The Promised LandPart ThirteenThey all sang and played music all night long. At dawn, they went out for dough-nuts and coffee and mango nectar and oatmeal biscuits with pear jam. "Let's get some sleep, and we can start all over again tomorrow night," Jean-Luc said. Everyone nodded at him. Q followed Jean-Luc to his bedroom; Jean-Luc hadn't said he wanted Q to come with him, but he hadn't not said it either. They showered silently, separately, and then Q joined Jean-Luc on the bed. He crept under the covers very cautiously. Yet the silence wasn't unfriendly. "What is that you have on?" Jean-Luc said finally. "Oh. This sort of underwear-thing I got used to. In . . . in Europe." Q was trying to make his absence sound generic, unimpressive. "Stateside we call it a thong. Are you wearing a thong, Q?" but his voice was half-amused. "Do you like it?" No one but they knew this was the most delicate of conversations, a conversation they'd been avoiding for weeks. "Will always wears thongs," Jean-Luc said. They both thought about that for a while. "Was that your costume for your big six-month European fuckathon?" In his own way, he was trying to be very gentle about it. "Do you like it?" Q was not insistent, but flirting. "Obviously," Jean-Luc said and pressed against him. They didn't make love, but it still felt as if they might be in love. The real estate agent, all frizzy hair and power suit, was driving her most important client around. "Mr. Fajo, it is always such a pleasure to see you." Fajo was worth billions; that was the pleasure part. "Now about this office building you're interested in, it is fully leased. The most important client is . . . ", she said "most important" without irony, "is named Tommy Quark. DCA loves Tommy Quark. I heard they might advance him the money to buy the building." She was not above lying to sell a building, but that rumor happened to be true. Then her heart sank. The building sure didn't look like much in the bald sunlight. And some kid was out front, some street kid no doubt. Big white cowboy hat. An Asian! Thai or something! With bleached blond hair! And he was crying! He apparently had had some sort of elaborate eye makeup on and was now sobbing his eyes out, the makeup running down his face. Eyeliner everywhere! He made the place look like a slum! "Stop," Fajo said suddenly. "I want to get out and look around." No accounting for taste. More songs. Q gently re-assumed the role of band leader; his ears weren't as good as Geordi's, but he was more balanced. He kept working on the Boys to create a constant hums of noise behind Jean-Luc's cries and bellows and roars and purrs. He coaxed fast little "yeah yeahs" out of Jean-Luc, insistent murmurs of sound from Geordi, wild quick yodels like punctuation marks from Data. For a few weeks they lived an odd life of midnights to dawns. The late hours made music flow more easily for all of them. They worked as hard as they ever had, and loved every second of it. Jean-Luc would not ever have admitted it, but he was thrilled to have Q back as bandleader again. Only someone who loved him as much as Q did could push his voice so gently. Q guided Jean-Luc through their songs as if he were navigating the curves of the Big Doe, avoiding the rapids, easing over the rocks, curving the music around and through him until it was beautiful, then more beautiful. And Jean-Luc could give himself over willingly because Q's one job in life was to learn his Johnny from one end to the other. Q knew his voice, but, more to the point, Q knew what to do with it. Between the two of them, they puzzled out the dimensions of his extraordinary ability. He made such a rich sound that even he himself had to pay attention to it when they played back their recordings. Dark and sinuous, his voice promised freedom like the river did. His voice was the dime hitting the bottom of the wishing well, it was the very second right before the Sears catalogue fell open to your favorite page, it was the preacher's hand reaching out to baptize you in the sacred waters, and the promise that your dearest wish would be fulfilled. Jean-Luc knew that every time he opened his mouth to sing, these things happened, but he didn't know why. After a while, he did not question it, but simply trusted Q to bend the music around the sounds he made. He enjoyed Geordi and Data's wide knowledge of music and music history, but it was Q's instincts he trusted more than any book learning. Sometimes Q asked him to sing for the band, and he did so, teaching them his voice so they could learn how to play to it, enhance it, present it like a woman on a satin bed. Quark showed them the tour calendar. Big tour. Big halls. Many tickets. People were clearly expecting miracles. Jean-Luc smiled to himself. He was unafraid; he could walk out on those stages knowing exactly how precious it was, this thing he had to offer. The sweetness of Q's temperament had not changed at all, but he had gotten used to having beautiful things around him and being a beautiful thing himself. He looked around their rental house and frowned. It was too small. And why were they renting when the could get a nice tax break if they actually bought a house? Didn't their accountant tell them? "Accountant?" Q sighed. He went out and hired an accounting firm. Then he went out and found a real estate agent. The Boys were excited. They were going to buy a house. Even Jean-Luc got into the act. "We each get our own bedroom," he ordered. That way they wouldn't have to play musical beds whenever he wanted to fuck one of his Boys. "Geordi needs