Corner Delivery

[ Free Me From This Bond: Chapter 12 ]

You may recall in Chapter 2 (“Moby’s Dick“) that I planned to present My Larkin with a gift, by standing around Castro and 18th till he (hopefully) passes by. Seeing as I don’t know his current home address, nor obviously does he care to say. Detectives are not easy folks to befriend.

When a friend (or foe, I suppose) whose current residence is unbeknownst to you, but does live in or frequents the Castro, this would be a logical spot to wait for him to show up. For this particular intersection is quite dense with pedestrians streaming to and fro. Another good choice would be Market & Castro, right around the entrance to the underground rail service (MUNI Metro)…otherwise known as “Harvey Milk Plaza”.

Two days after our surprise meetup at Moby’s, the gift is ready. It is early afternoon as I saunter down Noe Street on the way to 18th, cloth bag (sporting the disabled veterans logo) full of goodies dangling from my left forearm. But before I even reach 17th, I think I spy Larkin from across the street (or someone who very much looks like him at least in height and hair). He’s wearing a red jacket and medium-brown pants. I am nearsighted and, without glasses* cannot make out the face before a UPS truck rumbles by to block any further view.

* Medicaid coverage ceased providing glasses and eye care some years back, along with dental and psychiatric…which explains–at least in part–why I’m such a hopeless wreck these days. Being born in a basilisk hatchery doesn’t help, either. My Guardian Dragon was there with me right from conception, and let me tell you: it was crowded in that womb. Larkin’s tobacco habit sure made the place so filled with throat-retching fumes, after nine months I just couldn’t take it any more, and popped outta there like a greased piglet (though with wings, tail and scaly armor)! So Larkin lost his pinochle partner; I didn’t care. Second-hand smoke is still smoke, and I was coughing up lungfulls!

Dodging traffic, I scurry across the road, keeping my sight aimed at the spot I saw him moments ago, right beside a silver-gray VW Jetta. Nothing. I then glance up Noe, then 17th: for what other direction could he have gone in such a short time without running into me? Still, whether or not that man was actually Larkin, he is nowhere to be found.

Okay, I think, I’ll just mosey on up to 18th and Castro, and hope my luck in finding him pans out.

Bank of America

Several minutes later, I reach the historic intersection, and decide to hang out on the southeast corner, by Bank of America. No more than one minute passes when–thar she blows!–I spot Larkin marching down Castro, same side and across. He quickly turns corner, to play some pool at The Mix? Desperate to catch up to him, I dash against the flashing red hand signal; horns honk.

“Larkin!” I call. “Larkin!” He stops to face me, looking a bit haggard. No doubt he hasn’t had his first brew of the day. Or coffee.

He honors me with a gentle grin; ocean wind fluffs those curly waves of unkempt ruddy-brown hair which (now that he’s approaching 50) are sprinkled with a dash of salt here and there. There are now dark gaps where bright teeth once shone (the mark of a seasoned warrior). Still: a radiant smile.

Larkin once had a smile so glorious, it would knock your garters off full blast! I’d gladly sacrifice all my remaining nine rotting teeth to win back that wondrous grin. But this is why I call him a seasoned warrior: he gave up his dental insurance (and entire career in fact) for a most noble cause. A cause which has to do with sparing me from a hideous fate of terror and dark sorrow. But worst of all, a fate in which My Darling Dragon no longer exists.

“Here’s my latest gift,” I proudly declare while catching lung’s breath. I raise my colorful sack of presents to the level of his stomach (don’t forget, he’s 6-foot-4). And continue:

“Would it be a burden for you to accept it now? I can try another day.” I announce with heroically stoic poise, and lower the veterans bag to belly-button height. This, despite an overwhelming urge to throw myself into his gangly embrace…which craving has never left me since we first met, and touched, and talked, and kissed, way way back in 2000-and-6.

I am Boadicea‘s Great Soldier first, before I am a lover. Larkin is our platoon sergeant, so to speak. I could never bring him shame; it’s just not in my heart…nor in The Mount Olympus Soldier’s Field Manual.

Larkin shrugs: “Now’s as good as any, I suppose.” And accepts my latest tokens of friendship with an extended hand. I look up: those dragon-gold eyes sparkle. He seems amused. (He always seems amused…at least, whenever I’m present.)

I was taken aback; accustomed as I am to Sisyphean struggles and a slow, tortuous path (like walking upstream in a runnel of sorghum) that is usually my fate whenever I want to speak with him, buy him a drink, or even just view My Celtic Lad from a discrete distance. (Oh, yeah: or bring him a gift, as in this present scenario.) They are rare moments, and more precious, I guess, because of that.

Isle of Man (Great Britain)

So you can imagine how startled I am, at such immediate success this time around. I look up at his noble Manx face, and tilt my head in birdlike quandary.

“Well, that was quick,” I remark. To which he quakes his shoulders in a body-language guffaw. My satchel of love-tokens hangs firmly from his clenched fingers. Joy sweeps through my exhausted soul, at the sight.

“Say, Larkin,” I remark. “I thought I saw you a short while ago on Noe Street. But a truck drove by, and when it left, you weren’t there any more!” I feign dramatic, as in a Vaudeville skit: “I looked left, I looked right. I looked north, I looked south. But no Larkin!” I then stretch out my arms as if to embrace the entire sky: “No Larkin anywhere!”

He remains silent, but gazes down at me with affection (and perhaps a touch of waggery; he does chortle a bit). So I finish: “Guess that wasn’t you then, eh?”

We stand some moments, smiles washing back and forth like the ebb and flow of ocean foam along a sandy beach. Then Larkin cranes his neck sideways to peer into the bag dangling from the end of one, long arm. With raised eyebrows, an expression of doubt lingers across his forehead. Like maybe I might have stashed a venomous snake in there, for all the difficulties he’s put me through. Ha, ha.

I chuckle. “You will like what’s in there.”

Then I realize it’s time to go, though of course I want to remain right there by his glorious side. “Well then, My Brave Dragon, you have a wonderful day.”

“You too now, Zeke,” he replies, then turns to enter the Mix.

“Oh, I certainly will!” I holler back through the traffic rattle, as my steps already draw me home to my humble SRO. (How could I not have a spectacular day? After all, today I saw Larkin and–better yet–brought him another sweet gift straight from My Little Dragonly Soul.)

Realization suddenly springs on me, like a bear trap…so I turn back. “Wait a minute Larkin, that was you on Noe Street,” I exclaim. He pauses in the doorway.

“Yes, that certainly was you!” I look him over from dragon snout to dragon tail (as he patiently puffs out a whiff of that chill, ocean fog). “You’re wearing the same clothes: red jacket and brown pants.”

Larkin cryptically shrugs those fine, skinny shoulders and disappears into the Mix.

So, the little reptile was there. He noticed me and must’ve crouched behind a car, so I’d miss him. But why?” I think this through. Then it hits me:

Oh, I see now. He wanted to receive my gift at 18th & Castro, just like I told him at Moby Dick’s. Accepting it on Noe Street would’ve made our Real Life Fairytale a tad less magical.

How’d I ever get so lucky?

It’s in the cards!

Latest Gift

[ Free Me From This Bond: Chapter 5 ]

Allow me to show you the latest gift I will soon present to My Beloved Larkin (click on any image for a larger view):

Folder contains episodes from my latest novel (“Free Me From This Bond“): chapters 3 (Sweet Sue), 9 (Dragon Fire in the Hole)…and addendums 1 (Dragon Prophecy), 3 (Tom Keske), and 4 (Larkin in the Buff). Left out three other completed chapters because they are not pertinent to my bless-ed relationship with my Darling Guardian Dragon Larkin Kelsey…and I am running low on printer ink, which is rather expensive. I am presently typing Chapter 13 (The Phone Call) which may or may not be added to this folder, depending on how soon I can deliver this gift to My Sweetheart, and whether or not there’s enough ink left in my printer.

Photo #3 shows my newest chapters in the left pocket; and in the right is a political comic book about America’s War Machine, and why it is so destructive to its citizens, and to our troubled world at large. Really, it’s intended as a gift of appreciation to Randolph Louis Taylor, and not to Larkin Kelsey. For reasons which should be obvious to you, Sweet Reader, if you’ve been following my tales since Chapter 1 (Free Me From This Bond). The small white envelope contains a business card that promotes my latest novel. Click here to view it.

Photo #4 is addressed to Randolph instead of Larkin, for I know their spirits are intertwined, and that Lover #1 (Randolph) has brought Lover #2 (Larkin), to heal my bleeding heart of great sorrow for the love of a suffering Vietnam Veteran (#1).

Don’t know if you can see this, but in photo #4, in fine-point pen I added (in the lower middle-right): “Thank you for bringing me to him.”

This is in reference to my other Great Love Randolph. But it also acknowledges a near-future prophecy, where Larkin will bring me back to My Beloved Randolph (who suddenly disappeared from my life since 1992) through whatever magical dimension that is his power, which I call Dragon Sorcery. I really can’t speak enough praise, at what a noble and dear dragon, is My Darling Larkin. Suffice it to say: “He is Infinitely Belov-ed by Yours Truly.”

FYI: If you still need to learn about my excellent association with Randolph Taylor, go here:

The Somalian Affair
http://www.gay-bible.org/somalia/

Or, for a briefer account, this poem:

September’s Passage
http://gay-bible.org/truetales/6_septemb.htm

Why it’s called “The Somalian Affair” will become evident, after a little perusal of that Dragon-Divinely Inspired Page.

Photo’s #5-6 are just the reverse side. A skull-theme bandana binds the folder. Those painted feathers BTW, were found in a curb on Noe Street, while walking home. Discarded, no doubt, after a fun day by one of numerous revelers, at San Francisco’s annual Bay to Breakers run.

Wait-a-minute. Oh jeez, silly me. I almost forgot to mention the other items I’ve included in this folder. And which are very, very special (click on any image for a larger view):

On the left side are the original handwritten letters I composed in 1985, while visiting My Randolph after he shot himself, and where he was (hopefully) recuperating. There was no certain conclusion that his hospital bed at the VAMC in Washington, D.C. would not also become his death bed. Those letters were interviews I held with various other patients there, who were also Nam Vets and–after returning back from that conflict–became (like Randolph) anti-war activists.

What I did was illegal (carrying a concealed tape recorder into the building), and could have landed me in prison. Each night upon returning to my hotel room, I’d play the recordings back, and handwrite all the details. The next morning, I’d make a photocopy of this journal, and mail these duplicates to Warren Hinckle, a news reporter back in S.F., who agreed to receive my daily reports. This way, if I got caught, Warren would have at lease some vital info that could blow this scandel wide open.

John H., you remember all this I’m sure…you were still residing in the same apartment building as myself…in fact, I had just moved in there two years earlier. You recall how I had no money to fly out there, until that miracle happened. My first computer ever (a Compaq “luggable”, 28 lbs.!) was stolen by those two rapscallions, who I let live with me for a week before they could move into a new rental. I was so upset, never dreaming I’d collect on my insurance. So I forgot all about it. Then, Randolph shoots himself!

A potent dream where angels instructed me to fly out to D.C., or he’ll die, made me worry how I’d ever get the moolah to do just that. “Don’t worry,” these angels affirmed, “the money will come to you at the right time.” Well, lo and behold, the insurance payment that I forgot all about did show up two months later: $2,850! More than enough to jet out to D.C., rent a budget hotel room, eat out, buy Randolph some gifts, and more.

And you remember how I trusted curly golden-haired Brian Stevens to stay in my SRO and keep things tidy. No guests whatsoever, especially not that byatch Kelly? Boy, did he make a mess of things! (Or really, I should say “she“.)

Sadly, Mr. Hinckle did nothing with my papers; in fact he never communicated with me ever again, despite my several phone calls to him when I got back. As far as I know, he is still sitting on these documents, or more likely, just tossed them into the garbage can.

Those letters are testimonials citing medical abuse and neglect by hospital staff, towards those soldiers who spoke out against our occupation of Vietnam. One such patient who suffered seizures, was locked away and ignored…until he finally died the next day. I believe they also intended the same fate for Randolph. Fortunately, I discovered his whereabouts thanks to the help of a local priest (Father Young, Church of the Most Holy Redeemer here in the Castro)…who had contacts back east. Ministers, priests, rabbis and the like can visit places otherwise verboten to your average citizen.

Once I blew the whistle by publicizing Randolph’s location and begging folks to send him letters and cards of concern, love and support; the hospital knew the jig was up, and they were forced to take good care of him. (How did I expose their skulduggery? By sending my grievous appeal as a letter to the editor to every major newspaper in each of our fifty states.)

On the right side of the open folder, are displayed three cards, all written to Randolph, but never really mailed. I did this sometimes, just to soothe my aching soul for lack of him. The topmost card shows a dog gazing down at a feline. Open this card to find:

This quote is an exact copy from one of Randolph’s earliest letters to me (while recuperating from that self-inflicted bullet wound)…right down to the little sketch of a cat’s head.

