowered by 
the court to act as your parent while you're here.  I'm 
fully prepared to think of you as my son, if I have your 
permission to do so," said Chester.

	"You do, sir, but the honor and pleasure will be all 
mine," said Gabe, wondering if Chester was only parroting 
back some sort of psychological formula learned in a 
classroom that was designed to win over young, fatherless 
gay males.  Nevertheless it would be hard not to fall for 
such a line, especially since Gabe had unconsciously longed for a 
father's love and companionship.     

	"You have a way of saying exactly the right thing, Mr. 
Lamb.  It usually takes us three or four months to teach 
our boys what you already seem to know.  Where did you 
learn to speak like a gentleman?"

	Before Gabe could answer, the bathroom door opened and 
Cal strutted out into the room.  He was buck-naked and  
dickless again.

	Instead of coming to attention, he said, "Gabriel, 
honey, why didn't you tell me we had company?  Were you 
planning to keep this gorgeous man all to your little old 
self?" He was using his most outrageous Southern "belle" 
accent.  He also winked at Chester as he puckered his 
sensuously parted lips.  

	Chester opened his mouth but could say nothing.  He 
just stared in utter amazement, first at Cal's face then at 
his crotch.  Just as Gabe began to think the man was 
going to castrate and kill them both on the spot, Chester's 
face broke into a radiant smile.  He started laughing so 
hard and uncontrollably that the boys began to fear that  
he would have a heart attack.  He even grabbed his stomach 
with both hands and sat down hard on Cal's bed to keep from 
falling to the floor.  In a few moments, he regained 
control, stopped laughing, got up and spoke.

	"You've made my day, Mr. Foster.  Thanks.  But I do 
hope you don't think I'm laughing at your, uh, deficiency.  
On you, such a deficiency looks great. Get dressed quickly 
now, or you'll miss lunch," said Chester, ogling Cal's 
crotch lustfully.  

The stare was not lost on Cal.  He was delighted that 
his plan seemed to be working so far.  

Gabe was having mixed feelings.  Chester 
was one of the sexiest men he had ever seen.  If he hadn't 
actually seen what Chester had done to Zack, he would have 
been hard put to imagine that the friendly, warm human 
being standing in front of him was a serial killer.  He 
looked at the bulge in his own crotch and wondered what it 
would be like if Cal's plan ultimately failed and Chester 
made good on his threat to sever his penis. The more he 
thought about it, the more the bulge grew.     






 	Sixteen-year-old Alex Morse did not climb out of the 
tree house until just before noon that morning, and even then
he didn't feel entirely safe doing so.  His irate brother Chester 
had been searching for him all night - ever since he discovered 
Alex missing from his bedroom.  The large tree house, 
conveniently located just across the street in a neighbor's 
side yard, offered a view through leafy branches of his own 
house and driveway.  The neighbor had built the little one-
room bungalow, complete with a roof, glassed-in windows and 
a balcony, atop sturdy low limbs of an ancient oak tree. 
The neighbor intended it to be used by his small 
grandchildren, but they were now grown up and no longer 
interested in playing in tree houses.  It had thus been 
neglected and was now a semi-ruin; the roof leaked, and 
some of the glass panes were missing from the windows. 
Nevertheless, Alex had climbed into it the night before in 
desperation, grateful that he could conceal himself there.

	After spending the night shivering on its cold floor 
because he had no blanket or sleeping bag, he had attempted 
once that morning to come down from his perch.  Convinced 
that his brother had finally left for work at Scarborough 
Fair, Alex had begun climbing down.  When he had reached 
the bottom rung of the rotting ladder, he saw Chester's 
black Explorer roll into the driveway of his parents' house 
across the street.  Chester hadn't given up yet.  He had 
come back to find his brother! 

Alex had scrambled back up and lay concealed on the 
floor of the tree house until he heard a car door slam and 
a car rev its engine to drive away.  Waiting another two 
hours just to be safe, he finally climbed down again, slowly 
placing each sneaker-shod foot on the rungs while looking 
warily at the street and driveway and listening for any sign 
of Chester's SUV.
 
Reaching the ground and looking up and down the 
street, he sprinted across and into his yard to the bushes 
on the left side of the house.  There he crouched for a 
moment to catch his breath.  His house was a clapboard-
sided, one-story Cape Cod, and it had long, low windows.  
The bedroom Chester had lived in all his life was on the 
back left corner of the house. It had one window on the 
left side of the house and another on the back facing the 
backyard. He used it now only for his weekly, two-day 
visits, but he always kept the room locked, even when he 
was away.  Not even his parents were allowed to have a key. 

 Alex looked up at the room's window on the side of 
the house.  He was in luck!  The window was open a crack at 
the bottom.  He stood, slipped both hands under the window 
and pushed upward with all his strength.  The window inched 
open until the gap was wide enough for Alex to climb 
through. He pulled himself up, got his right leg up on the 
sill and easily twisted the rest of his thin body over it 
and into the room.

He stood and looked around. The bed was neatly made, 
the small desk had a few papers and books stacked neatly on 
its top, and on the top of a large chest of drawers were 
rows of toiletries, a hair brush and several combs. He 
walked over to the mirror attached to the wall above it and 
looked at his image.  His flesh around his left eye was 
horribly black and blue now, and his lower lip was still 
very puffy as a result of being pounded by his brother's 
fists two nights before.  Chester had nearly beat him to a 
pulp before he had gotten the confession out of that he had 
let Manny Sikes fuck him.  Chester had left and returned 
drunk the next evening.  He told Alex that he had taken 
care of Mr. Sikes, and that if he didn't watch his step, he 
would add Alex's cock to his collection.  Chester had gone 
to his bedroom and passed out. Afraid of what Chester might 
do to him when he woke up, Alex had run away to spend the 
next night and morning in the tree house.
 
There was nothing unusual to be seen in the bedroom 
itself. He walked over to the walk-in closet door and 
opened it.  He switched on the light. Inside were shirts, 
pants and jackets hanging neatly on each side, with shoes 
stacked on racks underneath them.  The shelves above were 
what interested Alex.

As he began to move aside boxes, hats and other items, 
he remembered the word "collection." Had the brother he had 
once worshipped and looked up to actually cut off two men's 
cocks and kept them? 

Convinced that he must be wrong, he was about to give 
up his search. He was about to put a metal fishing tackle 
box back on the shelf he had taken it from when he suddenly 
stopped. Fishing tackle?  Chester wasn't a fisherman.  What 
was he doing with dad's old tackle box in his closet?  He 
set it down on the floor and opened it up.  On the bottom 
of the box he saw three mason jars.  He picked up the first 
one in the row and held it to the light.  Floating in a 
clear liquid was a grayish-looking object that was 
obviously a penis about four inches long.  Near its base, 
where it had been cut off, was a large Z tattoo with a 
lightning bolt extending up to the bottom rim of the head.  
It was Zack's cock!

He set the jar back into the box and picked up the 
second one.  It contained a large penis that still looked 
rather pink and fresh. It had undoubtedly been attached to 
bartender Sikes before Chester had cut it off.  Feeling 
nauseated, Alex picked up the third jar.  It contained 
nothing but preservative liquid.  Alex couldn't help but 
assume that the jar was for his penis.

He put it back into the box, picked the box up, walked 
out of the closet with it and picked up Chester's 
telephone.  He dialed 911.

   
To be continued