Alonzo strolled down the dark hallway, heavy bassline making his skull vibrate, air thick with cigarette smoke and drunken laughter, empty martini glass dangling from his fingertips. Hands reached out from the shadows to stroke the fur collar of his coat as he passed.
Smashed mirror. A pillow slashed open, feathers dusting the floor. Vomit in the corner. He made a mental tally, added up the cost of replacement and clean-up. Nothing down here was of any real value, it was there for ambiance and meant to be destroyed at will.
Still, it was only just past midnight.
The kitchen was mostly empty, save for a couple making out in the corner next to the refrigerator – most of the activity had moved to either the living room or one of the downstairs bedrooms at this point. He plucked a still-burning cigarette from the fingers of a girl slumped over at the kitchen table, naked except for a sequined masquerade mask. “Ashtray, darling,” he said, placing one in front of her, taking a drag before slotting it in neatly. He poked the side of her head, and it lolled to the side. Breathing, so he didn’t care.
The counters were littered with trash, half-eaten food, half-drunk bottles and glasses. He dumped a few out into the sink to make room and grabbed a bottle of Belvedere from the top shelf of the liquor cabinet.
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Gatsby himself.”
Alonzo turned. A drag queen he vaguely recognised, maybe from one of his clubs – bright pink wig, heavy foundation, black studded corset, naked from the waist down aside from six inch heels. She leaned against the doorframe, twirling her drink. “Finally decided to join the rest of the party?”
He held up his glass. “Just here for a refill, baby.”
“What a shame.” She pushed herself off the frame, strutted over to the counter. “One for me too?”
“Sure.”
She hovered behind him, slightly off to one side – his blind side, which he wasn’t thrilled about, but pretended not to notice. He felt her run a finger down his left arm. “Everyone’s having such a lovely time.”
“I know.” Alonzo poured the vodka into both glasses, turned to put the bottle back, reconsidered. Added another splash to his own drink.
“You know.” Arms snaked around him from behind, a cheek pressed against his back (fucking makeup is going to leave a stain, he thought irritably). “Why not come and play, then?”
“Another time, baby.” Vermouth. One olive for her, two for him.
“You always say that.” Her body pressed closer to him, hand traveled down. “Let’s play now.”
He caught her hand and turned around smoothly, detatching himself from her embrace. Her eyes narrowed slightly. Alonzo smiled. “Later,” he purred, and placed the drink back in her hand. He grabbed the Belvedere at the last second as he brushed past her. Won’t be a ‘later’. Sorry, not sorry.
He could feel her gaze burned into his neck as he made his way back down the hallway. “See you later then, handsome,” she called after him. He tossed his drink back in one gulp and headed up the stairs.
---
“What the fuuuck is this.”
Miguel’s laying on his stomach on his bunk, chin buried in his pillow – Alonzo sits on the floor beside him, lightly running his fingertips along Miguel’s bare back. His good eye takes turns watching Miguel and glancing over the the guards at the control panel below. If previous nights of observation can be trusted, the rounds take place every hour on the hour, so they have some time before Officer Murphy comes to interrupt them again. Not much, though, he thinks – and the drugs themselves have their own timer.
Miguel, for his part, seems to have wrestled back some sobriety since they moved to the bed – but it doesn’t stop him shivering when Alonzo’s touch grazes the side of his ribcage, no more snide remarks or posturing. Quit fighting, baby. Just let nature take its course.
He thumbs the dial of the iPod, scrolling through artist names. “I don’t know what any of this shit is, man. Who the fuck are these people.”
“That’s part of the fun, Miguelito. Exploration.” He traces the outline of the spiky tattoo on Miguel’s shoulderblade. “Experimentation.”
“Yeah, but like.” He scrolls further. “‘DJ Hell’? Dog, that don’t even sound real.”
Alonzo shrugs. “Put it on.”
Miguel does so, putting the volume up to full. He clicks through the songs impatiently. “Nah. This is shit.”
“You should give them more than a few seconds to play,” Alonzo says, mildly annoyed. He suddenly switches from fingertips to nails, scratching five soft pink lines down Miguel’s back, which arches slightly in response.