The bottommost card depicts two polar bears, youngster riding the back of an adult. Open this card to see:

Below my handwritten praise, you’ll find a photo of yet another card, depicting barnyard animals gathered around the manger of baby Jesus. It is a Christmas card of course, and the very last writing of any sort that Randolph sent to me. For a long time, I had it glued to a red background, and kept it hung on the wall right over my bed’s pillow. Inside, the card read: “May the sweet spirit of Christmas be with you all year long”. And signed, simply: “Randy”.

No return address, but the postal stamp indicated it was mailed from here, in San Francisco! I called the local VAMC and other hospitals, to see if I could track him down. Alas, no luck. I wept. For the umpteenth time since that dear man shot himself, I wept.

Finally, the central card depicts a luminous painting entitled: “The Knight of the Holy Grail” by Frederick Judd Waugh. My quest for Randolph’s Redemption is indeed, My Very Own Personal Holy Grail. Open the card to read:

So there you have it: my recent gift (or gifts, actually) to Beloved Larkin. I entrust him with these papers, and those three undelivered cards. Why? Because I know in my heart, that Larkin’s gift is to deliver me back unto Randoph…in some way which is unfathomable at this time, and is obviously no less than a Major Miracle. Randolph will receive my VAMC documents, and these cards…and thus my Great Odyssey come full circle.

Only now, not with just One Great Love in my life, but two!

I challenge anyone to defy my claim that I am the luckiest and happiest man in the entire cosmos (not just planet earth). Should you be such a one, I warn you right now: your mission is futile!

Cheerz, Muthuh Fukkuhh

[ Free Me From This Bond: Chapter 4 ]

This is back in 2007, before my tragic downfall and memory loss (and consequent breakup with Larkin, albeit unintended but necessary). The month was January. I was standing just outside the entrance, with the leather curtain between myself and Hades (otherwise known as “The Hole in the Wall Saloon”). Having my usual friendly debate with steadfast and proud atheist (whose name I forget, but let’s call him) Richard. Unbeknownst to me, Larkin is on the other side of the curtain, listening in.

Forgot what our conversation was about (possibly Leon Trotsky; who knows), but I bring up the topic of Larkin (which I often do, much to Richard’s and everyone else’s chagrin):

“I hear that Larkin’s a nasty drunk. Is that true?”

Before Richard can say a word, out pops Larkin from between the black, heavy drapes:

“WHAT? ME, A NASTY DRUNK? WHO EVER GAVE YOU THAT IDEA?” he exclaims in dramatic prose, towering over me like a giant about to crush my bones into dust.

“Whoa nelly, calm down now,” I respond in partial laughter, and press a flat hand against his darling belly (he’s so trim!). “It was only something I heard. I’m sure it was just gossip. A lot of that goes on around here.”

“OH, WELL THAT’S OKAY I GUESS,” retorts Larkin who lights up a Marlboro while standing between myself and the Atheist Wonder. It’s suddenly rather cramped in this narrow entrance to Satan’s Lair. Richard decides to step back inside where barkeep Gary awaits, along with his bar stool and a fresh shot of Maker’s.

“I’ll leave you two love birds alone,” he remarks before vanishing back down The Hole.

Larkin steps further outside, to sit on the fire hydrant and enjoy his smoke. I remain in the doorway savoring the moment, and the chill fog that blankets South of Market. We both gaze at each other while Larkin puffs away. He is the Master of Silent Intercourse. Though almost twenty feet apart, I feel like he embraces me with the dearest affection I’ve ever felt from anyone else’s physical hug. (So you can imagine how exceedingly delightful his actual embrace can be!)

Several minutes later in this beatific spell, I decide to pay My Sweetness a compliment:

“Larkin my dragon, I want you to know that, thanks to your watching over me here at The Hole, to make sure no one harasses or injures me…I do not need anyone to protect me when I’m elsewhere. Because I care so much about your friendship, I make damn sure I don’t get into any messes, so I’ll remain all in one piece for your sake.”

He suddenly jumps up from the hydrant: “WHAT? YOU SAYING YOU DON’T NEED ME ANY MORE? MY PROTECTION ISN’T GOOD ENOUGH?”

And with that, he tosses the still-lit ciggie into the curb, and storms right by me and back into the saloon.

Obviously he misunderstands my intent, I think, or maybe I used my words poorly.

So I rush after him to apologize and sort things out. Larkin is sitting on his designated bar stool (right at the front end towards the doorway and before it makes a 90-degree turn to accomodate two more stools). His ruddy-mopped head is lowered in disappointment, over a bottle of Budweiser.

“Sweetheart!” I exclaim. “That’s not what I meant at all. Of course I need your protection and kindness. I always will! You are very dear to me, that will never change.”

He mumbles over the brewsky: “Well that’s not how you sounded to me. Leave me be, I don’t wanna talk right now.”

“But…” I interject.

“LEAVE me alone, I said!”

I touch his shoulder, but he pushes my hand away.

I am so disoriented and hurt by this unexpected response, I decide to march on home to think things through. As I watch the gray sky dim into sunset through my grimy window, I surmise that I absolutely must clear up what seems to me, a gross misunderstanding and rejection of my great affections for this Wonderful Specimen of Gaelic Manhood.

So in a hurried pace, I trot nine long blocks back up Market (then Eighth) Street, and into The Hole, and to My Beloved. By the time I arrive, it is nightfall. Along the way, I purchase a gift of $40 worth of marijuana, in hopes this will soothe his jangled nerves. (Mine are already too jangled to discern that the bag of pot I just purchased is nothing but a mix of stale oregano and dried dandelion leaves plucked from a vacant city lot.)

There’s my Larkin at his usual bar stool, chatting up what appears to be a Vietnamese or Thai twink. So I approach them and address My Better Third (Randolph being the Second):

“‘Scuse my intrusion but I really need to talk with you, Larkin.”

“Fuk off,” demands the SE Asian twink who, no doubt, feels quite full of himself at this moment, considering the undivided attention showered on him by My Bodacious Hunk of a Dragon. Larkin must be desperate for someone to buy him drinks, I silently observe.

Ready to bust out in peals of hilarity, I apologize to the rice-poof: “Sorry, I will only take a minute, then you’ll have this gutter-tripe gigolo back in your arms again.”

Larkin stands up and pulls me a few feet away from the bar stool. “Okay, what’s going on, Gene?”

I stare up at those dark, smoldering orange-red eyes, and his fiery crown of auburn hair. (Talk about Ireland’s Greatest Glory! Were his visage impressed upon the Blarney Stone, everyone in the world would give up their life savings to travel across the globe on their hands and knees, dressed in rough, scratchy, blood-letting horse-hair burlap, just for a single kiss!)

“Larkin,” I begin, “I am so sorry to upset you, but I think you misunderstood me. I was paying you a compliment. Maybe I chose my words wrong, I don’t know. But the last thing I ever want to do, is cause you any grief or anger!”

My Dragon says nary a word, but keeps looking down upon my trembly soul, with a pensive finger to his chin. So I continue:

“What I meant to say was: how much I appreciate your kind company and protection whenever we’re together.” Then I choose my remaining words most carefully:

“And that when we aren’t together, I’ll make damn sure to stay out of trouble, to cause you as little worry as possible.”

I then extend my right hand to offer the entire baggie of ersatz marijuana which (most fortunately) he pushes back into my chest.

“Apology accepted?” I beg.

“Hmm. Alright.” He replies. Then adds just before returning to his free-drink twink link:

“Just don’t do it again.” (I notice a wry slip of a grin on his darling mug. What’s up with that?)

Well, now that I’m back at The Hole, I figure, I may as well toke up back here, and enjoy the night, the music, the alcohol and, of course, Larkin’s antics. Then it hits me:

I’VE BEEN PUNKED!!!

Larkin never was upset; he’s just having a bit of mischief at This Little Dragon’s expense! Now that I have it all figured out, what next?

In a few minutes, the twink disappears back into the woodwork, and I take up the vacant seat beside Larkin. (That puts me to his left, BTW.) Set my vodka tonic down close to his coke and whiskey, and watch My Darling Trickster carom a green-stripe billiard ball into a corner pocket. Coyly, I polish his barstool seat with a clean napkin before he returns to await his next round at the table.

“That’s better,” he remarks, upon seeing me wipe a patch of debris from his chair.

Now seated, he notices the proximity of my well-drink to his; so with a deft hand propels my glass down the bar top like the expert barkeep he will never be. Not a slow wit myself, I halt the drink with my outstretched left hand. Smooth moves on both our parts!

I want so badly to enfold him in my arms, bless him with infinite kisses. Instead, I say:

“Asshole!”

To which he abruptly replies:

“Muthuh fukkuh!”

Another patron standing close by grins beatifically: he witnessed our little skit from start to finish.

————

Now, jump ahead five-plus years. Remember that we’ve hardly associated most of those years (or at least it seems that way, due to my memory loss), until just several weeks ago. Remember Chapter 2, where we are back together again after so very long, talking even, at Moby Dick? And I buy him a drink.

Larkin raises his glass and clinks it against mine. “Cheers asshole,” he declares.

Of course, ditzy little space cadet that I am, I think I heard him say: “You’re an asshole.”

Not that I’m offended by that remark, but those are the words I thought he spoke. So I reply with a shrug:

“Well, I don’t think I’m an asshole, but whatever.”

To which he quickly responds: “I said cheers asshole.”

“Oh, yeah,” I chuckle. Then clink my glass right back at him: “Cheers asshole”.

Isn’t till later that night, long after I’m departed from Moby Dick, that I realize the reference he intended. He had reversed the two expletives (from that “twinky” evening over five years ago) to this present time, where he said “Cheers asshole”…and I was supposed to reply: “Cheers muthuh fukkuh.”

That’s My Belov-ed: Sharpest Dragon in the Pack!

Larkin: I can’t wait till the next time I buy you a drink! Make it soon, please. Please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please. Muthuh fukkuh.

---

THAT’S MY SEAT!

Just how funny is this guy I call My Guardian Dragon? Well, I just gave a good example of his mischievous wit in the tale above, where he faked being upset at this lovestruck dummy. Now, here’s another example that I can only describe as “Classic Larkin”:

It’s a blustery, sunshiny day in March of 2007, when I step into Hole in the Wall after my power walk along Frisco’s South Beach promenade. As I enter (and my eyes slowly adapt to the gloomy interior), I can’t help but notice a man barely three feet tall without legs or arms, perched on the bar’s end stool. Thalidomide baby, I figure. He is decked out like a leather daddy, motorcyle cap, chaps and all. His drink is clasped securely in a metallic claw that extends from a short, steel armature.

What a courageous soul, I note. Self confidence like nobody’s business! I further muse: Were I in that compromised shell of a body, doubtful I’d have the guts to parade in leather and be just one of the boys. Mazel tov to you, brave fellow. Mazel tov.

Still early afternoon. Patrons are sparse and bartender Gary dotes on his large, ridiculously friendly black lab stretched out on the oakwood floor: long pink tongue draped over a jowl, paws up in a desperate plea for belly rubs. Gary interrupts playtime in order to serve me my usual cup o’java and a glass of tap. Friendly banter ensues between us for several minutes before he returns to his beloved pup, and myself to a bench along the wall, in a dark corner. AC/DC’s Highway to Hell is booming from the overamped speakers, as I sip the robust mud and drift into heavy-metal coma.

Appropriate to the song’s theme (backdrop to the tiny drama about to play out), Larkin’s tall, gaunt figure bursts through the black leather curtains like a giant offended and seeking his prey. Dragonly smoke fumes out his expanded nostrils from a Marlboro just tossed into the gutter. He glares at the limbless leather-dwarf and declares:

“That’s MY seat!”

In a flash he rushes up to the hapless target who remains in calm poise, imbibing his rum and coke…and peremptorily lifts Thalydomide Daddy from his present seat and sets him on the one right beside. The victim of Larkin’s outrageous antic retains his calm as if nothing untoward has just happened, and continues to sip his drink.

OMFG, that’s hilarious, I think. And almost tumble off the bench, poop my pants, and spurt coffee from my nose. All at the same time.

If laughter truly is the best medicine, then Larkin is The Mother Of All Physicians.

The Phone Call

[ Free Me From This Bond: Chapter 13 ]

I must apologize to you, my Sweet & Patient Readers, for a promise I failed to fulfill in Chapter 8 (Dragon Prophecy). Which was to reveal why I was absolutely convinced that Larkin and yours truly would be married in Dolores Park on Easter Sunday, by the honorable Sisters. You will have your answer shortly. Read on:

You’ll remember that night of Easter Sunday, I told my wonderful Parable of the Dollar-Store Bandana to equally-wonderful Allen of the dual clam-shell jewelry display on 18th Street. It was 10pm or so when I returned to my stuffy Hobbit hovel, to relish some of Allen’s superb hashish, and ponder the wonders of that day. Little did I know the greatest wonder had yet to manifest. It was a phone call:

“Aaargh girlfriend! Let’s talk, you wreck of Mother Nature!”

“Larkin! OMG, this is our very first phone call.”

