Oz Drabble Tree Gives Love a BAD NAME!
The First Ever Oz Drabble Tree, The Return of Oz Drabble Tree, The Little Oz Drabble Tree That Could, Are You There God? It's Oz Drabble Tree, Oz Drabble Tree Knows Best, In Oz Drabble Tree, No One Can Hear You Scream, This Is An Emergency Oz Drabble Tree, Please, Sir, May I Have Another Oz Drabble Tree?, Leggo My Oz Drabble Tree, Come With Oz
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"You look like crap," Sean said bluntly. He poured a second cup and handed it to Tim.
"Didn't sleep well. Kept having nightmares," responded Tim blearily. "We were prisoners in Oz together, sharing a pod."
"Yikes."
"Guess who the warden was?"
"Hmmm. Adebisi?"
Tim looked at Sean in disbelief. "How’d you know?"
"I've had the same nightmare."
Tim rubbed his eyes. "Sister Pete was an inmate, too. She had killed a pro-death penalty marcher." Tim snorted. "How’s that for irony?"
"Drink your coffee," Sean instructed. "I’m gonna go shower."
Sean was halfway out the door when Tim called out, "Be careful not to drop the soap."
Sean paused, turned around, and said with a smile, "As a matter of fact, my fingers ARE a little slippery this morning."
Tim grinned and dumped his coffee down the drain.
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Satan would still find him.
Ever since he was a child, he knew the devil wanted him for his own.
The warm water only reminded him of hell.
The priest should have helped, but he didn’t.
Timmy was lost, in a sea of horned devils.
He laughed as he scalded his hand.
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"A happy ending," whispered the winged angel into his right ear. "Toby’s paroled, Chris’s convictions are overturned. The fans will love you."
Tom rubbed his chin.
"Fuck 'em," hissed the horned devil into his left. "Kill 'em both."
Tom smiled.
The angel sighed. "Okay, I can work with that. Together, they meet a ball-less God at the pearly gates."
Tom nodded.
The devil snorted. "A just-a-dream ending is better than that. Remember St. Elsewhere?"
Tom frowned.
"Tell ya what," laughed the devil. "One commits suicide, framing the other for murder in the process."
An evil grin broke over Tom’s face. He began writing.
"Noooooooo!" wept the angel.
"Oh, shut up," Tom sulked. "In a few years, nobody’s gonna remember this show anyway."
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As usual Said slept peacefully while he tossed and turned, buzzing with excess energy.
He twisted in the scratchy sheets, while Said floated gently in the arms of the prophet.
Said was always so quiet, would never speak unless he had something important to say.
Omar choked on words trying to get through, becoming a confused jumble on the way out.
He had songs he wanted to sing, and no voice to make people listen.
He wanted more from life than to bounce in and out of solitary like a hyperactive Bugs Bunny.
He wanted a miss Sally to hold, and kids to bounce on his lap.
But he was in Oz.
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"That's fifty, preacher man," he growled. "Cough it up."
Cloutier handed over the money. "I'm no drama critic, Mr. Burns, but that was a quite a performance you just gave. Keep that up and we'll have us a good flock."
"Oh shut up," Burns snarled. "You're still a big ol' fuckin' con-artist."
Cloutier smirked. "Hey, Jesus loves me."
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New name, new identity courtesy of the fucking feds.
Vern laughed.
He’d spilled the beans on his foolish brethren and now he could start anew.
Fletcher, they called him.
He could get used to it.
Exercise some lame-ass musician to greatness and get his rocks off.
Instill some fucking discipline into the young generation.
The new kid was nothing like Beecher, but he would do.
He would do, and maybe with some persuasion he could be made to suck his cock.
Prag, sweetpea, you have no idea what you’re in for..
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He laughed even less as he saw how easily he got into it. It had always been his dirty little secret. When he jerked off with his dumbass brothers and whispered Lena as he came, they all assumed the fertile figure of some German starlet. What he heard was Lena Horne wailing how the sun left her sky when he walked away from their doomed romance for the good of his Cause.
Somehow Beecher had figured it out, probably caught him singing to himself in the shower. Tried to out him in front of the whole prison with his choice of song, the scheming bitch. The problem with fucking someone up the ass on a regular basis was they quickly picked up on your darkest secrets.
He'd have to be more careful with Squeaker. Or maybe not. He'd always loved flirting with danger.
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He’d learned through his Aryans contacts that Beecher had been paroled and had set up a house with Keller.
Of course.
His prags were happy and domestic, and he couldn’t get to them for fear of exposure.