a place to put his hot tub," Data said. "We have to have a pool," Q told them. "Everyone has a pool." "A garage for the cars would be nice," Will suggested. Jean-Luc nodded. "A big garage," he said. So Q went out to look for a six-bedroom house with a pool and a hot tub and a big garage. He found one, too -- a faux-colonial monstrosity squeezed into a cul-de-sac with three other houses just like it. But it had a five-car garage and a pool and a pool house. The house was tacky and overdone, but this was Hollywood, and the price was right. The other Boys thought they'd moved into heaven. Q knew better, but he didn't say anything. They were thrilled to have their own rooms, and each Boy immediately set about decorating (except for Jean-Luc, who regarded the entire house as his). Q arranged his room exactly the way he thought Jean-Luc might like it. He put up pictures of sailboats, and a soft beige carpet for his knees (he knew he'd be on his knees a lot) and a few pieces of simple furniture. Geordi's room was very precisely arranged. Pieces of gaffer tape marked where the furniture was placed so Geordi could stay oriented. One wall was devoted to his sound system, and his was the only room to open onto the flower-scented patio with its constantly gurgling hot tub. Data's room adjoined Geordi's. It had a number of machines in it, humidifiers and air cleaners and electric toothbrushes and three televisions and an amazing closet with a round rack like a drycleaner's so Data could spin to the exact garment he wanted. He also had a shelf full of carefully labeled remote controls. Worf liked it dark. The walls and furniture were covered in a beautiful black-gray upholstery; the floor was covered with a kind of black marble. It was a remarkably relaxing space. And Will. Ah, Will. Yes, Will. Will was the last straw. He had a big round waterbed with a shaggy blue fur bedspread. A question mark was embossed in the shaggy blue fur. He also framed and hung his numberless centerfolds of men and women. Then he had a black and chrome entertainment center/wet bar installed, and a full-sized refrigerator. Next to the refrigerator was a treadmill which he used as a laundry rack, mostly for XXL nylon thongs. How nice, the seeing boys said politely. After the movers left, Data and Will came to Q. They had their little home-making schedule with them. "We shall work together to keep our new house nice," Data said. Q looked back uncomprehendingly. "You still clean the house?" The two other Boys seemed a little nonplused. "But why didn't you get a maid to do this?" "We thought you would want to come back and do this stuff with us." (But even as they said it, they saw that it sounded ridiculous addressed to this languidly elegant beauty who had just had his nails buffed.) Q had been a geisha. He raised his eyebrows. Then he told them to get the phone book and look under 'M' for maid services. "And not just a maid, guys. Let's get a personal trainer too." The maid was just barely all right with Jean-Luc, but he drew the line at a personal trainer. "I just have a feeling about that kind of thing." So they all got health-club memberships, and Jean-Luc escorted Q to the gym. (It never occurred to Q to buy just one membership, and Quark said it was all tax-deductible -- profitable too if the Boys stayed healthy during the tour.) Jean-Luc knew at once that he was seriously out of his element; he wore sweats and a t-shirt, but Q changed into biker shorts and a tank top, and skin gleamed as he huffed and puffed on the rowing machine. Jean-Luc looked around at all the weight-room booty with their perfectly sculpted looks and he saw very clearly that Q fit right in, getting more than his share of speculating, admiring smiles. It took less than half an hour for him to order Q out of there. "Q," he said, "it's stupid to have to run out to the gym every day. We'll build us a weight room." "Good idea, Johnny." Q had learned how to be rich. He knew catalogues. He moved them out of their holding pattern, the pattern they didn't even know they had been in, catapulting them into this place of security and wealth and power. He hoped Johnny would like it. "We have to get ourselves a lawyer." "Why?" It was hard to explain. Q had learned how to be rich. He knew what it was to take care of the money he had. He also knew the others had no experience of taking care of large amounts of money. Or any amount of money. "Jean-Luc, how many times have you ever paid taxes?" Jean-Luc shrugged. He hadn't paid taxes since the army. "Fuck Uncle. He can kiss my ass." "Well, Jean-Luc dear, that didn't matter when you didn't have anything for them to take away. But now..." All the other Boys got very silent. They liked their big new house and their pool. They didn't want the government to come take it all away. They looked at Jean-Luc. His jaw was clenched tight. "Okay, motherfucker. Get us a lawyer. And while you're at it, you can pay my fucking taxes." Q did, patiently working with their lawyer and their accountant until they created a believable fiction of how a man could live for decades without paying the government a single fucking dime. They made an appointment with an IRS agent and intimidated him into accepting forty thousand dollars for Jean-Luc's indemnity. Then they did the same for Will and Data. Worf, Q and Geordi owed nothing. They paid piddling penalties for filing late and that was all. Then Q asked Jean-Luc to call a meeting. He sat down with the other Boys around the dining room table and explained what he'd done. Jean-Luc pretended not to be