“Ha!” he seemed to be stifling a more ribald guffaw.

“Okay, Sweetness, I…I…don’t get it.”

“This is not our first phone call. For you, perhaps, in a very personal way. But this is not our first phone call. Listen to me, and be careful not to hang up; you’ve done that before. And I know you don’t understand what I’m talking about right now, but pleas…”

I interject: “Oh ho ho ho. Alright. You’ve always been my greatest mystery, Mr. Kelsey. Now you have just added one more to The List. Care to explain, or do I have to figure this one out myself, as usual?”

“Zeke! I really love you. Do you love me? It’s nice to hear that now and then.” Larkin sounds a bit choked up, like maybe some tears are spilling onto his knuckles as he grips the phone tightly in a trembling hand.

“Larkin, how many times do I say I love you, whenever we’re together?” Which is far less than I would like of course…we still live apart. “I’m always more than happy to sing my heart to you, Dearest Little Chipmunk. I love you, I love you, I love you. I don’t understand you, I don’t understand you, I don’t understand you.”

“I know,” sighs Larkin. “I’ve been through this before with you, and it’s Heartbreak Hotel each and every time. Promise me you won’t hang up.”

A cold shiver rides up my spine; I’m a little scared. Maybe I should hang up? My heart sinks: “Okay.”

“That’s why I called, Gene. I know you went to the park today, expecting us to get married. We are telepathic you know, but much more so in my case. And there’s a really good reason for that, which I will explain for, oh, maybe the tenth time in the past two years. And as far as phone calls go, I’ve lost count…but I’m sure we’ve called each other dozens of times by now, maybe even over a hundred.”

“Wow. Just when I thought the day’s excitement was long over, you pull this squirrel out of the hat! Eenie meanie, chili beanie, the spirits are about to speak! I will always love you Larkin. That is carved in Moses’ own tablet; it is the 12th Commandment.” [ Dearest Reader: I've already established some other commandment for the 11th, in a tale I wrote titled "Parable of the Laptop Billionaire". So this one must be the 12th. Sorry for the confusion. ]

“Awww, Zekie-Genie-doodle, you have such a fabulous way with words!”

“Only because you bring out the absolute BEST in me, My Dragon Warrior of the Light. I PROMISE to not hang up. Do go on. Please. PLEASE. Do go on.”

Larkin takes a deep breath. “Alright. You have memory issues…”

“Guess I forgot.” I am the King of Jokes in Bad Taste.

“Okay, Spaghetti Brains, I’ll let you get away with that one, but no more,” says Larkin who is so very dear to my heart, I can’t begin to explain. “Your memory has blank spots that fade in and out, and cover a span of several years.”

I brace myself. I’m very scared right now, and wonder if my love for Larkin is misdirected; perhaps he’s not as nice a person as I wish; and maybe I really should hang up. But I made my promise, and put my faith in love.

“Are you still there, Testicle Breath?”

I almost fall off my swivel chair in hilarity: that’s my Larkin, and I sure as hell won’t hang up. “Yes, muthuh fukkuh, I’m right here for you, ALWAYS. Dish me the dope.”

There is no answer; I wait to see if maybe the phone line went dead. A flash of terror sweeps through me and vanishes. No, Larkin is still there, I can hear him stifle a sob. He finally speaks:

“First thing’s first, Zeke,” he states with deliberate force (and slowly) the following four, transcendent words: “We. Are. Already. Married.”

Happiness thrills me to the marrow, to discover we’re betrothed. I shiver with joy. Then just as suddenly, this sweet reverie vanishes. I choose my next words with care:

“Oh you darling hunk of super-gorgeous, how could I ever forget something so wonderful as marrying a Fierce and Righteous Dragon like yourself? If you’re pulling my tail, please speak up now, or forever hold your pizza!” (I mean, what sort of accident or illness could cause such a powerful loss of memory, that the most important event of your life is wiped out like sand dollars at high tide? OMFG, I truly hope it’s not Alzheimer’s!)

My hand starts to shake violently (I have carpal tunnel), and I drop the receiver. Tears cloud my vision as I fumble to collect it. I suddenly feel terribly alone, as if Larkin were ripped from my heart, forever. But we are still connected; I hear his glorious breath, waiting for me to resume:

“Alright, first thing’s first as you say, so first let me say this: I am so happy to be married to such an outstanding human being, My Beloved Larkin Kelsey. No question I am the happiest man in the entire cosmos, all because of you, My Darling Draco.”

“You make me blush, Genie.”

“And that is such a sweet gift to me, that you do!” My larynx is clogged with hesitation, as the next question arises in my throat:

“Why are my memory banks on the fritz; and am I getting better, I hope?”

“Much better, you’re actually out of the woods and in the last stage of total recovery,” he iterates, as if reciting from a script, well rehearsed. “You were dosed. You were badly dosed five years ago, and almost died. You were on life support for eight-and-a-half months.”

There is nothing in my memory banks to affirm his claim, but I do recall another crisis around that same time:

“Does this have something to do with my slipping a note to you under the wrong door,” I ponder with furrowed brow, “where I remarked that you sure hang out with some nasty scum; they’re dangerous and you should find a way out? And that note fell into the wrong hands, and a big fight broke out at Hole in the Wall…and a week later your room burned down, and you were nowhere to be found, for months? I was so scared you might be homeless…or worse.”

“Very good, Sparky, your memory cells are busting through like a champ. This is the first time you remember that nasty little episode since dosage.” Larkin clears his throat, and continues: “You will very soon start to recall all sorts of things as your memory gaps continue to fade. But some of your recollections will be scary. By which time I’ll stay by your side, to walk you through that dark forest, and into a glorious and eternal life with me, Your Guardian Dragon.”

“Quite a tall order, Oh Belov-ed Draco Who Makes All Good Dreams Come True! Then again, you are quite a tall drink of fizz-pop.” I laugh a bit, then wonder: “I had an awful dream a few nights ago. Could this be one of these scary memories welling up?”

“We’ll see, My Love. Tell me about it. I’m here for you, always.”

So I take a deep breath, before commencing the recollection:

I was strapped down to a dirty, old splintery oak table with thick leather cord. The location was some dark, dank cellar, with an icy chill that oozed a cold sweat from the concrete walls. I could hear rumbling almost over my head, and not too distant, like a train roaring by every 12 minutes or so. I could feel the vibration as they passed. The hellish space was lit by a solitary Coleman lantern that hissed from the burning lignite.

The room stank of rot; my gag reflexes were ready to jump the gate. I could barely make out a large rat in the far corner, nibbling on something fleshy. “Is that a finger?” I mused; I think I wanted to believe it’s a finger. Two hideous forms barely human and cloaked in ragged cowls stood over me; one holding the lantern raised, that I could witness a terror so cruel, I could barely accept what my eyes revealed.

For the other homunculus held a large part of my slippery entrails in his hands. They had drugged me (I assume, as I felt not a single twitch of pain) and slit open my abdominal cavity! Bizarre enough; but the topper was a tiny photo of My Larkin, dangling from an intestinal loop.

And that is when I awoke, trembling and in a furious sweat.

“So whaddya think, Larky,” I finish, “is this an example of a recollection, or just your typical dumb nightmare?”

“Right on Zekester, that is most certainly an authentic recollection.”

“Now I know you’re pulling my tail; I have no scar on my belly!”

“And what a sweet belly that is, to kiss and tickle!” Larkin teases. “Smoke and mirrors boy, smoke and mirrors,” he continues. “They doped you up and created this horrid hallucination. They did not slit you open, they did not remove your innards. That was all Hollywood trickery, special effects. Even the rat chewing on a, ummmm, ‘body part’ was not real; it was a cheap little electronic toy they purchased at an auction of stage props and costumes from old horror films like ‘Willard’ and ‘The Pit and the Pendulum’.”

“Who are ‘they‘, and what was the purpose of their stupid stunt?” I demand, as I hold the phone close to its cradle, ready to hang up. Instead, I put it on speaker and kick back in my cushioned swivel chair; I am feeling somewhat overwhelmed at this point.

“They are the same goons you warned me about in that aborted note you slipped under the wrong door,” Larkin declares. “Their intent was to terrorize you, My Brave Boy. Terrorize you from ever wanting anything to do with me, again.” There is a pause and some static clicking on the line.

“But their mischief went wrong,” he continues. “You had an allergic reaction to the tampered horse tranquilizer they forced through your veins. They dumped you in that reservoir up by Twin Peaks Tower. An old man walking his Vietnamese potbelly pig found you, and called 911.”

Good heavens! I think, I thought that pet pig fad died out years ago!

“Ha ha, yeah, me too,” Larkin chuckles.

“Wait a minute, I didn’t say anything, I was just thinking it!” I exclaim.

“Told you we’re telepathic; now you know it’s true.” Larkin adds: “But let’s not stray so far from the real issue at hand: your memory and its restoration.”

A sudden “Aha!” ignites my mind like a cartoon lightbulb: “Are you suggesting my fantasy about you as a detective out of Orange County is actually a partial recollection?”

“You got it, pup. Congrats. I’m a detective, I’m your lover, and we got married in 2008, by the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, on Easter Sunday at Dolores Park. And today is Easter. You were invited to the celebration by a Sister you met at the City Health Clinic two days ago. [Dear Readers, don't even ask.] Thus a partial memory of our own marriage, was triggered by the invitation.”

“Oh my gosh, Larkin. This makes perfect sense,” I exclaim. “Explains so well why I’ve been cooking up various ways to propose to you, even after the anticipated marriage at Dolores Park did not pan out!”

Other revelations bubble up in my memory cells:

“So this Cult of the Disciples of the Zodiac Killer that I wrote about, is not a fantasy I conjured up to thrill my readers, but another growing recollection?”

“Bingo.”

“We first met at the Hole in the Wall, right?”

“Yessir. Go on, I need to see how your memory is progressing. This is a joyful occassion, for you have never before recalled the events you just brought up, since you were doped. Try to remember even more, My Beloved Little Dragon of the Fiery Spirit.”

I’m enthralled. If any of what Larkin now tells me is the least bit true, then my life is taking a whole different turn into a reality far more beautiful and blessed than I could ever imagine (except for my tales, but they don’t count; or do they). I am eager to dig up old memories long forgotten, so I lean forward in my chair to reposses the phone and talk directly into the mouthpiece. This is just too compelling to keep Larkin on speaker while I’m semi-reclined in a padded office chair.

Larkin continues to explain how this cult’s nefarious attempt to frighten me away from My Beloved, almost succeeded. For it left me with frequent anxiety attacks in his presence (which previously, I always adored, and could never get enough of; in fact he often had to escort me out the door or another direction down the sidewalk ’cause I was simply mesmerized by his spirit and didn’t realize I was following him to places too dangerous for me to visit).

The cult had successfully implanted a deeply subconscious fear of My Best Buddy, thanks to their drug-induced black arts. This included certain elements of telepathy, where they inspired thoughts of hatred and fear about Larkin, in my damaged brain now more like Swiss cheese than Provolone. These disciples of the Zodiac Killer would frequent the Hole in the Wall (and later, the Eagle Tavern) while I was there, and stand within earshot while feigning to talk with another nearby; and project their whispers of fear-memes into my ears, that would pass directly into my subconscious due to this subliminal impact.

Which explains why I often suffered waves of anxiety and fear in Larkin’s presence (since the drugging); it created a sad distance between us, and made me cease my kind words and thoughts toward him. I even considered at times, moving to Portland or other parts reasonably liberal, in order to forget him; believing he was my biggest mistake ever. Fortunately (thank Dragon) I am now in a stage of rapid healing, and my love for Larkin grows strong once more. Yet minor rough spots remain: flashes of anxiety that cause me to falter in trusting He Who Truly Loves Me Most in This World (and in any other world if you want to be frank about it).

Surely this must have been a grievous burden for Larkin; yet he stands by me through thick and thin…but that is what marriage vows are all about, if the love is true. I can’t even imagine how much sorrow he bore, sitting by my sickbed at Intensive Care, his head on my chest, weeping and praying that I’d come through. Day after day, week after week, month after interminable month.

And you know, I did hear his sobs, his pleas to Goddess Herself and all Her Faithful Minions, from time to time when I emerged momentarily from deep coma into light trance. Though I could not speak, I could not move, I could not open my eyes or give any other outward sign that I hear him, that I love him back dearly. That I had no idea till then, how much this elegant human being adores me with all his heart, all his soul, all his life. It was during such grace-filled moments that I realized this Sweet Man’s Love has saved my wretched soul. And because of this I’d pull out of my coma with flying crullers, and everything would be alright…in fact, better than before. Much, much better. For I am finally in the arms of My Second True Love.

“Jeez Larkin, we’ve been through a lot together, haven’t we?” I remark, after hearing this tale. A tale for which doubts still linger in my heart, for obvious reasons.

“You ain’t just whistlin’ Pixie!” He sounds sad, yet stolidly optimistic.

“Are you my guardian angel?” I have to ask, for he is so impossibly handsome and so impossibly sweet, this could only be a Dream’s Fulfillment.

