TITLE: WORTHLESS DREAMER
TITLE: WORTHLESS DREAMER
AUTHOR: VNapier
RATING: R
FEEDBACK: Always. e mail me at BBMFAN@ZOOMINTERNET.NET
DISCLAIMERS: Standard disclaimers. The characters are not mine, but the story is.
SUMMARY: Jack is dreaming.
Not a 'feel good' story.
"No!!!"
The disturbing images disappeared in the blink of an eye, replaced by the shadowy images of a peaceful bedroom.
"Ya okay, Bud?"
The last vestiges of the nightmare dissipated before the reality that could not be denied. Laying back down, he twisted around and snuggled into the comforting embrace that had been his version of heaven since the summer of 1963. "Just havin' a bad dream."
A familiar grunt of feigned indifference echoed through the darkness, but the arms holding him tightened their grip and didn't let up until the soft snores picked up again. Even then, they only eased the strength of their hold, without letting him go.
It had been a long time since he dreamed that dream, and he wondered why it had come back. Why now, when it was nothing he had to worry with anymore?
Tomorrow, they would begin fall round-up. Their herd was small, but it paid the bills and gave them a little extra for things like Christmas presents for kids and grand kids, and the occasional splurge that neither of them did often; a new saddle, bush hog, or the chest freezer they replaced last week. Maybe that was it.
Last night at dinner Ennis had mentioned going hunting, shooting an elk or two, getting the freezer stocked up for winter. Hunting meant going camping and going camping always reminded him of those days when camping was all they had. It was during those agonizing years of loneliness that the dream had first come to him, dogging his heels for nearly two decades before Ennis finally relented. At the time he had believed the dream would become a distant memory that he would have to endure no longer.
He had been wrong. Every now and again something would stir it from its rest and the damning images would haunt him once more.
The details were always different, but the theme was always the same...two old farts who had no business doing anything as foolish as camping out in the mountains, ending up dead because they were too feeble to make their way back out of the wilderness. Well, one of them always ended up dead, anyway. The only time Jack died in his dream was after he had endured days and days of not being able to help Ennis, of watching his lover suffer and die because Jack wasn't good enough to save him.
Jack never died first, and he never died fast. It was a long drawn out hell that left him dead inside long before his body gave up. Sometimes he died up on a nameless mountain; other times it was years later, in some nameless place where he never felt loved, only tolerated.
Tonight's dream had a new twist that left him feeling even more alone and vulnerable. He had shot Ennis. It was a hunting accident, but shot was shot. He couldn't find the horses, but that was nothing unusual. They always just disappeared. He had been left alone, his arthritis too debilitating for him to do anything but sit there and watch Ennis die. He was found nearly dead, was kept alive against his will, unable to leave his sickbed, pissing through a tube in his dick and shitting into a bag hanging on the side of the bed. Little more than a vegetable, but denied the relief of death.
*********
BRRRRIIIINNNNGGGGGGG
Jack smacked at the alarm clock on the bedside table, knocking it over before he finally silenced its annoying clanging. He had actually gone to bed early last night, but this morning he felt as though he hadn't slept in a month. Beside him the bed rustled and for one brief moment he experienced the blissful satisfaction a sweet life.
"Peterson Farms could be a quarter million dollar sale, if they're handled right. A couple million by the time they're through updating their fleet." Lureen huffed in frustration. "I'd do it myself, but you know how those good old boys are. They're not going to haggle machinery with a woman, even if I do know more about combines and harvesters than all of those idiots put together. And thank you for not drinking yourself into a stupor last night."
The bathroom light clicked on and illuminated the darkness. "I damn well hope you've studied up on those new models. I don't want to lose this sale because they know more about those machines than you do." The door closed and the light disappeared with it.
In the dark bitterness of reality, he could almost hear the laughter in his head. If he drank he was only tormented while he was awake; he if didn't drink he was tormented when he slept, too. He didn't dream when he was wasted. He didn't have to endure that dream, or dreams within dreams, or waking up to dreams that were never going to be real.