impressed. "You're wasting all our money," he said and rubbed his lower lip with his thumb. Nonetheless, he had Q make copies of all the letters and statements from the IRS, and he bought a little metal lockbox to keep them in. He kept the lockbox in his big new closet and every once in a while he took his papers out and looked at them. This was better than a driver's licence, or a credit card. This almost made him a citizen. Q saw Johnny looking at his IRS forms, and it thrilled him that Johnny was pleased with what he'd done. He decided to come up with even more plans. Their old bus, the Stargazer, just barely fit into a corner of their big garage. Q studied it. It was still a beautiful serviceable vehicle, but Q felt they could do better. So, sight unseen, Q had the Boys buy the latest model tour bus for themselves. The salesman Q talked to on the phone didn't have to work hard; Q had read up and knew what he wanted. A brand-new customized Enterprise, fast as a star, soft as a mattress. Worf said, "Will we trade in the Stargazer?" "No," Q said, "I have other plans." The Stargazer was going to be their equipment bus and the bus where their newly-hired roadies would live on the road. Then Worf had had a terrific idea. He'd gotten a postcard a few months back congratulating him on his success. It had been signed 'Kurn,' their old prison buddy. Worf kept it, and, when they decided to hire roadies, he looked at the return address and hired someone to find their jailhouse pal. Worf called him. Did Kurn want a job? "I'll take the first bus out," Kurn said. When he got there, Worf and Jean-Luc embraced him like a brother. Kurn, like everyone, had some rough edges, but he worked hard, and his allegiance was never in question. Kurn recommended hiring a couple of other men from prison. Data and Will were a little nervous about this, "Cons?" they said, but Q, Jean-Luc, and Worf knew that the prison bonds were too peculiar to explain, to firm to break. "We're cons too," they pointed out. So they hired Kurn's men, an odd, intense little duck named Gowron and a rather pretty rough boy named Klag. Jean-Luc thought these men were great roadies; he spent a lot of time talking to them. Q teased him, "I didn't know you spoke roadie, Jean-Luc." Jean-Luc looked at Q. He felt real joy for the first time in ages. It was like being back in prison. "I might give you to them for a few days. I want to make sure they're on our side." Q dimpled and beamed. Just like old times. And it was a gift Q could give Jean-Luc: he could be the biggest and most beautiful whore. Kurn was almost driven to tears by Jean-Luc's largess. He made Q undress and sprawl on his stomach across the bed. Everyone's eyes grew round and their mouths hung open. Kurn took it upon himself to explain it to Gowron and Klag. "Now this is the boss-man's queen. And he's giving her to us to fuck all we want for a little spell of time and then we're on our own again. During this time, we can fuck her as much as we like. And any way we like. She's the queen, yes, she is. If somebody wanted to fuck her pussy while another wanted to get his cock sucked, why, she's the one. Look at that ass. Boys, have you ever?" He shook his head. "The boss-man isn't giving the likes of us his little queenie for nothing," Gowron growled. "What's he want in return?" "He wants our loyalty. We fuck her now and we do a good job after, later he might give her ass back to us for a bit. I say it's worth it. I say if a man can't tell it's worth it, then that man don't deserve this job. And I myself am now going to fuck the queen til we both bleed." Q turned to Kurn and said, "Oh, yes, fuck me, Kurn. I always wondered what you'd be like." Kurn almost gave himself a heart attack. And then he lay back recuperating as Klag and Gowron made Q take both of them together. They fucked Q until the world ended. Then, when it began again, they fucked him some more. When Jean-Luc came to take the exhausted, dilapidated but radiant Q back from the roadies, he sat down for a chat. But they did not speak of the spectacular fucking they had given Q. Jean-Luc spoke to them as a man, and men had more important things to talk about, much more important than the fun-loving kitten Q now resting his dark head against Jean-Luc's knee. Jean-Luc absently stroked Q's head as he spoke. The main thing was the bus-driving duties. Nobody said it out loud, but driving duties were going to be apportioned the same way as fucking Q had been. Jean-Luc would drive whenever he wanted to; the rest would swap it out when Jean-Luc let them. "Will wants to do some of the driving. He's got a taste for mechanical things," Jean-Luc smiled. "He's mighty scared of ex-cons though. I can't think why." Kurn spoke: "We're a mother's kisses compared to some. Say, Picard, did you hear about Sisko?" Q looked up; Jean-Luc's face tensed. "Where is that motherfucker?" "Somebody else confessed to his crime. That motherfucker was always innocent." All the men shared a dark smile. "Yeah, Sisko is back in action. You knew what happened after you got paroled, didn't you? Remember that asshole O'Brien, Sisko's best buddy? O'Brien gave Sisko everything he wanted, including keys to other cells, in exchange for money." "Money was all O'Brien wanted?" "Yeah, he didn't care none to fuck any of us, not even that Wesley." Everyone smiled at the memory of hot little wet Wesley. Wesley in the showers. Wesley in the yard. Wesley. "But he liked having a garage full of cars. O'Brien liked his Datsun Z-100's he did." "Give me a fucking break," Jean-Luc said. "The perfect