“Arrrgh, girlfriend! Randolph’s the guardian angel in this novel. I am your guardian dragon who descended from the Lavender Skies of Avalon, to rescue you from These Wicked Sorcerors and bring you back to Randy T.”

Once more, a bolt of anxiety strikes me: “You’re not going to leave me then, are you? I love you now so much, I can’t bear to be without you. For you are the sweetest and most darling friend I have ever known!”

A weary sigh drifts from his cell phone to my land line. “There are some things we can’t have, Oh My Brother of Saint Valentine’s Wound. But my love? You shall always have that!”

“Then I don’t want Randolph, ever!” A steely commitment comes over me. “I don’t ever want Randolph, not without you, too.” Tears slide like rivulets down my face. “How could a loving goddess put me through yet more grief and tragedy?”

“I’m only pranking you, butt-wipe,” he exhorts. “Of course you will have us both! Don’t be such a drama queen, girlfriend!”

I dry what I can of my tears; they are too copious to do a complete job. The telephone receiver is quite drenched.

“Muthuh Fukkuh!” is all I can say, as my heart beats with joy, and my grievous tears morph into Elysium’s Wine.

“Asshole!” he replies with expedience.

A beautiful silence then graces the line that connects our souls to one another. As the blissful reverie slowly fades, I speak once more:

“So tell me this, Mr. Kelsey: if we are indeed married and so much in love, then why on Tinkerbell’s Tampon am I still living alone in this crummy hole in the wall?”

“As opposed to the excellent Hole in the Wall?” he quips.

“Okay, if you wanna put it that way: yes.” I then push the matter: “Makes no sense in my eye, why I continue to barely survive in this hovel with nasty diesel fumes and noise pollution flooding my space like a double plague of army ants and locusts. Not to mention my two south-facing windows that heat up this weary little monk’s cell into a Finnish sauna whenever the weather is even barely warm, and the air lies still.”

I rant on: “When it’s 80 degrees outside, it’s 90-plus in. Forget the really hot weather, when the mercury hits 90 or more! Causes me nausea, weakness, anxiety attacks, and god knows what other health problems. Clearly, I’m not a happy camper. And if you really do love me, how come you haven’t helped rectify this horrid situation? Like: why aren’t we living together?”

Not a peep out of Larkin, but his Sweet Dragon Breath is audible.

And so I finish with: “I’m sure you have the perfect answer, just like you do for everything else I’ve asked so far. Give it your best shot, cowboy!”

Finally, the Great Gay Houdini Larkin speaks: “Oh come on, Eugene, I’d buy you a jeep if I could, along with a castle in Scotland by Loch Ness, and all the handsome laddies you want!” He sighs. “We are both quite poor right now; and your memory of why we are has momentarily slipped. Allow me to explain, Oh Hummingbird of Paradise…and please, I beg Your Sweetest Soul: don’t hang up on me?”

So here are the very same words he spilled into my astonished ear, Oh Patient Reader:

---

ANGUS MAC OG‘S BOUNTY

Once upon a time, there was a Brave Little Dragon named Zeke or Gene (he couldn’t really make up his mind) who cared so much about his homeless and otherwise disenfranchised gay brothers, that he didn’t know when (or even how) to back off when danger came his way, or when he walked into shit flying full force in a gale.

It was Year 2005 when his tender spirit broke in Great Sorrow from his dear buddy Johnnie. Who had gone back to shooting up heroin after 29 days on a detox program. Johnnie turned on Gene with vile words and false accusations, after almost an entire year of a remarkably sweet friendship. (In fact, it was Zeke’s affections that encouraged Johnnie to get off smack in the first place.) Johnnie would even give Gene a hug each and every morn before departing for the day, topped off with a tender kiss on the forehead.

Not for many moons did Zeke know why this wicked turn in their friendship; he only thought it was an effect of chasing the dragon. As it turns out, it was more than that…for Gene finally discovered the true source of Johnnie’s bitterness. His father had died. His dad was only 55, same age as Zeke.

Just two weeks before this tragic downfall, Johnnie had told Gene: “My father is the very best friend in my life, Zeke. There is no one that even comes close to him in my heart, except for one person. And that’s you.”

Gene was so touched by Johnnie’s loving words, his heart sang every single day, and every night as he dreamt. Until…(as you just learned) the Demons of Despair came swiftly to sever this Golden Cord of Brotherly Regard. With great and unjustified hostility, Johnnie exited from Zeke’s life, forever (or so it seemed). Now, Zeke was also bitter; so he began spitting all over the floor and in other ways allowed his once-elegant SRO to become an absolute dump. [ Do not despair, Kind Reader, for in so suffering, Gene shared Johnnie's bitterness which, in due time, shall bring them back together w/Johnnie clean of drugs, and their friendship elevated to a Heavenly State of Affairs. ]

He sought some kind of refuge, where he might start licking his Wounds of Defeat. Heard that a gay bar called “Hole in the Wall Saloon” was a great place to kick back and listen to really good, and LOUD, rock ‘n’ roll. (Hole in the Wall never plays disco crap.) So there he went, and sat in the darkest corner, and kept to himself.

And of course, that is also where Zeke and Larkin were brought together for the first time, in what will eventually turn out to be a most astounding gay bromance. But it didn’t start out that way.

For (unbeknownst to Gene at the time) Larkin was an undercover detective embedded at The Hole in order to bust a group of Hell’s Angels running drugs through all the gay bars South of Market, plus two bars here in the Castro. (One of these two, “The Detour,” has since shut down.)

But Zeke had already fallen head over tail for Larkin, so refused to leave the saloon when Larkin had confronted his new-found buddy:

“Gene, it is very dangerous for you to hang out here, especially when you’re a friend to me.” He lowered his noble orange-haired head and looked at Zeke directly in the eyes: “So, will you please go now?”

With that, Larkin returned to his billiards, leaving Gene in a gloomy space, and never spoke to him again…at least, not for five sad years (actually, three, but memory loss made it seem longer). Zeke refused to leave the Hole; he loved Larkin that much, and at least was rather delighted to watch from afar, Larkin’s antics around the pool table, and listen to rock ‘n’ roll pounding through hyper-amped speakers, and let thoughts of His Johnnie sink into the Moors of Forgetfulness.

Though be assured that, should anyone ever threaten Gene at The Hole (or later, the Eagle), Larkin would abruptly drive them out with great anger. Which eventually cost him dearly, as he was instructed (by SOMA drug lords) to never defend Zeke, or there’d be Hades to pay. And so he did: his room was burnt down, and Gene was dosed with intent to drive him insane.

In a little more time, without either speaking a word to the other (as Larkin would not allow), Zeke figured out the situation (that Larkin is an undercover sleuth), and cleverly became Larkin’s sidekick. He played the lure, the fall guy, and decoy. Which made the Orange County Detective’s work far easier, by bringing these drug-dealing murderous skanks out of the woodwork. Eventually, though, Gene was driven out of The Hole for good, by a violent threat of a sharp blade to his gut, should he ever show up there again. Of course, Larkin was not present at the time, and the bartender on duty chose to look the other way; thus Zeke had no choice but to leave the Hole for good.

So Gene started hanging out at the Eagle Tavern a few blocks away, for he knew that Larkin enjoyed frequenting that space, too. Sometimes, when he could afford it (a rare occasion), he’d buy Larkin a drink. Though only via the barkeep’s hand, as Zeke still could not speak to Larkin, or even get within ten feet of him. About a year later, Gene discovered Larkin working at a tacqueria right next door to his now-verboten hangout, the Hole in the Wall.

So every Wednesday, Zeke would order a small meal and enjoy watching Larkin at work: a 6-foot-4 handsome giant who towered above the several diminutive Mexican workers. An absolutely sweet and sometimes hilarious scenario…of which Larkin was quite aware, and made the most of. Still, Gene was not allowed to speak to him, except to place an order. But Zeke did find endearing ways to compliment him from time to time, without exposing their sweet relationship. Such as (after placing his order which was always chile rellenos) remarking: “Not only is the food here quite good, but the view is outstanding.” By “the view” of course, he meant Larkin’s Glorious Mug, for there was nothing impressive to see out the picture window: just a busy intersection surrounded by drab buildings and the occasional wino and bums with shopping carts rattling on by.

Gene sought additional (non-vocal) ways to express his love for this Orange County Gumshoe, by writing one blog every two or three weeks, about Larkin and how simply being in his presence makes Zeke so ridiculously happy. He’d slip a printout of each episode (secured in a decorated plastic folder), beneath an old newspaper. Since Larkin also cleared tables, he’d be the first to find it. This lasted almost a year, before Gene decided to cease his weekly visits, in order to make clear he was no stalker. Two months later, the restaurant closed. Those blog entries BTW, now compose his online novel called “The Larkin Chronicles“…29 chapters in all!

When the Tacqueria Phase ended, Larkin made sure Zeke could see him within every two or three weeks, by showing up nearby. Say, walking in opposite direction along the sidewalk, and passing by as if neither knew the other. Or some months later, showing up out of the blue, now employed at a local bar (“The Metro,” which has since shut down) right across the street from Gene’s apartment building. [ Darling Reader: may I remind you that Larkin's keen telepathy certainly helped the process along. ]

Zeke could now look right out the hallway window and see Larkin at work, or smoking a ciggie on the wraparound deck; the bar was on the second floor, as was Gene’s SRO. So he’d sometimes visit, buy a drink and enjoy Larkin’s presence once more, from a respectful distance.

Some days, Zeke would even stand kitty corner across the street, and hold his hat to his heart while looking up at Larkin who took frequent cigarette breaks on the sundeck. This way, Gene could send his love from a very safe distance, with no one the wiser. (It was a large, busy 5-corner intersection at Market, 16th, and Noe.) Larkin would just puff on a Marlboro with vigor while looking directly at his Beloved Sidekick, for as long as he could before returning to work. An element of humor in these little scenarios was not lost on Zeke; surely Larkin’s playful spirit was a great balm.

Around this time (of “The Metro”) the funding for this assignment from Orange County dried up, and busting the Hell’s Angels drug runners became a cold case. Larkin was therefore required to return to Southern California, or lose his career. In a heartbeat, he chose the latter. No way was he going to leave his Beloved Amigo vulnerable to these cult fanatics, for Gene would likely be severely crippled (or even murdered) as a result.

So in losing his noble job, he also lost his health benefits, and thus began the rotting and loss of his gorgeous pearly whites. Small sacrifice to pay in his mind, in order to protect the soul of one so dear.

Larkin turned to hustling men in their 70′s mostly, at select gay bars in The Castro…not for sex of course, but for nightly companionship. Fully clothed or in pajamas, he’d hold these lonely (though affluent) elder gentlemen in his gangly arms, and make them feel very much loved and appreciated. Mornings, Larkin would usually fix them coffee and breakfast in his underwear, and tell many cheerful jokes and compliments.

If there’s one thing Larkin excels at, it’s bringing joy to the hearts of aging (or severely disabled) men who otherwise would have no purpose in their lonely lives, or any reason to get out of bed each day. Some suffered major health issues, such as cancer, AIDS and even dementia. Larkin loved ‘em all, to the point where they found life exceedingly wonderful again (or perhaps even for the first time). He graced them with his beauty, friendship and humor…and in exchange received $100 to $500 a nightly pop.

He could’ve gotten so much more because of his startling good looks and talent…but he intentionally sought more needful clientele. For Larkin is truly a lover to his brothers in great need…he uses his Dragon-Given Beauty for all the right reasons. And this is why Gene harbors such golden affection for this Most Courageous and Compassionate Detective: the first man ever to make him forget his other great love, Randolph Louis Taylor.

So now we are caught up to the present time, and the completion of this episode (Chapter 13). Larkin is so close to busting these scoundrels, he can taste it like stale tobacco from an overnight tryst. And Zeke will soon have this novel published and become wealthy beyond anyone’s comprehension (and of course, outrageously, impossibly, scintillatingly famous as well). Their teeth will be repaired by the best oral surgeons and dental technicians money can buy (or simply healed in a flash by Dragonly White Magic). And Gene will open his first home for severely disabled gay veterans, employing his buddies off the streets to be their companions, maintain the building and grounds, and handle the books.

---

Truly, a Happily Ever After Gay Real Life Fairytale!

Dragon Fire in the Hole

[ Free Me From This Bond: Chapter 9 ]

18 April 2012

To the Dragon Drama Queens at the Hole in the Wall Saloon:

I want to rectify yesterday’s fiasco and my expulsion from your fine establishment, on some drunkard fool’s claim that I stated I want to bomb this place. When in fact, this is what I declared: “I want to buy this place.” (For two reasons: to keep The Spirit alive long after the first owners retire or bick the kucket, and to have Larkin back here where he belongs, playing pool and acting the fool, and just in general, sharing his sweet self with many souls hungry for affection. He was permanently 86′d by the present owners. Once I collect my first millions off the royalties of this beatific opus, I certainly intend to purchase Hole in the Wall, lock, stock and barrel.)