Stumbling out into the hall, he entered the bathroom that had been relegated as 'his' even before the mortgage papers were signed. Sliding off his pajama bottoms, he turned on the water and got into the shower, without so much as a glance in the mirror.
In a few hours he would walk through the big double doors down at Newsome's Farm Equipment, his salesman mask firmly in place. He would hawk and cajole and kiss ass with the best of them, while laughing to himself about how those good ol' boys would shit a brick to know they were haggling with a genuine dick-loving faggot.
The first step in the process was letting the water do it's magic by washing away every trace of Jack Fuckin' Twist for one more day. Jack Fuckin' Twist, with his head full of foolish dreams and his good for nothingness had to go.
No matter how many millions of dollars worth of farm equipment he managed to sell, Jack Fuckin' Twist would never be good enough to earn one word of acceptance from his daddy, but he could live with that. He had long since quit giving a damn what the old bastard thought of him.
What he couldn't live with, what tore him up and left him crushed like no rodeo bull ever could, was knowing that he would never be good enough for Ennis to make even the slightest attempt to fix what could be stood instead. A couple of high altitude fucks once or twice a year was all Ennis needed him for, was all he ever wanted him for, was all he was ever going to spare for an ex-rodeo fuck up who was too pathetic to just let it be.
On days like this, he wished he could just slide down the drain with the soapy water, get sucked down into the into the sewer, or hell, or where ever it was that things that were all used up and unwanted ended up. Anything would be better than living on the whiskey that kept at bay the dreams that sought to remind him that he wasn't even good enough at being a fucked up faggot queer.
The water was turned off and by the time his body was wiped dry, he was fully immersed in another dream, the kind that you didn't have to be asleep to experience. In this one he smiled and laughed and told potential buyers any damn thing they wanted to hear as long as it got their fat wallets open and their name on a sales contract.
That was the bad dream that was his life, where standing it was getting harder and harder to do, but the very notion of trying to fix it was as absurd as waking up to find that he was worth something after all.
The End
AUTHOR: VNapier
RATING: R
FEEDBACK: Always. e mail me at BBMFAN@ZOOMINTERNET.NET
DISCLAIMERS: Standard disclaimers. The characters are not mine, but the story is.
SUMMARY: Jack is dreaming.
Not a 'feel good' story.
"No!!!"
The disturbing images disappeared in the blink of an eye, replaced by the shadowy images of a peaceful bedroom.
"Ya okay, Bud?"
The last vestiges of the nightmare dissipated before the reality that could not be denied. Laying back down, he twisted around and snuggled into the comforting embrace that had been his version of heaven since the summer of 1963. "Just havin' a bad dream."
A familiar grunt of feigned indifference echoed through the darkness, but the arms holding him tightened their grip and didn't let up until the soft snores picked up again. Even then, they only eased the strength of their hold, without letting him go.
It had been a long time since he dreamed that dream, and he wondered why it had come back. Why now, when it was nothing he had to worry with anymore?
Tomorrow, they would begin fall round-up. Their herd was small, but it paid the bills and gave them a little extra for things like Christmas presents for kids and grand kids, and the occasional splurge that neither of them did often; a new saddle, bush hog, or the chest freezer they replaced last week. Maybe that was it.
Last night at dinner Ennis had mentioned going hunting, shooting an elk or two, getting the freezer stocked up for winter. Hunting meant going camping and going camping always reminded him of those days when camping was all they had. It was during those agonizing years of loneliness that the dream had first come to him, dogging his heels for nearly two decades before Ennis finally relented. At the time he had believed the dream would become a distant memory that he would have to endure no longer.
He had been wrong. Every now and again something would stir it from its rest and the damning images would haunt him once more.
The details were always different, but the theme was always the same...two old farts who had no business doing anything as foolish as camping out in the mountains, ending up dead because they were too feeble to make their way back out of the wilderness. Well, one of them always ended up dead, anyway. The only time Jack died in his dream was after he had endured days and days of not being able to help Ennis, of watching his lover suffer and die because Jack wasn't good enough to save him.