piece-of-shit cop car. Not even American-made." Kurn waited for Jean-Luc to finish. Prison etiquette. Then: "Louisville Prison Board found out about their relationship when they discovered a bunch of contraband in Sisko's cell. Demoted O'Brien. Woulda fired him but he knew where too many prison commission bodies were buried." Jean-Luc twisted his head around. "That explains why Sisko let up on Q when I was gone. I wondered what was making him so timid." "Yeah, after that, his big hard-on was for O'Brien. He got some of his goons to tear O'Brien limb from limb. O'Brien's still alive, but he's got a bad limp." Klag spoke for the first time: "Yeah, and an eyepatch." "And somebody – I wonder who – cut a slice out of his face. Got a big curved scar on his cheek now," said the sinister Gowron. "After that, we just called him Smiley," Kurn added, and everyone nodded. Prison held some amusing memories. "Want us to find out about Sisko? Seems like you and him had unresolved issues." Kurn was Jean-Luc's man now. "You heard about that cocksucker in San Francisco with a gun." The roadies nodded. "His name was Madred; he's dead now." "Good," the roadies said. "You only get one Madred in a lifetime. I've won every round so far with Sisko. I say, let me at him." Then, after teasing the roadies about the damage they'd done to Q's precious ass, Jean-Luc took the drowsy, pleased Q back to his room and put im to bed. What he really wanted was to hear about the various things the roadies had put into Q, but that could wait. Discussing it would be a pleasant diversion on down the road. The next day at breakfast, when Jean-Luc left the table, Q asked, "What really happened to that man that shot at us? Johnny told the roadies he was dead." The other boys looked at one another. So Q didn't know. That chapter was past for the rest of them, but Q has to be caught up on it. "He killed himself," Will blurted, trying to be helpful. "And?" "By and large, we do not care to speak of it," Data said. Q ended up looking up the newspaper accounts. Madred had killed before. Madred had three bodies in his crawlspace. Madred had religious visions. Madred was pretty typical major-American-murderer. "Jean-Luc, maybe we should buy guns or something." "What the hell for?" "Well, we might need them." Q was rocking and twisting his hands and looking out the window. "Look, Q, someone might shoot at us again, and there's nothing you can do about it." Q whispered "I'm afraid." Jean-Luc said , "So am I, but if you don't get your ass back to work and stop acting like a pussy I'll have to kill you." Then he went to talk to Kurn and the other roadies. "Help Q out if you see he's looking scared." Jean-Luc's jaw tensed. "Don't let anybody steal her away again." This made sense to the roadies. If Q could protect himself, he wouldn't have been pussy in the first place. They would be very vigilant about protecting the bossman's queen. Q could not go anywhere without one of them detaching himself from the others and casually sauntering along with him. Q and Jean-Luc were both delighted; it was just like prison. Quark called a meeting: "Two words," he said. "Videos and media reporters." "That is four words," said Data. For the first video, they were going to have to meet with Donnie Ral. Yes, the Donnie Ral, director of million-dollar commercials for dog food and soap, all of which featured cooing scantily-clad women. The auditions for these commercials were the source for his well-stocked harem of scantily-clad women. Some of this harem even came with him to the meeting, ostensibly as secretaries and stenos and generic factotums but mainly as trophies to show these Mountain Boys just which side of the railroad he, Donnie Ral, traveled on. "Why this guy?," Jean-Luc stormed. "We're not . . . products." "To DCA we are," Geordi said. "They said they wanted our first video to be done by the book. No weird little variations, just something nice and friendly that will reach the widest audience." They hated Ral from the start. He explained in his nasal way, with his adam's apple bubbling rhythmically, his Vision. "See, what people watching television want to do is, check this out, WATCH TELEVISION! So we're gonna take advantage of that impulse. I've story-lined a video here that will get us more attention than the Zapruder film! Remember that old show that used to be on television?" He named a wildly popular show that still had a bit of a cult following. It was famous for its limpid-eyed male leads, their funny pajama-like costumes, the cardboard sets, the carefully delineated morality plays, the repetitious whirling about with small hand-held weapons. "See, we'll parody it! You guys can be various characters. The chief guy. His companion. Their friends. Maybe a couple of you could be their enemies! And we'll get some of these gals to round out the cast," he leaned back and winked at the Boys. "We could have a whole little tribute to the entire series! But it'll be ironic, see! Everybody'll know how smart you are ‘cause you're makin' fun of it! And the press'll love it! And, don't worry, your little song will be playing in the background!" Jean-Luc stood up. He was pale and trembling. "Get this fuck out of here." That meeting was over. The moguls at DCA yawned; they were used to prima donna music groups. They had other directors ready to work with the Boys. "What's that new one's name, Marty? She's good, and, thank God, cheap." "Kira Nerise." "Sounds like a anagram for something." His secretary-cum-mistress sat up. "What's anagram mean?" She thought it might be