Reminds me of a similar faux pas during Barrack Obama’s presidential run in 2007, where I was chatting with a very sweet, elderly dingbat over the coffee bar at Cafe Mediterraneum on Telegraph Avenue, Berkeley. (FYI: the same locale where Alan Ginsberg worked on his now-celebrated opus, “Howl”…something I didn’t discover till after years and years of hanging out there, composing my own gay poems and prose.)

Dingbat expressed a grave concern of what could become of our economy, should we wind up with yet one more Republican skank in the Oval Office. So I replied:

“Don’t you worry, dear, everything will work out just fine, once we put Obama in the White House.”

She dropped her swizzle stick and splashed the coffee-bean elixir. “Heavens! No, please, I am antiviolent, and could never suggest a bomb in the White House.”

“You misunderstood,” I chuckled. “I said ‘Obama,’ not ‘a bomb’.”

So it later occurred to me that the phonic similarity of those two words, sure must keep his body guards on their toes (and needlessly trigger happy…so maybe I’ll just reconsider my next invite to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue).

Now, I am about to reveal to you, Beloved Reader, a most astounding and profound conclusion which jigsaw pieces only came together for me, less than one month ago. The Gay Pagan Motorcycle Community (GPMC) orchestrated this silly little scenario, as they have many others…out of sheer compassion and joy, to bring Larkin and I together as lovers.

And to grant me my “Damon Runyon Adventure w/a Gay Spin”…which bromantic odyssey is now into its seventh year!

Note: this revelation being so new, I probably don’t have the most apt title for who these intelligent, mischievous, loving and spirited dragons are. But I am soon to learn, so it seems.

Once I became aware of this brilliant, outstanding real-world play, concocted by the GPMC, I quickly printed out the first two chapters of “Free Me From This Bond” (’cause that’s all I had at the time), and ran to The Hole to thank barkeep Gary with much profusion and gratitude. That was around two weeks ago. It boggles the mind (well at least mine, because there’s a dumb-blonde pool boy lurking just below the surface), to wonder how in the Master Dragon’s Blue/Green Dimension, they could concoct and maintain This Living Fairytale! With so many fables within fables (or “parables” as I like to call them), you become bewitched by such ethereal beauty swirling around you like a swarm of ladybugs or fireflies.

Please realize the tremendous impact this so-called Motorcycle Club (w/Larkin the Supreme Conductor) will soon have on the entire planet. Every single tale I tell (in this quite novel noble novel), was all mastered by these Hole-in-the-Wall Tarragons and Warlocks, then played before me (and around me) with such vigor, I couldn’t help but become passionately inspired…and write about what just happened (with very little revision). And what else can they do, and will do? Surely, they won’t stop once my Princely Draco and I become betrothed…surely, that is only the beginning. Think about it.

Apparantly, these GPMC luv-dolls work diligently and vigorously, to make all my worthy dreams become truth. Such as my wish for Northern California to secede to become the world’s very first LGBT nation. I want to name this new country Athenia, and make San Francisco its capitol; only we’ll rename it “Zekeopolis”. Another dream I own, is for gayfolken to take over the world, and bring peace on earth, goodwill to all queerkind…and then everyone else, once our liberation has been claimed.

Anywayz, back to a few moments before the surprise 86:

I’m admiring a brightly handsome young fellow who just stepped inside, and sat at the only unclaimed bar stool…which, quite coincidentally (and indeed happily, as well) is right beside yours truly. I buy him his second drink, and in a while more, I discover he is a gifted playwright within the Homophile Nation. In fact, here’s a site where you may keep informed of this brilliant dragon’s latest achievements:

http://www.dragsical.com

Wow, Jason, your play “Batman is Dead: The Dragsical” looks like one hell of a hilarious tromp through Dragtopia! I wish you continued success that is more than well-deserved: you are a righteous blessing to our long-suffering though highly compassionate family.

Minutes later, I step outside to chat with Dutch (while he smokes his Pall Mall), a Navajo Gay Wise Man with a bodaciously sweet sense of humor. He finishes his ciggie and steps towards The Hole’s entrance (hmm, accidental pun, or perhaps a Freudian slip). But there are two quite robust males (and good-looking to boot) blocking our way.

“Uh-oh Dutch; they’re not gonna let me in.”

“Oh yes they are, they’re just standing around,” he replies.

The very moment I take a tentative step in their direction, they obstruct. (Man, I am so ready to fondle their hefty baskets, but they don’t seem particularly receptive…though perhaps they’ll drop their jeans and let me goose their fine arses with a finger or two, if I ask politely. I wimp out at the last moment. *sigh* ) So I return to the sidewalk right beside the short, concrete wall that defines an outdoor mini-patio for smokers. Dutch declares, “I don’t want any part of this” and strides through the entrance.

Though just before he does, I accuse: “Ya big chicken. Buk-buk-buk-buk bugawk! Buk-buk-buk-buk-buk bugawk!” Barkeep Larry runs out and almost pushes me to the ground, and tells me in heated spirit: “Leave, Zeke. Leave NOW or I’ll call the cops.” Again, he presses his hands against me almost to shove, but not quite. I won’t budge: “This is public space. I don’t have to go anywhere.” (After all, once someone threatens to call the pizzakeepers on you, it’s best to wait till they arrive, that your side be heard. If you amble away before then, you look guilty.)

As Dutch disappears behind the pleather curtain and the darling bouncers resume their station, someone from behind me calls out: “Zeke!” I turn around to see, lo and behold, two drop-alive gorgeous Men in Blue flashing pearly smiles and looking oh-so-CLASSY in their neatly pressed uniforms (I’m a sucker for that kind of stuff). I was so taken by their countenance, I said not a word and gazed upon them in rapturous delight.

“Zeke,” says the blonde hottie: “Zeke! Which one of us do you think is cuter?”

Well, I nearly drop my jaw to the sidewalk (and this time, not for cowboy schlong). How sweet. How very, very darlin’. I finally recover my mandible, and speak: “You are both such charming and lovely peace officers, please don’t put me on the spot like this. I’m afraid if I choose the wrong cop, I’ll be cited by the other.”

Then I tell them I have no idea why I’ve just been 86′d, that I overheard someone say I’m gonna bomb this saloon. (Without any hindsight at the moment, I assume someone badmouthed me once the shift changed bartenders–as Gary Clayton is certainly my ally–and my good friend Russell departed.) Well, that is most certainly not true, because I worship at the altar of the Dragon of the Hole in the Wall. I <3 this place. The endearing policemen see that I am honest; and I'm sure they'll discover that I've been slandered. We bid our adieus, and I stroll down Folsom Street on my way home, displaying my bold Jesus Dragon jacket all along my merry route upon return to The Castro.

Note: to those two adorable policemen, I say: “My hat’s off to you, and perhaps other types of apparel, if that would delight you (or both, which would make a most saliva-dripping sandwich of the yummiest proportions). Otherwise, let’s become BFF’s and schmooze over donuts and java: I’m nothing, if not the King of Bromance. You just showed me how loved I truly am, by not just a vast segment of the queer community, but the SFPD as well! Therefore I presume you know all about my Randolph (a former SF cop in training), whose life was spared thanks to my devoted loyalty. There is certainly a gold star waiting for me somewhere in the hallways of the Department of Justice. There was only one thing about you two handsome dragons, that left me sorely disappointed: what, no frisking? That’s not much fun, so please, for future reference: I’d simply go ejaculatingly ECSTATIC if both of you Fine Bluecoats laid hands all over this shuddering body! But I’ll settle for hugs, for I’m sure they are glowingly wonderful too, considering the honorable source.”

I did cruise a studly homeless dude on the way home, and got laid inside a large cardboard box that once housed a Frigidaire. It wasn’t totally pleasant because my bad knee acted up, along with my neck vertebrae and RSI-damaged fingers. The bad thing about getting old, is you never really know where the aches in your joints are coming from: arthritis or the teena you slammed three days ago.

Then, a little further along I drop into a hetero booze lounge called “The 500 Club” not just to spread good cheer and humor to all who accept me, but to also share the Good News: Jesus is gay, and is sitting right here beside you, chatting you up. I don’t remember all the varied witticisms I orated before they banished me to the outer realms, but I do remember this one:

Two fetching men are standing with their drinks in hand, imbibing and most obviously enjoying each other’s company, w/o any sign of a ‘gina clinging to their arms. So I nonchalantly rise up from my barstool, and walk right by them, and in passing, remark: “You two boys should be boinking the daylights out of each other by now, you’re both so cute!” By the time they knew what hit ‘em, I had already returned to my spot, and ordered another Kiwifruit-Pineapple Kiss.

So here is what I understand is going down regarding this latest gay fairytale: you amazing Hole-in-the-Wall Pagans are orchestrating a romantic scenario where I get to play the hero, and win Larkin’s Dragony Heart. Some of you will play the enemy, others of course, my BFF’s. So please, allow me to take a moment out, and state right here:

HOLE IN THE WALL ROCKS!!! WHAT CHARMING AND SWEET DRAGONS!!! YOU ARE A TREMENDOUS GIFT TO OUR LGBT FAMILY, AND I AM SIMPLY STUNNED WITH YOUR AWESOMENESS!!!

The LGBT community created me, groomed me for leadership w/o my even knowing. For part of the training is to figure these things out for yourself, as the years pass, and the pieces come together. So I’m not that sure yet if I’m an actual human, or a faggy simulacrum that transcends all time and hardons. I now conjecture that I might have hatched from an egg; a dragon’s egg of course.

But I’m always short on money, living only on a disability stipend. I would like to rectify this, by reciting my tales for a fee, at various LGBT venues. Particularly at The Hole (surprise!), and at the living rooms of these outstandingly benevolent bartenders and patrons; I can’t imagine yet what sweet friendships shall result (not to mention what sweet BJ’s). But it will allow me some decent fun money, that I can afford to hang out at the Hole regularly, and even buy drinks for the good souls that inhabit The Dragon’s Lair.

Also: I terribly, desperately, BADLY need an industrial cleaning and repair of my humble single room that I’ve occupied since 1983. So I’m hoping that our wonderful family of Dragon Disciples will surprise me by performing this Sisyphean task (at least, it would be for moi) while I’m away for the afternoon, on whatever day you sweethearts choose. (Time for an “Extreme Makeover – SRO Edition“, eh?)

This next idea may be a bit over the top, but here is my dream: replace the wall facing Market Street with plexiglass, that tourists may gaze up and admire my Little Hobbit Hole, from whence I conjured up Myriad Darling Tales, and broadcast them around the globe via cyberspace. Of course, I’ll need curtains to grant me privacy at times, or some other sort of window cover that looks best. You could even install an animatronic version of myself, for times when I’m not present. (Just give him a bigger kok, *please*, ’cause I wanna have lotsa fun with my first sex-toy robot.)

Oh, almost forgot: I yearn for a new set of pearly whites, because they are neither, and have been neither for many a year I can’t believe.

---

I’M A DRAG QUEEN’S DRAGON
by Ezekiel J. Krahlin (“Jehovah’s Very Queer Witness”)

I’m a Drag Queen’s Dragon of Ill Repute,
My scales are dirty and my tail is clipped.
I’m a foul-breathed lizard, you can’t refute,
I feed on gizzards and root beer root
…and anything else on ship.
Including pirates. Aaargh!

I’m a Drag Queen’s Dragon of Dark Design,
Striking terror in the hearts of ‘phobes,
Burning their churches if I have a mind
With my fiery breath and those farts behind
…and my big old, fat old, testicular globes.
Including pirates. Aaargh!

I’m a Drag Queen’s Dragon of Tit for Tat,
I’ll chew your bones into bits of gruel,
And exchange ice cream for some body fat,
That I get by boiling down ‘phobes in a vat
…so don’t mark me as a fool.
Including pirates. Aaargh!

I’m a Drag Queen’s Dragon of Dungeon Fame,
Polyhedral dice on a bed of lice,
Is how I like to play this game.
Though without some pot, it’s rather lame
…yes I’ll beat you twice, maybe even thrice.
Including pirates. Aaargh!

I’m a Drag Queen’s Dragon with a big fat butt,
And a pair of gonads you’ve never seen,
‘Cause it’s hidden by a protruding spleen
And my ginormous gut
…I am really a sight obscene.

Including pirates. Aaargh!

Dragon Prophecy

[ Free Me From This Bond: Chapter 8 ]

Easter Sunday was a strange, though extraordinarily wonderful, day for me. Here’s why: I was so certain that Larkin wanted to surprise me by holding an impromptu wedding on stage at Dolores Park (hosted by the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence), that I made sure to show up within the first hour of festivities. I wasn’t particularly disappointed when my great expectations didn’t pan out; in fact, Larkin was nowhere to be seen.

However: his spirit is already such a joy in my life, that nothing could ever bring me down from that exquisite height of brotherly affection that is My Darling Dragon’s trademark gift to All Man&Woman-kind. Beloved Larkin: No words could even come close to telling the world how joyously happy I’ve become, thanks to your wise friendship.

