[ 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!
It’s in the cards!
Posted by ZekeBlog 
; I danced in my galoshes and hoody yellow raincoat down Castro Street toward 18th, reveling in the glory that is the Rain Goddess’s own shower of benevolence upon this lone pilgrim: LARKIN IS BACK IN MY LIFE! (Though he never really left, of course.) Our paths started crossing again several weeks ago, and with greater and greater frequency, till now it’s almost every day. Well, that’s a bit of a white lie…let’s say about thrice per awesome week. 