drug-related. The Boys were crazy about Kira Nerise from the git-go. She wasn't the prettiest girl in the world; she smoked too much and, when she smiled, her nose wrinkled and her little face crumpled up into a funny harlequin's mask. But she was really talented. And guess what? She, too, had someone she owned. Just like Jean-Luc and Worf. She and her property, Bareil, both belonged to some weird cult-type group. He was one of the high priests and he was always fasting or chanting or meditating or something, but he was a very serene and calm presence, especially when compared with Kira's pushy intensity. When he wasn't busy with his religious obligations, he followed Kira around adoringly, always carrying their beautiful bright-eyed baby girl. They had named her Modyed. It was Polish, like Kira. The first time he saw Jean-Luc, Bareil put his hands flat on Jean-Luc's chest and said simply, "such beauty." The Boys shot a look at Kira who only shrugged and smiled because he was who he was. The video was for the title song from their album. It was called 'Ordinary Boys,' a quick, upbeat, catchy song with a memorable tune. They shot it over three days on a working ranch, and the Boys loved it. They wandered and explored after the shooting was over for the day, they were patient with the make-up and camera men, and they generally obeyed Kira when she gave them orders. She was good at her job. Only one unexpected thing shook their equanimity a little bit -- the whole time they were shooting Will stayed near the baby. The other Boys watched and said nothing. Then their first night, as Kira was reviewing the blocking for their various scenes, she casually handed Modyed to her slave who just as casually offered her to Will. Will stared up at Bareil, tense and apprehensive. The slave stared back serenely. He had intuited Will's desire to hold his daughter. "You won't break her." "I've never held a baby before." Will was pale and sweaty. "I have," said Q. "I have three sons." (He silently said a little prayer for the fourth.) He took the baby who cooed and squawked. Will watched anxiously. "Really? Three sons?" Kira was interested; she loved kids. "You know, you could bring them out here. They could be extras. The ranch has plenty of extra beds." "They'd love this ranch," Q agreed, "but they're with their mother." "Ah." Kira diplomatically declined to continue that line of conversation. She turned the topic back to filming. During a break, Jean-Luc wandered over and looked at the baby. Who looked back at him with her eyes wide and her mouth open in a circle. "Don't look at me that way, Modyed. I still have more hair than you do." Everyone laughed. Then Q nodded at Kira and gave the baby to Will who carefully imitated the way Q had held her, tucking her into the crook of one arm. The baby smiled at Will and immediately went to sleep. And Will held her for the rest of the evening until Kira took her back and put her in her crib. Absurdly, the video set reminded Jean-Luc of Kentucky. Of moonshining. There was even an old barn which smelled sweetly of horses and manure. One afternoon when it was too late to film any more, Jean-Luc and Q climbed up into the hayloft and stood looking out over the ranch and the river and the mountains beyond. The air was full of sound. "There's the future, Q. Let's go," Jean-Luc said. He looked around. "You ever fuck anybody in a hayloft, Q? It's pretty sweet." He turned to Q. Q had turned his head away; Jean-Luc could see his back was shaking. He was crying, trying to hide his tears so Jean-Luc wouldn't be irritated. Jean-Luc watched him for a moment. Actually he loved Q's tears. When he pulled Q to him, they both fell to the floor, and suddenly Q was weeping and they were fucking, Q was weeping and being fucked, just like old times, just like the first time in jail, and then Q broke away from the wet-faced kissing. "I wish none of this ever happened. Sometimes I'd give anything to be back in Fear Alley." "No, you wouldn't." Jean-Luc was tender with Q; he was still inside Q's long body – he was aching to come and watching Q weep, watching Q go through the incredible emotional gymnastics of being Q, would do it. The way Q's ass fit around him with just the right amount of tension made his cock even harder. "I couldn't help it, Johnny! I was there all by myself and nobody spoke English except Fajo and when I didn't do what he told me he took everyone away and left me there alone." Q was crying, near hysterics. "He treated me like I was an animal, and I couldn't even talk and I didn't even know where I was. For the longest I thought I was still in somewhere in California. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know! I was innocent!" As he sobbed, Jean-Luc kissed Q's cheeks the better to taste his luscious tears and feel his softly heaving body. He was grunting with the force of his desire for Q, not only for his lover's body, but for the broken words and the emotions and the sinuous, writhing need of him, and then he growled "Snap out of it, come on, Q," and Q looked at him with those wild black eyes and Jean-Luc grabbed Q so hard it bruised and then he whispered, "okay, Q, who's your daddy?" and Q pressed back and began crying and writhing against his Johnny and saying "Daddy Daddy Daddy" until his cascade of words finally dried itself up and he was still again except for his shuddering gasps. They had not made love to each other in over seven months and their bodies felt it. After they both came, they simply remained where they were, holding on tight, clutching at each other