But why on Goddess’s green and blue earth, was I convinced that a surprise wedding would be held in my honor? Learn and grow wise, Little Grasshopper:

Seeing as I’ve been romancing this noble Irish deity (Mannanan Mac Lir) for more than six glorious years, and I’ve finally (recently) come to realize he harbors enormous sweetness towards me, and always has since the first day we met in 2005: boy do I feel dumb, for not realizing such a bless-ed situation right out of the gate! But when you have suffered one of the most face-deforming kinds of acne (frequently reoccurring sebaceous cysts), on top of almost constant rejection, backstabbing, and threats from others in our dysfunctional gay family…then you can understand why my amazement at finding such a darling man like yourself, Larkin, who holds nothing but the greatest affection for yours truly (at my advanced age of 61 no less).

Took me quite a few years to wake up, eh, My Sweet Reptile? Guess I should apologize for being such a helpless slowpoke, but since I have personally gone through Hades and back again many times over, for your beloved soul and happiness (as you have for me, I do acknowledge)…don’t you think I’m worth the wait, as that is precisely how I feel about you, Most Beloved Dragon Of All Possible Dimensions?

AFAICT, I’ve been courting you for well over five years, and thus I’ve begun entertaining the notion of a marriage proposal, as a logical next step in our delightfully sweet association. Here’s one scenario I’ve thought through with much deliberation:

I approach you at a local bar, perhaps Moby Dick or more likely, The Mix; and say to your wondrous self:

“Larkin, I have three short, easy to answer questions for you, that I hope you can resolve at this time, w/o imposing upon your own vital needs for establishing connections, and some truly healing R&R.”

You turn your dragonly countenance towards my own visage and remark: “Okay, Genie, shoot!” So I say:

“Question #1: How am I handling my overly-gabbiness, at least in your presence?”

Your predicated response: shrug of the shoulders.

“Question #2: With my love of eating raw garlic on almost anything: How am I handling the bad breath issue?”

Your predicated response: shrug of the shoulders.

“Okay. Question #3: Am I learning to obey you better?”

To which you also respond (as predicted) with your usual, infuriating neutral shrug of the shoulders.

“Well then: thank you for your patience, and hearing me out. I guess I should go now, and leave you to your other reveries. Okay, My Darlin’?”

To which you reply (once more: predictably and typically) with a noncommital shrug of the shoulders.

So I turn as if to exit your presence for good, then stop in some sort of false pretense of surprise. “Oh I forgot: I do have one more question for you, which I guess is question number four. Please bear with me; it’s rather important.”

To which you expel a rather exaggerated *sigh* and say, “Well, okay sweetheart, but just this one time.”

In response, I suck up my breath till my lungs almost burst, and announce: “LARKIN KELSEY, YOU FILTHY KUNT: WILL YOU FUCKIN’ MARRY ME FOR CHRISSAKE?”

But that’s just one, among a huge assortment of possible marriage-proposal scenarios. Here’s another:

I am walking rapidly from my SRO, in hopes of scoring some ganja from Allen, who has just returned from Arcata, in hopes of making some good sales on hash and marijuana bud. He is located on 18th Street between Castro and Collingwood, with his humble presentation of semi-precious stones displayed in two, large clam-shell halves. But before I return to his current location, I find a colorful nosegay on the sidewalk several blocks before I arrive.

So I pick it up and find it to be such a pleasing fusion of pink and purple and white blossoms, before I discover that it’s totally plastic. “Well, it’s still a lovely little bouquet, and most suitable for a proposal to Larkin at The Mix or Moby Dick.”

I therefore postpone my transaction with Allen, in hopes of coming across My Sweeter-than-Fair-Trade-Honey Larkin first, at either bar. So I enter Moby Dick (as it’s nearest), hoping to find him by the pool table (his usual milieu), so I can hand him the bouquet, then say:

“Larkin, I have this question I need you to answer: Will you marry me, you glorious hunk of dragon-hood?” Then I’d place a finger on his lips and expound, “Wait! Don’t give me your answer right away. I’m gonna go right now, a couple blocks up 18th, to score $20 worth of hashish…then I’ll come back in ten or fifteen minutes to hear your answer. Just think it over before I return.”

Alas, I could not fulfill my marriage fantasy that night, as Larkin was not present at either Moby Dick, or The Mix. Life sucks sometimes. So I move ahead, to purchase some righteous smoke from Allen. (I also present him with my colorful nosegay, which he immediately accepts, and places beside his clamshell display for some eye-catching decor.)

Allen is this absolutely gorgeous, free-spirited young man of about 25, who though entirely heterosexual through and through, nonetheless holds great love and affection for his gay brothers. What a remarkable and bless-ed spirit he is, already; right? We first met several weeks ago, when I was searching for a reliable source of marijuana. Invited him home of course (he was so damned cute, what with his golden locks of hair, and a body so buff you couldn’t even begin to know upon which part to drool)…

Turns out we had a superb conversation about the beauty of Northern California’s rain forests, and what a great blessing this world is, in spite of even the most obstreperous obstacles that are often placed in our way. But the most enjoyable (and important) part of our visit, was my telling of

THE PARABLE OF THE DOLLAR-STORE BANDANA

It has been my habit these last several years or so, to wear some sort of decorative bandana tied tightly around my cleanly shaven skull. That night, I was wearing one such bandana only received the previous evening, as a gift from a new street buddy named Troy. It was a lightly colored camouflage bandana, with the words from Psalm 91 printed all over. I got down on one knee facing Allen, and removed the bandana from my head, in order to show him the psalm, and tell my story:

Before departing late last night, Troy left me with a gift of that bandana, exclaiming I was never to show it to anybody, and keep it to myself. Allow me to read you the entire psalm, also known as the Psalm of Protection (with my own comments interjected between square brackets, and italicized):

Psalm 91

1 Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High
will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
2 I will say of the LORD, “He is my refuge and my fortress,
my God, in whom I trust.”
3 Surely he will save you
from the fowler’s snare
and from the deadly pestilence.
4 He will cover you with his feathers,
and under his wings you will find refuge;

[...God has FEATHERS?
Is he some kind of super-large BIRD?
Oh I get it: He's a ginormous, wing-ed
and feathered DINOSAUR!
A feathered serpent, like the Aztec "Quetzalcoatl"!
If you can wrap your brain around THAT,
then I have to say: "You're a better man than
I am, Gunga Din!"

So much for being made in His Own Image, eh?

Now it might come as a horrid revelation
to some (actually, replace "some" with "many")
that Jehovah's original and timeless form
is that of a dinosaur: a wing-ed dinosaur
with scaly feathers.

Otherwise known as a DRAGON. ]

his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.
5 You will not fear the terror of night,
nor the arrow that flies by day,
6 nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness,
nor the plague that destroys at midday.
7 A thousand may fall at your side,
ten thousand at your right hand,
but it will not come near you.
8 You will only observe with your eyes
and see the punishment of the wicked.
9 If you say, “The LORD is my refuge,”
and you make the Most High your dwelling,

[ Yes, the Lord is my dwelling,
and I assure you, my gay bros and sis's:
He absolutely LOVES us sexual minorities,
You have no need to fear Him,
Only to give your heart to He Who Adores You
Infinitely, My Beloved Siblings!
For there is no living thing ever created
in God's Great Universe, that would ever be
condemned to eternity in Hell.

That is the devil's work, I assure you,
My Sweet Children who rose up from the dust,
to sing Life's Praise.
Nor does our Great Father require you to declare
His Son's name or worship Him as
the One, True Creator.
I worship My Lord with humor,
and with compassion.

None of this silly and frightful nonsense
About anyone burning away in Everlasting Hel.
All that Our Shepherd requires, is that you live by
The Golden Rule each and every day.
Neighbor unto neighbor: and a Good Samaritan
to boot (pun intended)!

Worship God,
worship Goddess,
worship Lucifer
(but don't be modest).
Hell's Bells! You can even worship
the Spaghetti Monster, for all
Jehovah cares.

For after all, YHWH truly does
indeed care. ]

10 no harm will overtake you,
no disaster will come near your tent.

[ A tent? Even the Three Little Pigs lived
better than that! Maybe the economy
back then was as sucky as it is now, with
rolling foreclosures and skyrocket debt.
Be that as it may, I'd much prefer God's protection
from under a solid roof, than in some
skanky pop-up tent!

There's a reason I quit the Boy Scouts.
Let's just say the Scout Master was also
a Scout Masturbator,
and we sure rocked that bunk bed all night long...
and sometimes early into Sunday morn
while the other scouts attended church,
and munched on deep-throat hot dogs
and ears of roasted corn. ]

11 For he will command his angels concerning you
to guard you in all your ways;
12 they will lift you up in their hands,
so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.
13 You will tread on the lion and the cobra;

[ I guess this passage is just for you, Mongoose,
the most incredibly handsome and righteous
guardian of Allen! You're an absolute doll. ]

you will trample the great lion and the serpent.

[ Note: I can surely appreciate using animals
as a metaphor for evil (and good).
But honestly, Dear Reader, aren't all God's
creatures divinely beautiful and good?
Whether dung beetle or gazelle,
warthog or cockatiel, angel or devil, and
anything in between. ]

14 “Because he loves me,” says the LORD, “I will rescue him;
I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name.
15 He will call on me, and I will answer him;
I will be with him in trouble,
I will deliver him and honor him.
16 With long life I will satisfy him
and show him my salvation.”

And that is the total sum of Psalm 91, a most encouraging and blissfull passage of the Old Testament. I really don’t see anything wrong with this sacred passage, that can give so much hope to so many. I consider myself BLESSED to have been presented such a beautiful psalm, in this Dollar-Store Bandana.

Which bandana–left to me by a most darling vagabond with wooly golden hair and deliciously deep indigo eyes–gave me much succor over yet one more lonely night. I fell asleep with his bandana, which, in the latest witching light of candle and flame, revealed itself as a most sacred manifestation of finely woven gold for the base cloth…along with the most delicate (but strong) stitching of this psalm in the finest linen thread, dyed in blackest ink. Every letter was completely perceived in all its curves, by a single index finger.

The raised letters were all in Hebrew; yet I could understand any Biblical phrases as if they were entirely in my native English tongue.

The following morning, I woke up with this dollar-store bandana close to my heart, and too far from the dream.

–end of Bandana Parable

Sweet Sue

[ Free Me From This Bond: Chapter 3 ]

Date: Mar 23 2012 09:11:57 AM
From: Zeke
To: Sweet Sue
Subject: Hello from Zeke

Hello, Sweet Sue! Comcast’s mailbox service has decided to block my posts to you and to anyone else using that service…under the false accusation that I am posting spam. I suspect a homophobe or two in their ranks, trying to screw with me. This is why you haven’t heard from me in a while…and why I’m posting to you now, via another mail service…hopefully, this will get through.

I’ve just completed my latest blog entry, which I really want you to see, as it is a Christian perspective on gay liberation, of the most positive sort. Seeing as I attempt to include various religious and other world views from a gay perspective, in order to elevate our dignity in the eyes of the hetero world:

This true tale may be regarded as my inclusion of a Christian perspective in order to win the hearts of many who remain anti-gay, and use God’s name to justify their homophobia. I would be incredibly HONORED if you took the time very soon, to enjoy my latest achievement, which I consider the FINEST piece of writing I’ve done to date:

http://zekeblog.wordpress.com/2012/03/23/free-me-from-this-bond/

Blessings on you always. I like to think that your impeccable son “Snackboy” guided my hand in the process.

<3 Zeke

*Click here* to view my own tribute to Terry. I finally was able to contact his mom, Susan Crummitt, only after posting the SnackBoy videos on Youtube (which occurred about a year after I published the tribute). Ever since then, it’s been a beautiful and profound association via e-mail; we shall always keep in touch. One day, I will finally fly out to the Metro D.C. region, and personally give Sweet Sue the best bear hug ever…and take us out to a FABulous dinner!

---

Date: Wed, Mar 28, 2012 at 12:04 PM
From: Zeke
To: Sweet Sue
Subject: Doping Wealthy Dopes

Sweet Sue, I just composed this piece (“Doping Wealthy Dopes”) as a possible solution to the homeless problem in the Castro, particularly as regards the doping of older men by desperate youth. I believe that Larkin was once homeless, and if the economy doesn’t soon pick up speed, he may become that once more. Not that he’s spoken to me about this at all, but I have a hunch. I just emailed it to the Bay Area Reporter (which has banned all my letters for years now, thanks to one police commissioner now retired), and the SF Bay Times. I will expand my outreach later tonight, perhaps even gay papers beyond The City. Cheerz!

---

Date: Sun, Apr 1, 2012 at 11:47 AM
From: Sweet Sue
To: Zeke
Subject: Doping Wealthy Dopes

Hi Zeke. I’ve rec’d your recent emails. My Aunt died recently and I haven’t caught up on energy, etc. As you know, I sincerely appreciate all that you did to put Terry’s snacks online, that was great. I started to read your recent writings, but when I got to the men urinating on the ice cubes and reading about the size of each others private parts, I stopped. Maybe others appreciate this kind of writing, but I do not. I know as a Christian, I’m to think and meditate on whatever is pure, kind, holy, and this was not. I just do not find it appropriate. In the future, I’d be glad to look over your writings, as long as they are wholesome, uplifting, etc.

