The NERVOUS STOMACH Series: Ego-Strategy 26 — FURY

Posted: August 18, 2013 in The NERVOUS STOMACH Series

Friday, May 23, 2008

The NERVOUS STOMACH Series: Ego-Strategy 26 — FURY

I’m sixteen and camping with my high school buddies in the forest down by my parent’s cottage.  My loyal spitz-husky, Cooper, has to stay home, otherwise the ground burrs and cottonwood fluff weave themselves permanently into his furry Eskimo coat.

I just got my permanent driver’s license, so this is our first excursion in a motor vehicle with just “the guys”.  Joe, Pani, and my best friend, Guy, all pile into my ’97 Plymouth Fury (at 216,000 miles, it cost me $1200 bucks of my Starbucks earnings…but the engine runs good.  And it’s got a great stereo.)

It’s not one of those camp sites with electricity and bathrooms — it’s parking the car on the loggers’ road and hiking for about a half hour through the leafy brush to set up tents.  Making jokes about the Blair Witch the whole way, we find a clearing and set up shop.

As the sun heads toward evening and dusk, Joe works on the fire pit while Guy prepares the chicken kabobs.  Pani scouts for firewood.  I use my camera phone (a Palm Treo 755p with a maroon skin) to take pictures and chronicle the event (getting more than my share of Guy’s muscular pecs — in real life, he’s just my best friend, but inside my mind, he’s a whole lot more…) That’s when the scene erupts: from both the right and left, four guys in prison uniforms break out of the forest and start punching us! Too late, I recall the warning we heard on the car’s radio: FOUR CONVICTS, IN JAIL FOR RUNNING A CHILD PORNOGRAPHY RING, BUST OUT OF JAIL IN AN UPSTATE TOWN.  THEY MAY BE ARMED AND CONSIDERED DESPERATE. 

“Mack, tie ’em up,” the tallest con barks at his buddy, a chubby white guy with a sinister sneer. 

“Mack” uses our tent ropes to bind all eight of our wrists together in one big, nasty knot. “Okay, Billy.” 

“Hey, these boys look pretty fresh,” a third con laughs, a harsh, gravelly sound, as he looks us over.  “Maybe we can use ’em in our next flick,” he spits out. “That is, if they got anything under the hood,” he says, kicking at Guy’s crotch. I hear my best friend, my secret crush, give a high-pitched wail, a sound that should never emit from a man’s throat, and the blood in my veins moves from a slow burn to a full-pitched boil. 

What the four porno kings don’t know is that I’ve studied “The Hardy Boys’ Detective Handbook”.  Studied it extensively.  What they don’t know is that I’ve rehearsed abduction scenarios in my head.  What they don’t suspect is that I’ve positioned my wrists so I can reach my Treo’s stylus and have used it to pick through the tent rope while they launch another kick at my sweet friend’s manhood.  What they can’t dream is that I’ve spent almost three years trying to bottle up the rage of being gay and wanting something I’m not sure I can have, and that my righteous, furious frustration at the Catholic Church’s edicts, at President Bush’s gay marriage policies, at the guys who hang around the school showers and snap their towels at unsuspecting butts and yell “FAG SWAT!” 

They can’t know any of this…but that’s too bad for them. 

Before the gravelly voiced con’s foot connects a second time with Guy’s package, I free myself and leap in one movement.  Giving a howl worthy of Tarzan, I bring the heel of my hiking boot down onto Gravel-Voice’s ankle.  I hear a satisfying ‘snap’ even before he starts screaming in pain.  Guy, Joe, and Pani all stare at me as I am everywhere at once: kicking, punching, delivering blows as I learned in the Handbook — maximizing the element of surprise at their disbelief that a single sixteen year-old boy can be this ferocious.  The chubby one is down; the third con is down; finally, it’s just me and the tall one, the leader. 

I stand in front of him, my legs slightly apart, my right foot slightly forward (the Handbook taught me it’s the most stable stance).  “So what’s it’s gonna be, BILLY-GOAT,” I goad him.  “You want a piece of me, too?”

“Oh, you’re gonna be my piece,” Billy growls, launching a full-frontal attack.  I’m ready for him; through my fury I mentally calculate his speed and weight.  As he lunges for me, I grab a low-hanging branch from the forest above us.  He can’t stop; I swing easily over his head as he grabs at empty air.  My swing arcs backwards.  I connect my hiking boot with the back of Billy’s head and kick with all the might of oppressed homosexuality. 

He goes down.

Afterwards, as Joe, Pani, and Guy use the tent ropes to security tie Billy, Gravel-Voice, Chubby, and the last con, I use my Treo to call 911 (I’m able to get a signal on “Roaming”.) 

As Joe and Pani guard the bad guys, as we wait for the cops to arrive (with the $10,000 reward money), I take a seat next to Guy on a fallen log just out of earshot of the others.  Guy looks over at me, tears just beginning to form in the edges of his eyes.  “Greg, I was gonna tell you this tonight in the tent, but after all this, I want to tell you now.  Just in case…in case something happens.” 

“What is is?” I ask my dearest friend, looking deep into his cola-brown eyes.

“I love you,” he whispers, looking at me, half smiling, half crying.  

For FUN, I put my stuff at

For SERIOUS, I put my stuff at

I invite you to visit my stuff.

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