because neither one could bring themselves to let go of the yielding warmth of each other. Jean-Luc kissed the side of Q's face over and over, treasuring his scent, his smoothness. Q's hands rubbed Jean-Luc over and over. His manly back, the short bristles at the back of his neck. And finally, when they were both stiff and hungry, they got up and made their way back to the main guest house. It was dark by then, and very quiet. The rest of the Boys had eaten and some of the crew were sitting around watching TV, and Data and Will were in the kitchen showing things like eggs to baby Modyed and saying "Egg!" Trying to teach her to talk, even though she was just seven months old, and, when Q and Jean-Luc came in, it was obvious that things were the best they'd been in a long time. Their video wrapped up right on schedule. Kira was smart and efficient about the way she worked; she knew what she wanted and she took it. She knew how she saw them and it was how they saw themselves. She saw their beauty and was undeluded. "Good-bye," she said warmly and shook their hands with her firm little mitt. She smiled at Will. "Don't think you can get away with putting Modyed in your suitcase and stealing her away." He grinned and handed the baby to Bareil. "You're good," Jean-Luc said. "I'll think this will be a great video," she agreed. "By the way, I heard your next video will be ‘Come into My Arms.' That's a beautiful song. I also heard who the director is. She's an old friend of mine. I think's she's best in the business." "Who?" said Jean-Luc. "Her name's Guinan and she rocks." When they got back, Quark was in seventh heaven. "The DCA boys love the rough cut! We rule the world. And, Jean-Luc, guess what!" Quark was nearly breathless; they had never seen him that excited before. "You got a phone call from Melinda Madigan. Imagine! Melinda Madigan. She wants you to call back immediately!" Jean-Luc turned to Q. "She's become a good friend," he said smoothly. Q's eyes grew large. So Jean-Luc was right; he hadn't changed. The album was finally released. Lines formed at midnight at all the big record chains. The single 'Ordinary Boys' shot to the top of the country and pop charts. The album climbed steadily to a number-one position and held it for almost six weeks. Sometimes you could breathe a little easier. Of course, they now had to deal with the press. For the most part their work paid off. Critics raved. They were wild about Jean-Luc -- they called him The Hillbilly Incubus, a Backwoods Rasputin, the Mountain Houdini. His concerts, they said, were part orgy, and part spirit possession. He *did* something to you, made you look, made you listen, made you want to open your legs and offer yourself. His abilities were almost uncanny and very hard to fathom, and the few reporters who got in to see him reported that the Jean-Luc effect, as they called it, was even more intense up close. The very select few who got themselves a turn as his one-night concubines said the same thing. All the Boys were scrutinized more carefully. Critics demanded to know why they made the music they did. The depressing narrowness of the critics appalled Jean-Luc. He said: "Music is just stories. Wouldn't I sound stupid singing a Beach Boy's song? I don't surf, you know. I sing what I know about, and what I know about is driving, and prison, and singing." Jean-Luc was the one who did all the talking because the others found the press painful to deal with. After being compared to Stevie Wonder for the dozenth time, Geordi, for some reason, developed a aversion to strangers. Data knew by now that his natural inclination to chat endlessly made him sometimes appear ridiculous, and he was very quiet. Will was afraid of saying something stupid. Q liked to talk and talked sweetly and smoothly, but he didn't want to answer questions about his relationship with Jean-Luc, and reporters honed in on that first thing, trying to get him to expose his private life in ways that he found impertinent and aggressive. He often excused himself when reporters came. And Worf just wasn't much of a talker. That left Jean-Luc. He tried to cover for his Boys as best he could, encouraging them to answer questions. They obeyed him with such obvious reluctance that occasionally reporters were reduced to begging. "Why don't you like to talk?" One of them asked Will. Will looked at Worf. Worf nodded. "I like to talk. I talk plenty." "Can you tell me about your band?" Will was silent for a while. "I play bass," he finally said. "Where'd you learn?" Will was silent. His breathing became more rapid. Geordi heard it and pretended the question had been directed at him. "I went to school at the Alabama Home for Blind Boys." "And I was taught by tutors," Data added helpfully. "And Q learned in prison." Worf got up and walked out. "Will," he said. And Will followed him. Jean-Luc watched them; his jaw was tight. The problem was, Jean-Luc understood exactly why they didn't want to talk. They were known quantities to one another but completely different from the people who interviewed them, and from the people who listened to them. The Boys were suspicious of the notoriety which was rushing to embrace them. Only a fool would throw himself into those open arms. And some reporters were deliberately unpleasant. One found Q's old soliciting conviction from Baltimore. "Did you often work as a prostitute?" she asked. Her name was Maureen Shelby, and she hated the Boys. She called them "extras from *Deliverance*". She particularly hated Will. She told him he had a pretty mouth and then said "soooeee" several times to him. She also compared him to Junior Samples. And it would give her the greatest of pleasure to dick Q into saying something wild, and then she'd have a million-dollar article. Q only sighed. "Sometimes," he answered softly. "If we needed money." Shelby was disappointed at the lack of reaction. Was this man actually *proud* of being a whore? She asked him as much. "Yes. I suppose I am." Q's smile got more demure. Jean-Luc was squinting at her suspiciously, but she decided to try again anyway. "Look here, Jethro, you really want me to believe it doesn't bother you that you are, or were, a male prostitute?" Shelby tried her strident best to sound incredulous and disdainful, hoping for a little defensiveness. Jean-Luc stood up. His eyes were hard. "Are you trying to make something out of this?" Shelby looked alarmed. This was *not* the result she'd been looking for. "Uh..." "Yes," Jean-Luc took a step closer. "He was a whore. He fucked a lot of people for money and he was good at it. He was probably better at fucking than you are at writing." By now he was standing over Shelby's chair, pinning her with his anger. "Do you know how to look truth in the face? Because *he* can." He pointed at Q. "Sex *is* truth. So tell me, which of you is the better person because of what he does for a living?" Shelby grew pale and swallowed. She was sweating. "Uh, what I really want to know is how you came up with the name Magic Mountain Boys. Is that, uh, a good story?" "Jean-Luc," Q said. "I should have lied." ‘Q," Jean-Luc looked fondly at his idiot lover. He really enjoyed having the biggest and most beautiful whore in America for his own. And Q was beautiful, more beautiful daily. "I am myself much in favor of whores. I'll pay you ten thousand dollars if you'll let me stick it in you right now. See," he rubbed against Q. "Besides, I never knew a strawberry blonde who wasn't a natural born bitch." "Get your checkbook, Daddy." They embraced. "Listen, Q, don't worry about the press. Nothing will come of it." In that he was wrong. Prostitutes wrote Q, pouring their hearts out. He wrote back as often as he could, nice, uplifting, generic letters that told them to never give up their dreams. One time Christians picketed a concert. Jean-Luc shrugged and allowed as how he recognized one or two of them from a bar in Reno. Then they made on the cover of *Time* (a groundbreaking critical article written by one of America's most famous critics). On the cover photo, the Magic Mountain Boys were dressed in their dinner jackets and hats and Jean-Luc was positioned in the very center of the picture. Q was on his left, Data was on his right and Geordi, Worf, and Will stood in the back; Jean-Luc was the only one who sat directly facing the camera. With his right leg casually crossed over his left and his hands folded in his lap, he could have been a leftover antebellum Colonel. His eyes burned into the camera. The photo was originally in black and white, but it had been toned blue, and the cover caption said "Bluegrass Is Cool Again." All over the world the magazine was bought and traded and passed hand to hand. Straight guys everywhere recoiled: "Well, I don't get it – it's just hillbilly stuff." Their wives, along with gay men everywhere, got it immediately. Inside there were less formal pictures, including one of Jean-Luc in little black swim trunks. Once everyone found out about that, even more copies were sold. The article focused on the distinctiveness of the Bluegrass style, its historical inflexibility towards innovation, the fact that it was often treated as the overlooked stepchild among the pantheon of American musical styles. It also mentioned that none of the Boys was married - although Jean-Luc told the critic that they couldn't wait to settle down and start families – but their lifestyles precluded meeting the right woman. After the article in *Time* appeared, Melinda called again. "Boy, wasn't I the right woman?" She was teasing. "Melinda, ma cherie, how's Tunisia treating you?" "I've learned some Babylonian fuck tricks I'd like to try." Her voice was low, dark, insinuating. "Does that make you hard?" "Yes." "Boy, your stuff makes me lose my mind." "Are you wearing panties?" "Let me check. Oh, no, I was, but they just fell off. Of their own accord. Now I just have a little itty bitty short skirt. Eh, bien, I never liked panties anyway. Maybe I'm tired of this skirt too. So I'll just slip it off as well. But I do like these spike heels that I'm wearing." Interesting that she was as big a natural fuck as Q. And that Jean-Luc knew both of them so well. Jean-Luc was himself. He didn't lie. One interviewer who spent the summer traveling behind them said, "He either stays silent or tells the plain unvarnished truth. Once you've been with him (in more ways than one for some), you don't soon forget him. He does what he wants and doesn't give a damn what anyone thinks. In performing this music, he doesn't just flout convention, he bends convention over a table, gives it the coring of a lifetime and then sends it home without cabfare, walking funny where everyone can see." The Boys told jailhouse secrets and didn't ask permission. Some women whose husbands had been locked up turned to their men hesitantly. "When you were in jail did you have to...?" And the men, angry at being cornered, said, "Jesus Christ, woman, what do you think? You weren't around, were you?" And the women thought of how letters home sometimes mentioned cell-mates. They wondered. "Did you love him?" (And eventually they wondered, "Just how