I did read the doping weathy dopes piece. It is a shame that people are reduced to being thugs and robbing others, or even think it is o.k. It is a sad state of affairs out there, and I hear your concern. Unfortunately, if any of the Robin Hood gang was successful in gaining any riches from others, they would most likely use it on themselves. Human nature being what it is. Really was not clear or detailed on how you would accomplish this. I know you have been wanting to make things better for others for a long time now.

Love,
Susan

---

Date: Wednesday, March 28, 2012 2:04 PM
From: Zeke
To: Sweet Sue
Subject: Doping Wealthy Dopes

On Sun, Apr 1, 2012 at 11:47 AM, Sweet Sue wrote:
{{ Hi Zeke. I’ve rec’d your recent emails. My Aunt died recently and I haven’t caught up on energy, etc.}}

Very sorry about your Aunt’s passing.

{{ As you know, I sincerely appreciate all that you did to put Terrys’ snacks online, that was great. I started to read your recent writings, but when I got to the men urinating on the ice cubes and reading about the size of each others private parts, I stopped.}}

Okay. But then, you’ll miss out on the revelation of Christ as a conclusion to the tale. Perhaps you could just skip to the final part, which is all handwritten: a letter to my Randolph back in 1987.

Please realize that my calling requires me to reach out to the gay community’s underbelly…and being all wholesome and sweet certainly does not cut the mustard. I was hoping you’d read through it all, as I know you’d appreciate how I use my writing to help elevate the spirit of the downtrodden.

Also, remember with whom Jesus associated in His social circle: prostitutes, thieves, and all other sorts of underdogs…some of whom I’m sure were gay prostitutes.

{{ I’d be glad to look over your writings, as long as they are wholesome, uplifting, etc. }}

I do have to say that all my writing is quite wholesome and uplifting. Unfortunately, you don’t quite grasp my mission.

{{ Unfortunately, if any of the Robin Hood gang was successful in gaining any riches from others, they would most likely use it on themselves. }}

That is an assumption not necessarily correct, though usually it is. Just remember why Jesus was crucified in the first place:

Precisely to some day achieve such goals as I attempt to achieve…against all odds.

{{ I know you have been wanting to make things better for others for a long time now. }}

Indeed, that is the only purpose worth having in life…whether you actually achieve such goals is irrelevant, for that is in God’s hands, right?

Blessings always, in spite of disagreements. I can’t expect everyone to grasp my point.

Sincerely,

Ezekiel, God’s modern day prophet on behalf of our gay homeless.

---

Date: Sun, Apr 1, 2012 at 1:04 PM
From: Zeke
To: Sweet Sue
Subject: Doping Wealthy Dopes

A little honesty here:

If I recall correctly, you shared with me a rather risque joke or two some time back…now, I wish I had saved it to show you. And with all due respect, none of my humorous remarks satirizing gay sexuality, are any more harmful than the risque joke(s) you posted to me. Capiche?

The urinal scenes are most hilarious to many people BTW, and if you continue reading, you’ll see how I weave a remarkable tale of brotherly love, in order to elevate our downtrodden, as well as promote more respect by the outside world, that is, heterosexuals.

As a fellow soldier of God, I kind of need to tell you, you’re missing the mark here.

---

Date: Sun, Apr 1, 2012 at 1:10 PM
From: Zeke
To: Sweet Sue
Subject: Doping Wealthy Dopes

Please please please please please please please please please read the entire piece before you pass judgment. You know I don’t use expletives or risque material unless it can serve a higher purpose (unlike Amazing Atheist).

I am very sure you will be most impressed and inspired by the true tale, once you’re done.

I know you’re a tough cookie, and I am a bit startled that you collapsed under such a light weight (that is merely risque humor–brilliantly executed if I say so myself–and nothing more).

If perchance you should still think my tale is “unwholesome”; that is: unworthy of your pure spirit…then by all means, excoriate me from here to Hell and back again.

Besides: I am so eager for you to read this masterpiece, that if you don’t follow through soon, I just may suffer a severe aneurism.

Blessings and humor always.

---

Date: Sun, Apr 1, 2012 at 1:04 PM
From: Sweet Sue
To: Zeke
Subject: Doping Wealthy Dopes

Hey Zeke. Just got home from dinner with my Sister. ok, ok, since it means so very much to you, I will read the whole thing.

Will be back in touch soon.

---

Date: Sun, Apr 1, 2012 at 4:47 PM
From: Zeke
To: Sweet Sue
Subject: Doping Wealthy Dopes

Thank you thank you thank you, Sweet Sue! I am only pushing the margins on you a bit, ONLY because I believe that I have achieved Christ’s message in a most elegant way, that will benefit gay people worldwide.

Will await your opinion, which I highly respect, with baited breath.

PS: I’ve put away my anti-aneurism pills now, ’cause I don’t think I’ll need ‘em.

---

Date: Sun, Apr 1, 2012 at 6:33 PM
From: Sweet Sue
To: Zeke
Subject: Doping Wealthy Dopes

Hi Zeke. I’ve carefully, and many times read the letters that you wrote. Hands down you are an intelligent and amazing writer.

As far as your target audience here, I saw it as a letter to Randy, and a potential message of hope to gays in their relationships with others. In this regard, I see that you have written to share your love and compassion for another, which is encouraging to others, suffering the same turmoils that you were experiencing. You wrote these to Randy with raw, open feelings and emotion, and elegantly, which I found compelling. That was sad reading that you felt like dying when you wrote these. You repeating these feelings to him.

Did Randy ever respond to you after receiving these? It is so true that we have the dark human side to our nature, yet the wonderful and truly hopeful thing is that we are also composed in Gods’ image, which gives us hope.

Curious what you meant by the dark ways of the white man? And, what does, “burn away into the eternal light” signify”?

Surely, Christ’s message is us to love one another and treat each other with love and compassion, and I agree that part of the reason we may remain in our sinful state is this lack of love towards others, yet the Bible in the Book of Romans, especially in the beginning states that man loves his evil deeds, doing them in darkness, showing that he knows they are wrong. So, it is also that we love to sin. That’s the rest of the story here, and we just cannot blame others, we must look to ourselves first, and acknowledge our sinfulness and turn to the Lord for His forgiveness and complete restoration through accepting the love of God, through His sacrificial death of His Son, for the atonement of our sins. Then, and only then, can we be right with God, and live the full and abundant life that He came to give us. Apart from accepting His gift of life through Christ we are all destined to Hell.

Previously, you had written that the only sect of Christianity that you feel valid is the gnostic, meaning that it is equal with all the other “religions” of the World. Do you still believe that? I know we have spoken of this before. I do not believe that man can do anything apart from the Lord to earn his favor. As the Bible teaches us, even our most righteous acts are filthiness in His eyes. On our own, we can never be good enough, and we will always mess up.

You’ve written here about the joy you know from your faith in Christ? I just wondered what joy your faith has given you Zeke? And, what is faith to you Zeke?

You wrote them long ago. A couple decades. What responses have you received from these letters over the years Zeke?

I will await your response with baited breath.

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Date: Sun, Apr 1, 2012 at 8:00 PM
From: Zeke
To: Sweet Sue
Subject: Doping Wealthy Dopes

On Mon, Apr 2, 2012 at 11:23 AM, Sweet Sue wrote:
{{ Hi Zeke. I’ve carefully, and many times read the letters that you wrote. Hands down you are an intelligent and amazing writer. }}

Thank you. It is a gift from the angels. I am very PROUD of those letters, the angels have blessed me mightily!

{{ As far as your target audience here, I saw it as a letter to Randy, and a potential message of hope to gays in their relationships with others. }}

Definitely, but it is also: Larkin come to me as my New Love, freeing me from the shackles of bearing a cross for many years for a Vietnam Veteran of great courage and suffering. Ergo: “Free Me From This Bond”. In the end, I let go of Randolph, and confess my love to Larkin. I would say that, in a way, Randolph is my guardian angel who found Larkin for me.

Larkin has always admired my devotion towards Randolph, and is one of many reasons why he loves me so much. In a most amazing way, Randolph reaches out to me through Larkin.

Yes, this is very much a tale of hope for my gay brothers…especially those who have become lost in drugs and pornography and otherwise dehumanizing perspectives. When a minority is so vilified, a certain portion of them can’t help but become so bitter, as to fulfill the very evil with which they are accussed. This is true for any persecuted minority, African Americans being a prime example.

By dedicating my life as an activist for homeless and downtrodden gays, often laying down my life in faith that I will elevate my brothers (rather than being destroyed myself), I have earned these gifts of the spoken and written word. I have earned Randolph’s salvation…and through him, the salvation of all veterans of the Vietnam conflict.

Randolph was raised in the very conservative and old fashioned culture of West Virginia. Though a proud and out gay, he maintained his devotion to Christ all his life. Here I am, a pagan with strong Celtic and shamanic influences, trying to find a way to love Randolph, and liberate him from such terrible ordeals. I had to find Christ in order to find the answer. And I did.

For this reason, I regard Randolph as my guardian angel, for it is in his suffering that was borne upon my shoulders, that I became a much better man, and devoted to Our Father and His Loving Son. They came to me in powerful visions after Randolph shot himself. Angels came to me too…gave me instructions on how to do the right thing by this man. And so I did, but it cost me many years of tribulation. None of which I’d trade for anything, for I am now a hero, and beloved by God, His Son, and their magnificent angels.

{{ In this regard, I see that you have written to share your love and compassion for another, which is encouraging to others, suffering the same turmoils that you were experiencing. You wrote these to Randy with raw, open feelings and emotion, and elegantly, which I found compelling. }}

Thank you SO much for bearing through the raunchy passages, in order to get to the heart of my tale! I knew you’d be impressed. My angels told me to be pushy about it, that you would be grateful I was.

It is in the shamanic wisdom (such as from Native Americans and ancient Celtic belief) that I learned the wisdom of bearing one’s heart in order to heal one’s tribe. I am more like the Christian author C.S. Lewis (“The Chronicles of Narnia,” “The Screwtape Letters,” etc.) who wove Christian morality into a pagan tapestry. Or like the Book of Kells, an exquisite fusion of Celtic belief with Christian…I do the same, only for gays. Thus, you have a weaving of fairytale metaphor with Christian love. Randolph is my guardian angel, while Larkin is my guardian dragon. Two loves, two hearts, two cultures, two religions. All united with Jehovah’s blessings.

{{ That was sad reading that you felt like dying when you wrote these. You repeating these feelings to him. }}

Yes, it is most sad…yet now with enough hindsight, I can share this sadness with the world, to touch their hearts about the gay plight in a homophobic society that uses Jesus Christ’s very own name to persecute them! That’s really sad, eh? But my own emotion is PRIDE above and beyond any other…and God Himself has handed me the Golden Apple of Authorship, that will touch the soul of so many. And bring about a profound change of heart towards sexual minorities. It is a great gift most profound, of which I am enormously grateful.

{{ Did Randy ever respond to you after receiving these? It is so true that we have the dark human side to our nature, yet the wonderful and truly hopeful thing is that we are also composed in Gods’ image, which gives us hope. }}

You are such an elegant author yourself, Sweet Sue, you take my breath away! Sometimes, he responded, but it was sporadic. Nonetheless, I took heart and steeled myself to endure whatever slings and arrows came my way, in order to find a way to bring him true peace and happiness. And I did, I know in my heart I did, though he has disappeared from my life since 1992. I am over the grief, I have only great pride and joy for my dedication…which reward has now come to me in the form of Larkin, and this incredible talent. Which is glorious affirmation that Randolph is just fine, wherever he is, and most grateful of my enduring affections.

{{ Curious what you meant by the dark ways of the white man? }}

I am a shaman in spirit, who channels other spirits, such as angels, gods, animals, and so on. In that letter, I was channeling a Native American spirit…for whom the white man is a very dark force. As you well know.

{{ And, what does, “burn away into the eternal light” signify? }}

It is time for this earth to become the Happy Hunting Ground; mankind has suffered enough. Those who still refuse to practice brotherly and sisterly love, shall be removed from this sphere, and reincarnate to another world where they may continue to grow in their foolish manner, while those who remain can finally enjoy a life of harmony, joy, and fellowship.

{{ Surely, Christ’s message is us to love one another and treat each other with love and compassion, and I agree that part of the reason we may remain in our sinful state is this lack of love towards others, yet the Bible in the Book of Romans, especially in the beginning states that man loves his evil deeds, doing them in darkness, showing that he knows they are wrong. So, it is also that we love to sin. That’s the rest of the story here, and we just cannot blame others, we must look to ourselves first, and acknowledge our sinfulness and turn to the Lord for His forgiveness and complete restoration through accepting the love of God, through His sacrificial death of His Son, for the atonement of our sins.