“Shit...man...you don’t got any Dre? Dogg Pound?” He scrolls. “2 Unlimited.” He clicks, listens. “This ain’t ‘pac.”
“’Pac?”
“2pac, man.”
“No.”
He switches over to Songs, starts shuffling through. Click. Click. Click. 5 seconds max between skips. “Don’t you have any rap? Like, at all?”
Alonzo chews his lower lip, thinking. “Try this.” He leans in, brushing his cheek ever so slightly against Miguel’s as he does so, hearing Miguel’s breathing hitch. Scrolls down to a song, clicks. “And don’t skip, querido,” he warns, impulsively kissing the side of his head before pulling away.
Miguel shakes his head slightly in response, like a duck trying to fling off droplets of water. After a few moments, he makes a face. “Nah. What the hell is this. Some girl.”
“Just wait.”
Miguel waits. Finally starts laughing. “Man, get the fuck out of here. This does not count.”
“It counts. She was one of the first.”
“She sucks, man.”
Alonzo sighs heavily. “All I got, baby.”
“Whatever. Put on something else.” He hands Alonzo the iPod. “Something that doesn’t suck.” Their fingers brush as the transfer happens, eyes lock for a half-second, before Miguel turns back, snuggles further into the pillow. Alonzo smiles to himself.
“Give me a list,” he suggests as he scrolls. “I’ll get my guy on the outside to add whatever you like. For next time.”
“Next time,” Miguel laughs quietly. “Yeah, sure.” He closes his eyes.
Alonzo picks the album he was listening to earlier, turns the volume down.
“Hey.”
“Drains the battery, sweetheart.”
“Don’t care. Put it back.”
He obliges, then slips the device underneath Miguel’s pillow. Continues tracing lines on his back, up and down. Soon.
No more bullshit.
---
The door at the top of the stairs had 3 different locks – one conventional, one keycode, and a retinal scanner. He’d spent a lot of money on the last – Angelo had been unimpressed. “You’d be halfway to opening another club with that,” he’d said. Alonzo had shrugged it off.
“Futuristic, baby.”
He pulled the key from the chain hanging from his hip to open the conventional, punched in the code for the keypad (should change it again in a few days, he mused – didn’t want any of the buttons to get worn down) and presented his dead eye to the scanner. Three low beeps, and the mechanism unlocked, allowing him into his bedroom. The control room.
On the far wall, a cacophany of flesh greeted him. CRT screens of various sizes stacked on shelves from floor to ceiling, broadcasting dozens of encounters, sweat-slick limbs accessorized with leather and plastic, intertwined, thrusting, grinding – mouths agape in soundless ecstasy.
The life of the party.
Lovely time, indeed.
Each monitor showed a different camera feed. There were at least three in each room, including the bathrooms (people fucked in there, still, despite the entire rest of the house being retrofitted to accomodate fucking. He didn’t get why). Two pointed at the front door, one inside the house, one outside. One guarding the door to the room he was in now. Six in the living room. All at different angles. All with accompanying audio feeds, which he could access via any of the numbered (and color-coded) headsets that lay in a heap, tangled up in each other’s wires, on his desk.
Aside from the ones on the doors, none of the cameras or listening devices were visible. Not because he needed it to be a secret – he didn’t care if people knew, in theory. In practice, though, it tended to ruin the show. People started performing for the invisible audience, showing off – it became pornographic, and thus boring. Anyone could have scripted sex. He wanted to watch what happened when people thought they were outside of reality, in a world where nothing else existed except what was within his walls. He wanted to watch people lose themselves.
Alonzo placed the bottle of Belvedere down on the desk and collapsed onto the high-backed chair, swinging one leg over the arm. Laid out a few lines on the desk, popped an olive into his mouth and scanned the feeds for tonight’s entertainment.
A guy getting fucked up against a wall, hands gripping his throat. A blindfolded girl with a cock in her mouth and another guy thrusting away behind her. A latex figure flogging a guy jerking off to the girl getting fucked. A girl with her hands tied above her head getting eaten out by a guy getting rimmed by a guy being rammed by a girl sporting a massive strap-on. Like Tetris blocks, he mused. Or Lego. There’s a couple in the corner touching themselves under their clothes, side by side, not looking at each other. The guy has his free hand on the girl’s forearm, the one attached to the hand pumping inside her jeans. There’s a girl in the corner just stabbing the wall over and over and screaming, which probably shouldn’t be allowed, but she looked like she was having a good time. As long as she doesn’t turn the knife on anyone else. He didn’t want to have to call Angelo again so soon.