Jack never died first, and he never died fast. It was a long drawn out hell that left him dead inside long before his body gave up. Sometimes he died up on a nameless mountain; other times it was years later, in some nameless place where he never felt loved, only tolerated.
Tonight's dream had a new twist that left him feeling even more alone and vulnerable. He had shot Ennis. It was a hunting accident, but shot was shot. He couldn't find the horses, but that was nothing unusual. They always just disappeared. He had been left alone, his arthritis too debilitating for him to do anything but sit there and watch Ennis die. He was found nearly dead, was kept alive against his will, unable to leave his sickbed, pissing through a tube in his dick and shitting into a bag hanging on the side of the bed. Little more than a vegetable, but denied the relief of death.
*********
BRRRRIIIINNNNGGGGGGG
Jack smacked at the alarm clock on the bedside table, knocking it over before he finally silenced its annoying clanging. He had actually gone to bed early last night, but this morning he felt as though he hadn't slept in a month. Beside him the bed rustled and for one brief moment he experienced the blissful satisfaction a sweet life.
"Peterson Farms could be a quarter million dollar sale, if they're handled right. A couple million by the time they're through updating their fleet." Lureen huffed in frustration. "I'd do it myself, but you know how those good old boys are. They're not going to haggle machinery with a woman, even if I do know more about combines and harvesters than all of those idiots put together. And thank you for not drinking yourself into a stupor last night."
The bathroom light clicked on and illuminated the darkness. "I damn well hope you've studied up on those new models. I don't want to lose this sale because they know more about those machines than you do." The door closed and the light disappeared with it.
In the dark bitterness of reality, he could almost hear the laughter in his head. If he drank he was only tormented while he was awake; he if didn't drink he was tormented when he slept, too. He didn't dream when he was wasted. He didn't have to endure that dream, or dreams within dreams, or waking up to dreams that were never going to be real.
Stumbling out into the hall, he entered the bathroom that had been relegated as 'his' even before the mortgage papers were signed. Sliding off his pajama bottoms, he turned on the water and got into the shower, without so much as a glance in the mirror.
In a few hours he would walk through the big double doors down at Newsome's Farm Equipment, his salesman mask firmly in place. He would hawk and cajole and kiss ass with the best of them, while laughing to himself about how those good ol' boys would shit a brick to know they were haggling with a genuine dick-loving faggot.
The first step in the process was letting the water do it's magic by washing away every trace of Jack Fuckin' Twist for one more day. Jack Fuckin' Twist, with his head full of foolish dreams and his good for nothingness had to go.
No matter how many millions of dollars worth of farm equipment he managed to sell, Jack Fuckin' Twist would never be good enough to earn one word of acceptance from his daddy, but he could live with that. He had long since quit giving a damn what the old bastard thought of him.
What he couldn't live with, what tore him up and left him crushed like no rodeo bull ever could, was knowing that he would never be good enough for Ennis to make even the slightest attempt to fix what could be stood instead. A couple of high altitude fucks once or twice a year was all Ennis needed him for, was all he ever wanted him for, was all he was ever going to spare for an ex-rodeo fuck up who was too pathetic to just let it be.
On days like this, he wished he could just slide down the drain with the soapy water, get sucked down into the into the sewer, or hell, or where ever it was that things that were all used up and unwanted ended up. Anything would be better than living on the whiskey that kept at bay the dreams that sought to remind him that he wasn't even good enough at being a fucked up faggot queer.
The water was turned off and by the time his body was wiped dry, he was fully immersed in another dream, the kind that you didn't have to be asleep to experience. In this one he smiled and laughed and told potential buyers any damn thing they wanted to hear as long as it got their fat wallets open and their name on a sales contract.
That was the bad dream that was his life, where standing it was getting harder and harder to do, but the very notion of trying to fix it was as absurd as waking up to find that he was worth something after all.
The End