Then, and only then, can we be right with God, and live the full and abundant life that He came to give us. Apart from accepting His gift of life through Christ we are all destined to Hell. }}

So beautifully written, Sweet Sue, I dare not pare down any of that paragraph! As for “Hell” here is what I’ve come to understand:

There is no eternal hell, only that punishment meted out for whatever sins we have committed. Once the purging is complete, these souls shall also come to rest in God’s heart. There is no person created, that God will ever destine to eternal damnation. That is a belief added on by powermongering preachers who teach with fear. The Buddha said that heaven and hell are a state of mind…and that makes perfect sense. For what good deeds or bad deeds you commit, they will pile up into an ultimate outcome: either liberation of the soul, or more suffering.

Christ’s sacrifice on the cross was to ensure that no one should ever stray so far, as to never be able to eventually be brought up into God’s Light. In fact, I find it to be an abomination to even believe that a loving God would ever condemn any wretched soul to eternal fire. Temporary fire, yes…and for each, a different length of time depending on the sin.

Some Christian churches do believe in eternal hell, while others do not. I stand firmly with the latter. Many folks shall soon be removed from this planet, due to their darkly sinful ways, that this planet may finally know liberation. One could say these losers will be cast into hell. But that does not mean their hell will be eternal…just they need to continue on their path in another dimension, where they can no longer thwart good folk’s destiny here on earth.

{{ Previously, you had written that the only sect of Christianity that you feel valid is the gnostic, meaning that it is equal with all the other “religions” of the World. Do you still believe that? }}

Gnostic Christianity is quite complex, not simplistic like fundamentalist churches. They possess a vast, intellectual sphere that gives birth to great Christian thinkers such as Teilhard de Chardin, who do not spit on other belief systems (such as pagan, shamanic, and so forth), but give reverence to them, as aspects of perceiving the same God in different cultural lenses. I can only feel at home in such Christian venues that allow us to keep an open mind, and befriend those who are non-Christian, including atheists. This is the essence of brotherly/sisterly love…not limited among only those who believe the same as yourself. It may not be easy, but the cross never was.

{{ I know we have spoken of this before. I do not believe that man can do anything apart from the Lord to earn his favor. As the Bible teaches us, even our most righteous acts are fifthiness in His eyes. On our own, we can never be good enough, and we will always mess up. }}

Of course not. But when a man or woman is righteous for so many years, sometimes the angels do shower them with blessings, for all the world to witness. Such as Job, who suffered egregious trials for many many years, yet stuck to his belief that God was ultimately loving. He may have been more tested by Jehovah than any other person in history. In a similar fashion, I have been tested (included suffering horrid cysts that started behind the left ear, and rapidly spread all over my face…from the ages of 16 to 22),

yet remained steadfast in believing in The Good, whether it be through Celtic, shamanic, Christian, or other beliefs. I am, after all, a student of world religions…I love the diverse and colorful ways different cultures perceive Our Creator.

{{ You’ve written here about the joy you know from your faith in Christ? I just wondered what joy your faith has given you Zeke? And, what is faith to you Zeke? }}

The angels came to me regarding Randolph, and gave me the strength to stand by his side, both literally and metaphorically, these many years. Christ Himself came to me, and asserted that my struggle for gay liberation in this world was not just righteous, but most holy. For He showed that in homosexuals suffering the horrid ridicule, vilification, terror and murder by a vast majority, they walk Christ’s path more closely than any other minority. Now, my skills in telling tales that have become so finely honed, certainly reflect the end result of my endurance and keeping the flame alive in my heart, for all my gay brothers and sisters around the world.

Faith to me, is never giving up on your dreams. That the angels are cheering you on, even if you don’t see or hear them. But I am also a most lucky man: for I have seen and heard them throughout my unusual life, even since I was a child.

{{ You wrote them long ago. A couple decades. What responses have you received from these letters over the years Zeke? }}

Oh, I do have some love letters from Randolph. But I’ve written the greatest body of them…in fact, probably over 200 wonderful letters to Randolph, of which I only have copied less than ten percent. They are somewhere, and one day they will be discovered, and put into my Life’s Labor of Love: “The Gay Bible” (or “Final Testament“). In fact, I don’t think Randolph died, I think he just is in hiding for a while, and will soon come back to me. For this is what my visions, my angels tell me. But no, his torment from the bloody conflict tore apart his spirit, I could not expect his love returned; I could only expect my fidelity to grow under duress. I call myself “God’s Little Grunt”.

They tell me that Larkin will bring me to Randolph…and when that occurs, so will the liberation of my gay family. I know this may sound crazy, this is an incredible claim…but as far as I can tell, I speak only truth. And my time has come, my star is rising…with the blessings of Jesus and His Incredible Dad Themselves!

{{ I will await your response with baited breath. }}

Ha! Love it. Chapter Two, “Moby’s Dick” contains barely an iota of raunchy queer humor (except of course for the title), and it is a continuation of what occurred in Chapter One. I sincerely hope you will read that too, soon…for I know you will enjoy it immensely. Here’s the URL again:

http://zekeblog.wordpress.com/2012/03/28/mobys-dick/

Finally: I do realize we may have disagreements on what Christ, Hell, and Faith mean…however, I do respect you immensely, regardless…and again am SO grateful you’ve listened to my plea to read Chapter One in its entirety. I am VERY blessed to have you in my life, Sweet Sue. And I apologize if anything I have said regarding my spiritual beliefs may have offended you in any way, shape or manner. In memory of Snackboy, I wish you only joy and happiness.

Sincerely,

Zeke <3

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Date: Mon, Apr 2, 2012 at 8:08 PM
From: Zeke
To: Sweet Sue
Subject: Doping Wealthy Dopes

More on My Handsome Randolph:

Another vision has shown that Randolph is my guardian angel, who concocted this war veteran scenario just to create a wonderful romantic adventure for me. So he wasn’t really shot, or suffered that much…it was more like a Hollywood setup, so I could play the hero and become a great author and activist, myself.

If this is true, then I’ve been duped. But what a WONDERFUL dupe it is!

I think what is lost on most Christians is God’s sense of humor, and that of the angels. You must therefore study pagan and shamanic beliefs, to grasp that dimension we call divine comedy.

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Date: Wed, Apr 4, 2012 at 2:13 PM
From: Sweet Sue
To: Zeke
Subject: Doping Wealthy Dopes

Hi Zeke. I was curious about your relationship with Larkin now Zeke? I hope he is and continues to be a loving friend to you.

I cannot imagine the persecution and suffering that gays experience. I look forward to speaking with Terry about this.

Regarding those who persecute: yes, maybe some fulfill and return the evil, but what good does that bring? Man wants to think they are better than others. I remember Terry telling an older guy he worked with that was always trying to put him down, out of jealousy, most likely. Does cutting my tree down make yours feel a little taller? Revenge is mine says the Lord.

I do believe we are and can be blessed by God, but don’t think we earn anything by our own good deeds. However, we do reap what we sow. No one can earn another’s salvation. We are each responsible for all of the good and bad that we do in our bodies and will be judged according, not by man, but by the Lord. When Jesus comes again, He will separate the sheep from the goats. I suppose this is an area we will have to agree to disagree. This is so important for people to know and grasp, because it affects their eternal salvation.

Christ loves you Zeke. He loves us all.

I’ve never had an Angel come to me. Well, I’m sure they have. I’ve just never recognized them as such.

You did what you felt was the right thing for Randolph, Zeke. You are beloved by God anyway, because He created you, and only wants the best for you, and all of us.

Well, I just read and concentrated on the written part as you suggested. I knew that it was important to you for me to read them, although I’m really not much of a reader Zeke. Never have been. Now Kenny and Terry are. I remember always reading to them, hoping they would fall asleep and take a nap.

Actually, I was the one who took a nap and they got up and ransacked the house. I’m your friend Zeke. So, I wanted to check this out, ’cause it’s special to you. That was really nice to read that you valued my opinion, although I’m pretty ignorant about many cultures and worldly views. You are leap years ahead of me regarding this stuff. It’s just not that important to me. We’re all so different.

Yes, I see how you webbed your writing around the Native Americans in your writing here. It is really sad that man tries to vilify, condemn, and persecute. They ought to take the stones out of their own eyes, before throwing them at others, yet, blinded by their own sin. We are all given spiritual gifts from the Lord.

It’s great that you have identified yours and you are a man on a mission! That’s good that you have called it your gift, as from knowing you, I know it has also been most challenging at times.

You flatter me Zeke. I just know what I know, and also when the Lord leads me I am able and most willing to share His truths with others. It is my responsibility as His child.

I do believe that there will be a time again when the Lord will rid us of Sin again. No more pain, no more sorrow. No more hopes of an illusive tomorrow. That’s a song. I didn’t make it up. God has rid the World before of the sinful and Godless, and He will do it again. When he has had enough, he will show no more mercy. We do differ on our beliefs. I do believe and know that the Lord will cast the goats into the lake of fire, and the righteous will be living with the Lord forever. And, the righteous are those who have accepted the love of God, through accepting the gift of His Son, through His atoning death and resurrection.

Actually, Zeke it really does not matter what you or I believe unless it conforms to what the Lord has said and decreed. Our opinion is for naught. His ways are not fathomable to us. He is a God of love, but He is also a God of justice. We can never be good enough, I don’t care what the Buddhists say. Without the Lord’s Spirit we are not capable of understanding any of this.The natural man receiveth not the things of God, for they are foolishness unto him, neither can he know them, for they are spiritually revealed. God says there is a Hell, which is going to be some sort of punishment for those who die in sin, and the Bible says that it is eternal.

I believe that Christ’s sacrifice was the full payment for our sin, because God cannot be around sin, only what is pure and holy. So, He became a man, lived a perfect life, and gave up His life for each and every one of us. One man died so that all might live.

You feel it an abomination to even believe that a loving God would ever condemn any wretched soul to eternal fire. Again, I really do not think it matters to God what we think. He’s gonna do, what He says He’s gonna do. God said it, I believe it, and that settles it for me. Sin is sin Zeke. There are no little sins or big sins in His eyes. Sin is sin, it is missing His mark, and burdens and grieves Him deeply, and He’s going to discipline or punish accordingly, even if it isn’t what we think is fair.

I don’t relish believing in eternal hell, yet being outside of His presence surely should be eternal hell for us. The alternative is better than we finite creatures can even imagine. Eyes have not seen, nor has it entered into the hearts of man, what God has planned for those who love him.

I would like to believe as you here, but again, it doesn’t matter what we think, it’s what He says. I know there are those that believe in reincarnation, similar to living somewhere else on another dimension. I believe that here is it, and we live our lives as He chisels us to be more in His image. I don’t think He is just going to move us around, and I surely do not understand everything, who does?

I agree that people who think and act without love and acceptance of others are missing the mark, and He will deal with them accordingly. And, yes, isn’t it terrible that some attend Church and think they are righteous, yet it is a righteousness of pride, and not a true righteousness from God. On this I’m sure we agree.

Yes, Job was a righteous man, and showered with blessings. We reap what we sow.

And, he was also severely tested by Satan, which of course, God allowed. And, all of Job’s so called friends missed the mark. I don’t think Job was always holding onto the belief that God was loving. When he was speaking with the Lord, he was saying like why me. I remember reading their conversation, and God was very direct, and was not the wishy washy God, that most people would expect Him to be under the circumstances. That taught me a lot about His nature. There is none not righteous, no not one! It’s nice to see the good in people, but really how good are we? Not so much. If man could be good enough, then why did Christ have to sacrifice Himself for our salvation?

I am not a student of world religions, knowing that pretty much all of them think they can work their way into His good graces, or just think they are too special. I believe all of us are sinful and therefore, separated from Him.

Again, I cannot imagine the horrid ridicule, suffering and even murder of homosexuals. This is wrong and He does not take kindly to these terrific, sinful acts. People are no damn good Zeke, and they will pay for this mistreatment of their fellow man.

For all have sins, and fall short of the glory of God. There is none not righteous, no not one. Therefore, we are all separated from God, until we accept Christ as our Savior and Lord, and live that way.

I’m sure that all of your love for your many gay brothers and sisters around the world will be rewarded by God. And, your love for mankind in general. You have a big heart Zeke.

I would say that you are a blessed man, to have seen and heard your angels throughout your unusual life. I cannot imagine that either. I seldom even remember my dreams, much less experience what you have from the spiritual realm. Somewhat of a prophet, which I know can also be a curse.

Yes, we do have disagreements on these things. You’re a sweetheart Zeke. Thank you for your kind words. You are very special to me too! There is surely no need to apologize for the difference in our spiritual beliefs. We really need mainly to be concerned on offending God.

Love,
Sweet Sue

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Date: Wed, Apr 4, 2012 at 3:43 PM
From: Zeke
To: Sweet Sue
Subject: Doping Wealthy Dopes

I will leave your most eloquent writing untouched, and undebated. I prefer its beauty to shine without further badinage. Blessings, I am most impressed and touched! You are a very gifted soul, who perhaps cannot realize at this time, what an outstanding author of the Truth you really are. <3