He did another line, and when he looked up he saw the drag queen from the kitchen enter the frame. Some guy with a bright yellow mohawk had his tongue in her mouth, his hand on her cock. She dragged her nails down his back, leaving gouges. Alonzo picked up the headset for the feed and carefully raised the volume, inch by inch. Nothing distinct, just a tapestry of noise, moaning and shrieking and yes, baby, keep going, fuck me harder, whatever, blah blah. The usual. Disappointed, he set it down again, then froze.
The drag queen was looking right into the camera. A camera she couldn’t possibly see, a camera she shouldn’t know was there.
He stared back at her, fascinated. Got up out of his chair to approach the monitor, reached out a hand to touch her image.
Just as his fingers brushed the soft static fuzz of the screen, she winked.
---
The music cuts off, suddenly – an image of an empty battery flashing up on the screen. Connect to power.
“Shit.”
“Told you, baby.”
“Fuck. Sorry.”
“Not a problem.” Alonzo continues stroking him. “I’ll send it out tomorrow. Should be back with a full charge the day after that.”
Silence descends. Miguel’s eyes close, his breathing slows. Oh no, not yet, baby. Party isn't over. Not until I say.
“Miguel,” Alonzo says softly.
“What happened to him?”
He pauses. “Who?”
“The guy who fucked up your eye.”
“When did I say some guy did it?”
“Didn’t. Just figured.”
“Mmm.” Alonzo draws an invisible spiral on his back, starting from the center, moving outwards in tight lines. “I don’t know,” he says finally. It was the truth. He hadn’t spoken to his father since the accident. Could have tracked him down – wanted to, a few times over the years. Never wanted enough to bother, though.
“You didn’t waste him?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Why?” Alonzo counters. “Wouldn’t change anything, cariño.” He reaches the edges of Miguel’s torso, once again triggering that little shiver, and starts tracing the spiral back in.
A long pause. “I cut out a guy’s eyes. Few years back.”
Alonzo’s finger stops. “Why’d you go and do something like that, baby."
“Had to.” Miguel sighs heavily. “Fucking El Norte.”
“Mmmm.” He continues the spiral, waiting for Miguel to elaborate.
“S’why I’m not getting my parole,” is all he says.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Look on the bright side, you got more time to spend with me - but he decides that would be pushing it.
“Anyways,” Miguel goes on, “I thought, you know. Maybe that was why you did it. What got you in here.”
“Ah.”
“So what. Were you high or something?”
“No.” No more than usual.
“Business?”
“No.”
“What, personal? Guy was talking shit about you or something?”
“Or something,” Alonzo says dryly.
“You gonna tell me?”
He pretends to consider this. “Maybe later,” he allows. No.
“Fuckin' mystery man,” Miguel murmurs sleepily, and Alonzo smiles slightly.
“Mmm. With the suits, and the cigarettes, and the music –”
“– and the drugs, and the contacts –”
“No contacts.”
“Yeah.”
Another long, dead silence. Fuck it, he thinks. “Move over.”
Miguel’s eyelids flutter open. “Hmm?”
Alonzo motions with a flutter of fingers, scooch. “Let me in.”
He doesn’t respond for what feels like an eternity, and just as Alonzo starts to think he miscalculated, Miguel rolls over to the edge of the bed, allowing space for Alonzo to crawl in. No more than two inches separating their bodies, now, and it feels both terrifyingly close and like an insurmountable gulf. Not how it should be, he thinks. But it’s how it has to be, here.
“Weirdest sleepover ever,” Miguel whispers drowsily, and Alonzo laughs, surprising himself.
“I suppose it is.”
“You want to kiss me or something?”
The directness of the question startles him. “No.”
“If you're gonna, just go ahead and do it. I don’t really care.”
“I don’t want to,” Alonzo says carefully. “Not now, anyway. Maybe when you’re sober. If you’re still up for it.” A weird chill goes up his spine. He ignores it.
