This is war, man, this is unholy mayhem. This is hand-to-hand combat down to the last man. This is a gladiatorial free-for-all with nobody escaping in one piece.
Oh hell, forget all that, we already lost the goddamn war. Look around to see the refugees and the ruins. See that kid over there in the Barnum & Bailey drag? No, he’s not some clown on his lunch break, he’s the new species of Bozo Ignoramus created by American dementia and hip-hop burlesque. He wears baggy short pants and calls them shorts. He wears the same baggy short pants and calls them swimming trunks. He wears baggy everything and then calls himself a real man, you fucker, not some girlie-lookin faggot.
That’s where I come into the picture. I’m here to scavenge the war-ravaged landscape for stragglers and fugitives, all of those would-be slouching thugs trained in self-concealment and self-loathing and force-fed on big greasy helpings of distrust and hatred and fear. It’s my victory and my revenge to finesse those well-trained macho he-boys out of their clownish costumes right down to their bare skin and their bashful young dicks.
But I was doing this long before the baggy plague brought havoc and dark menace to American boyhood — and then to all boyhood yonder and beyond. Every little victory is won more dearly now, the danger is blacker and deeper, the boys themselves are depressing eyesores, all of this is true, yes. But shit fire, brother, it’s always been a duel with the darkness and it’s always been the sweetest kind of subterfuge and one-upmanship to corrupt the sons of my enemy, to debauch them out of their pants and into my bed — and most especially sweet when those young kids are virgin daredevils just testing their skills and their courage for the first time, oh brother, the look in their eyes, the excitement, the nervous thrill of it all, there’s nothing better for you or for them, nothing in the world.
If you’re shocked by any of this, fuck you, go knit yourself a scarf or buy yourself some more of those ceramic kittens on eBay, I don’t have time for your sanctimonious bullshit. OK, listen, I’ll be friendly and tell you a story, something that happened last week or last year or maybe back when Reagan was in the White House, don’t worry about times or dates or locations, that would just slow us down. See, I had this plan, this project of infiltration and subversion whereby I’d sneak into the lobbies and vestibules of local churches and leave copies of boyporn tucked into the racks of pamphlets and announcements and prayer books. Guerrilla warfare, son, that’s what it was, that’s what it still is, grass-roots insurgency of the rawest kind. These were dynamite pictures of gorgeous lambkins and striplings all showing off their aroused goodies and having fiendish fun together, some of them even performing a proud spurt or dribble for the camera’s benefit. Imagine Mister Southern Baptist or Miss Roman Catholic or the Reverend Billy Bob Bigot himself finding these pictures alongside the announcements for next week’s potluck dinner and bingo game. Shock, disgust, rage, all those things, you’re right—but also reality, graphic reality right there in front of them, pictorial evidence of boys being sexually joyful and uninhibited and free. It’s reality and it’s truth like a kick in the balls, like a slap across the face, this picture right here of a boy masturbating and happily grinning, this is an image unknown to the eyes and the brains and the souls of modem Hetero sapiens, a healthy boy with an erection. So I provide it, like my fist connecting with their jaws, I provide my enemies with bruising shots of reality.
But you’re leery, I can tell. You wonder how I could manage something like this without getting caught. Hey, it’s not so difficult, just a little caution and common sense are all you need. Wear a cap and sunglasses as a rudimentary precaution. Slip in and out during weekdays when nobody else is around. Take public transportation to that part of town and then walk to and from the church itself, thus guaranteeing that your car and its license plate will never show up on somebody’s surveillance video. And you’re wearing a cap and shades, don’t forget, so you’ll always remain a safely anonymous pedestrian in case of security cameras. Hell, add a fake beard if it’ll make you feel better.
So I’m on my way out of St. Anne’s Catholic Church on Main Street after planting my latest batch of porn, another successful hit-and-run operation, when suddenly I’m face to face with Robbie Bostanchic, this kid I’ve known for a while, in fact I went to high school with his older half-brother, now Robbie himself is a freshman at the same