It amused him to think of Keller playing househusband to Tobias, making him hot dinners and giving him sexual favors.
Yeah.
He knew what Keller’s tongue could do.
Here he was, with no prag to do his duties.
Well, that would change soon.
He dreamed of Keller wearing an apron, and Beecher in drag, lipstick on his lips singing him a torch song.
The new pupil would look pretty in a dress.
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Andrew, he moaned as he came. A moan most unbefitting to a proud Aryan soldier. But in the dead of night, safely away from prying eyes, Squeaker could be Andrew, just like Sweet Pea had been Tobias.
Andrew, just like his lost son. The same dark, earnest eyes. The same unruly dark hair, begging to be ruffled as his lips wrapped around Vern's cock. Don't go there!
Wincing, Vern went to wash his hands at the sink.
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With Guenzel, he'd kept it together. Had been easy enough, the kid was dumb as a cow and mean as a tick. A disposable pair of holes. But all the others...
Keller. These lanky limbs, wrapping themselves around Vern with teenage flexibility as he whispered Daddy... The lopsided, self-deprecating smile ( ... )
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He’d heard through his usual sources.
Oh well.
The most loyal of all his prags, even though he wasn’t technically a prag.
Dead from a disease Vern himself been spared from, thankfully.
In the end James was tainted by the golliwog he let rape him, and the gums he’d acquired.
Better for him to meet his maker than live.
He’d shown so much promise, but he had failed in the end.
They all did.
The new prag would never be so destroyed, Vern would see to that.
Tonight he was alone with his hand, and the kid was beating himself into shape in his place.
They were linked through the beat of the music that never stopped playing in his head now.
He beat off, and didn’t even think of Beecher.
That was almost a victory in itself.
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Andrew thought it was music, but it was so much more than that.
He was a master of his pupils’ lives, every aspect of it.
He demanded allegiance and purity, like a priest would.
They usually abstained because of how hard he drove them.
Andrew had left his sweet girlfriend to be a better, more driven musician.
He was still a teenage boy, so his libido was sublimated, turned into sweet music.
He was a better drummer than anyone Vern had ever heard.
All that untamed sexual energy fed his rendition of “Caravan” and it was a lovely sound.
Perhaps he could persuade the boy that it was okay to give in to his master every once in a while.
Perhaps he’d enjoy it, just like Beecher did even if he’d deny it to himself.
Every time Beecher came with Vern’s cock up his ass, it was a beautiful moment.
Andrew would be even lovelier, in all his youthful glory and energy.
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As he approached a group of hookers, Chris observed a man in a white, buttoned-up, starched shirt, waving a Bible and yelling at them.
"You whores must relinquish Satan’s grip on your souls!" bellowed the man.
Chris glanced at the guy’s face and froze. "Toby?!"
The man turned and glared at Chris. "No, I am the Reverend Billy Skaggs."
Chris couldn't believe his eyes-this preacher man was a dead ringer for Toby. Had Toby risked his own safety and, using another identity, come searching for Chris ( ... )
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The thing with Toby has gotten under his skin, into his bloodstream, and into the chambers of his heart.
It’s ingrained in his very being, like a part of his own body.
He can’t function without Toby now, there’s no way to live without him.
This thing always had the seeds of its own destruction inherent, from the first kiss to the betrayals and the love.
He knows it can’t end happily, but he can’t let go.
This thing with Toby is like a sickness, a fever burning bright.
There’s nothing else that motivates him to get up in the morning now.
His life is forever tied to Toby’s, and if it ends he might as well die.
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Today, of all days.
Surely, it’s temporary. An after-effect from his recent cold, perhaps.
It’s not a big deal, says an understanding Toby. It happens to every guy.
Chris asks if it’s ever happened to him.
The embarrassed, bitter "yes" betrays that it IS a big deal.
*~*~*
The day’s significance brings snide comments from other inmates, as they unknowingly twist the knife further.
Instead of anticipation, lights-out brings dread, exacerbated by Toby’s prolonged poking about the pod.
Suddenly, Toby faces Chris with a flourish, wearing his usual sleepwear of white T-shirt and boxers.... but now accessorized with a red paper heart, emblazoned with the letter "C," placed directly over his crotch.
Hands on his hips, Toby proclaims dramatically, "Captain Cock to the rescue!"
"Captain Cock?"
"Captain Cock!"
Chris wants to laugh, but Toby appears serious. This is some fucked-up role-play.Toby huffs impatiently. "Ask me about my superpower," he mumbles ( ... )
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