Miguel makes a noncommittal noise, closes his eyes again.
And...action.
"There's something else you can do, though." He takes Miguel's hand, starts guiding it down – immediately meets resistance, eyes sprung open, glittering cold and feral. “Not me. Not me,” he quickly reassures. Miguel’s hand relaxes just enough for Alonzo to continue pulling it down, place it atop Miguel’s boxers. “Yourself.”
“Nah,” Miguel says, but he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t relax either – just goes rigid in Alonzo’s grasp.
“Miguel.” Alonzo’s voice drops an octave. “I think I’ve been very generous with you tonight. Very patient, all things considered.” He tightens his grip ever so slightly on Miguel’s hand, feeling the bones crunch against one another. Hears Miguel’s breathing speed up. “I told you. I don’t want to fuck you. I don’t even want to touch you.”
Now or never. He lets go of Miguel’s hand. It doesn’t move.
“Just let me watch you.”
Miguel stares at him, and the emotions that run across his face are almost as delicious as what he’s anticipating, what he already knows Miguel has decided to do, and after a moment, he hears the sound of fabric shifting, and the quiet, familiar sound of skin against skin, and Alonzo resists the urge to smile, to show any sign of how much he relishes the submission. Finally. Fucking finally.
"Good. That’s right. Keep looking at me."
He does. His breathing quickens, his eyelids lower slightly as the sensations build, stroking a little faster now. Alonzo watches, rapt. He feels his own body responding, and immediately conjures up familiar imagery to counter it - blood on the asphalt, screams in the night. Carrion, roadkill, decay. The juxtaposition thrills him, makes him sick. Little half-suppressed noises from Miguel's throat. Carrion, roadkill, decay. Maggots and rot.
Suddenly Miguel stops, starts to turn away. "Nah. Nah. This is fucking weird, man."
In one swift movement, Alonzo swings his leg over Miguel, pinning him down. "Keep going," he says coldly.
Miguel looks up at him for a long moment, breathing heavily. Finally, his hand starts moving again, his face relaxes again.
“Good.”
Finally.
---
Someone was groaning.
Shut the fuck up, Alonzo thought dizzily. A million tiny hammers were pounding away inside his skull, and it made his thoughts sluggish, like flies struggling in honey. Just shut the fuck up. Nobody cares. Fuck off.
He decided to say as much and realised the person groaning was him.
He opened his eyes blearily, instantly regretted it – bright light streaming in from the windows sent pain radiating through his corneas and into his brain. He lifted his hands to rub at his face and it felt like gravity had quadrupled in the night, too heavy. The room spun and he felt an overwhelming urge to vomit.
What the hell...
After what felt like an hour he finally tried opening his eyes again. Still painful but doable. He lay still, looking around as much as he could without moving his head, took stock of his surroundings.
He was in one of the downstairs bedrooms, the red room. Still in his own house, which was a good sign, except not, because he never, ever slept down here, especially not after a party.
Not wearing any clothes.
The flies struggled harder.
He dug his fingernails into his palms to remain calm.
Two drinks. Strong, but not out of the ordinary for him. Not even close to what he knew his limit to be. He remembered pouring the third drink, did he finish it? He couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember anything.
The coke? No. He’d bought it 3 days ago, had done plenty of it, no problem.
Couldn’t remember anything.
Except –
A brief snippet. Bumping into a cabinet in the hallway, hearing something fall to the ground and shatter. Someone giggling, insane and falsetto.
Why would I leave the room? I took the bottle so I wouldn’t have to.
Couldn’t remember anything.
Except –
I turned to put the bottle back. She was on my blind side.
Shit.
Fucking bitch.
He pushed himself up from the bed, nearly groaning again as the movement sent daggers to accompany the hammers. As he did so, his hand brushed a piece of paper that had been left next to him on the bed. He snatched it up, holding it close to his face, the letters jumbling up for several seconds before settling into words.
Worth the wait, handsome.
A lipsticked kiss below, as a signature.
He crushed the paper into a ball. “Fucking bitch,” he repeated aloud. He swayed, feeling bile rise in his throat again, skin prickling, involuntary shiver. “Stupid fucking bitch.”
17 fucking years.
