Joe Dick is in no fucking mood to listen to stoners rapping about teabagging his face. He came to the Quick Stop for a little liquid courage--fuck that, a lot, and not courage 'cause it doesn't take courage, and more like a tankfull because Joe wants to forget, shotgun stuffed in his coat pocket and Billy on a plane to fucking L.A. and life is shit, life is always shit, and he needs a fucking drink, not some fucking stoner getting in his fucking way. So he punches the kid out, a tight quick jab to the nose that sends the kid down onto grimy greasy concrete. Joe horks a loogie onto the body, the kid moaning and swearing and he just will not shut up and Joe hauls back to kick him one in the nuts, because Joe does not want to fucking hear it. Then the big guy--a guy you wouldn't notice right off, because he's quiet in a way that's more than not talking--puts a hand on his shoulder and shakes his head, no, you don't want to do that.

"What the fuck do you know about what I want?" Joe snarls, all venom and shoving this guy back against the Quick Stop wall.

The guy shrugs, lifts his eyebrows, and there's sympathy in those dark eyes, and Joe feels his anger sliding away, out of his control.

Joe glares, could burn stone with that glare, could make John or Pipe and one time, one fucking time, even made Billy shut up with that glare. The silent guy doesn't shut up, though, he's talking with his eyes, with his face, just saying, it's okay, I know, it's okay but it is not fucking okay and Joe doesn't know how to make this man who is not speaking stop talking to him, so he pushes closer and kisses him.

That always shut Billy up.

Joe wants to be in charge, so he tongue-rapes the guy's mouth, shoving closer, hot body, big guy, but Joe is stronger, angrier, and he suddenly likes the rasp of beard against his face. The kiss slams through him, going straight to his dick, and that is not fucking fair because Joe's the one in charge. The guy is quiet but he talks even with his mouth full of Joe's tongue, he talks with lips and teeth and knuckles where one hand is grabbing Joe's jacket.

Joe wrenches back, mutters, "Fucking shit," and he just gets a look, an eyebrow, a headshake, the stoner kid writhing and yelling under their feet, the silent one only staring. Don't do it, the silent one says, doesn't say, whatthefuckever, and Joe pulls the gun from his pocket, and throws it at his feet.

He only came to the Quick Stop for a drink, anyway.

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January 16, 2005