Stupid fucking bitch. You stupid, stupid fucking bitch.
Something crashed outside the room, and it snapped him back to attention. He stumbled out of bed, staggered across the room to where his clothes had been neatly draped over a chair (God forbid he hadn’t folded his fucking clothes, he thought crazily, what a nightmare that would have fucking been), pulled them on, nearly fell on his face pushing the door open. Stomped into the living room, every ounce of energy focused on the task at hand.
“Out,” he announced. “Party’s over, boys and girls. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”
A few bodies stirred, but nobody moved. He grabbed a bottle from the end table and smashed it on the floor. That got people’s attention. “OUT!”
People grumbling, grabbing their clothes. He kept moving down the hallway, flinging doors open. “Out. Out. Everybody get the fuck out.”
He couldn’t find her. Pink bras, pink thongs, pink strap-ons, pink chokers, no fucking pink wig.
I’ll kill her. I’ll kill her. I’ll kill her.
He stormed into the kitchen. The girl who had been catatonic at the table was pulling on a sequined dress to match the mask now dangling around her neck, black makeup streaked down her face. She looked up at him, eyes red-rimmed and wide with terror. He swayed in the doorway.
“Out,” he said quietly. She nodded mutely, sniffed, darted past him like a scared rabbit.
Suddenly very tired. Legs like jelly. He managed to push himself towards the stairs, nearly tripped going up, grabbed the handrail to catch himself. He fumbled with the key, put the wrong code in the keypad, kicked the door several times, managed to put in the right code. Eye scanned, door to his bedroom swung open and slammed shut, locking it, testing the handle once, twice, three times before stumbling over to the desk and collapsing into the chair.
He watched the people on the screens file out of his house, a scream rising in his throat that he choked down, buried deep deep deep deep deep until his breathing slowed, his body went numb, a cool darkness flooding his limbs.
Stupid fucking bitch.
I’ll kill her.
---
"Tell me you hate me," Alonzo says suddenly.
Miguel falters, slowing but – obediently – not stopping. "What?"
"Say it. Tell me you hate me."
A long pause. "I hate you," he says, unconvincingly. His voice sounds lost, almost child-like. Alonzo's stomach turns. He ignores it. Drive on.
"Say it again."
"I hate you." More steady this time.
"Tell me I'm disgusting."
"You're disgusting."
"Tell me I'm worthless."
"You're w-worthless."
"Now tell me I’m a god," Alonzo purrs. "You worship me. You need me."
"I need you. I need you. You’re a god. Fuck."
“Again.” Carrion, roadkill, decay.
“I need you. I –”
"You hate me."
“I fucking hate you.” Venom in his voice. Carrion, roadkill, decay.
“Keep going.”
"You're fucking disgusting. I hate you. You're worthless. You're a disgusting piece of shit. I fucking hate you. You're disgusting. You’re sick. I hate you. I hate you. I hate – fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I hate you. I fucking hate you. I –"
"Now tell me you love me."
"I lo–"
Alonzo darts forward to bite Miguel's shoulder, hard, making him yelp.
"I love you," he pants. "Fuck."
"You hate me," Alonzo murmurs into his neck.
Miguel makes a strangled sound, halfway between a gasp and a sob.
"Say it." Alonzo bites him again. Again. Again. "Say it. Fucking say it."
Nothing but ragged breathing.
"Say it."
"Get the fuck off me."
He rolls off. Miguel gets up, stumbles over to the toilet, and immediately vomits. Alonzo watches him dispassionately from somewhere near the ceiling.
“Fuck.”
“Are you alright?” someone – himself, Alonzo assumes – asks.
Miguel vomits again.
“Do I need to call someone?”
“No,” Miguel says hoarsely.
“You should drink some water.” Alonzo’s body walks to the sink, rinses out the mug it finds there, fills it with water. Crouches down, hands it to Miguel, who takes it, gulps down half, and swishes the rest round in his mouth. Spits into the toilet.
“Think I should go to bed,” he whispers.
“I think that’s a good idea,” Alonzo hears himself agree. His body stands up. “Good night.”
Miguel doesn’t move, doesn’t look, and when Alonzo’s head hits the pillow he blinks out of existence entirely.