did you love him?") Some said Jean-Luc was crazy. No one could fall in love in prison. Some other men thought, 'What the fuck?' They went and looked up old cell mates. No real reason. Sometimes the cell-mates were married and ran them off. Sometimes they invited them in. It wasn't like there were a lot of secrets between them. Rightwing talkshow hosts ran them down. Just what we need! More gay jailbirds! A lot of them tried to blame Worf. A leftwing conspiracy, they claimed. Just look at his dreadlocks. Famous fundamentalist Christians agreed. These wicked and perverse men were trying to recreate their own private Sodom and Gomorrah, a sure sign that the end times were approaching. One of the fundamentalists even wrote a book entitled, 'Sodom and Gomorrah--the End Times Are Approaching.' The cover had a man in a pink shirt, leering suggestively at a horrified upright citizen who was innocently out walking with his wife at his side. The book targeted the heinous entertainment industry. It talked a lot about the Great Whore, Babylon, etc. etc. In its own way, it was a splendidly hot read, extremely detailed about the things gay men did, and it sold lots of copies. Many woman fantasized about taking Jean-Luc away from the rest of the Boys, taming him, presenting him in restaurants and charity luncheons. Q got a reputation for being amazingly sweet-tempered and gracious, which he was, but sometimes things happened that cracked even his equanimity. There was a reporter with the curious name Vash. All the Boys hated her. Except for Jean-Luc. And because of Jean-Luc's unfathomable affection for her, she stayed with them on the bus for a while. She walked around smirking each time Jean-Luc fucked her. Q was raging. "What does he see in her?" He could understand the haggard allure of her over-aerobicized ass if Jean-Luc had been a . . . a . . a dentist or something, but Jean-Luc was a demiGod. She finally quit smirking and went away and wrote her article. It appeared in *The New Yorker*. And it was thirty pages of scathing observations, not about the music (which everyone in their right mind adored) but about Jean-Luc. She said he was a harem master and she lambasted him for keeping his band in a state of terrorized subjugation. "He smiles whenever his little trained minions scatter to do his bidding, which means he smiles a lot." Vash didn't want to be perceived as the homewrecking skank she was, so she didn't mention how flattered she was when Johnny invited her to travel on tour with them, and she didn't mention the awkward, betrayed expression Q gave them when he stumbled in on them having breakfast together in a hotel bed. And Vash talked about Johnny's cavalier attitude towards sex without once mentioning that one night he wore her scent on his face when he went on stage, singing into Q's mike so that his lover would be sure to know where his lips had been. She wrote: "And Jean-Luc likes being the dominant man in his universe. When he reads this he'll be proud of himself. Using the most twisted syntax this side of President Bush, he told me, *I know that there were all kinds of rumors circulating -- all of them for the most exaggerated -- about my behavior. * I said, Jean-Luc, all of them? For the most part? Hmmm! He just fixed his iron gaze on me." Vash was no good trash, but her article was well done. She even quoted T.S. Eliot! ‘Poetry is not the expression of personality and emotion but an escape from these things. But only those who have personality and emotion know what it means to want to escape from them. Jean-Luc has a bad butt-load of personality and more emotion than the end of time. That hard look on his face is his trying to escape these things." She ended by saying, "Even if Jean-Luc ain't nothing but a mountain boy, he does everything rock and roll said it would do. He cries without weeping; he screams without raising his voice. He's the king of the jungle; they call him Tiger Man. He never stumbles; he's got no place to fall. He woke up this morning with moving out on his mind. And he put the weight right on me." The photos were great too, done by a renowned photographer, Aloe Secondwind; Aloe had also done the *Time* cover. She was a very generic-looking woman, and very patient. They often forgot she was there. "Vash wanted to be my girlfriend, you know." Jean-Luc was curled next to Q. "She asked me what she meant to me. I told her I'd remember her tits." His hands wandered to Q's tits. "I said I'd remember her sweet little pussy." One large hand caressed the front of Q's tight jeans. "I told her I'd probably forget her name. That's when she got angry and threatened to write a hatchet job." "Johnny, you were just way too good for her," Q was squirming now, trying to stifle a moan. He remembered that night very well because, after she'd left Jean-Luc, she'd come to him and tried to seduce him. Q had felt guilty. He was not aroused by her icy touch, and Vash had been furious at his resistance. "So he basically owns you?" she had demanded. Q had sobbed once and walked away. Since tears came easily to him, he thought no more of it. Vash was appalled. She was all for sensitive modern men, but not when they loved someone else. Still, she went easy on Q in the interview, citing his artist's sensibilities and his almost otherworldly preoccupation with his emotions as one of the reasons for the Boys' poignant, soulful sound. (Of course, it was typical of Vash to get that part all wrong. Q was the most focused, practical one of them all; he just happened to be in a tortured relationship that allowed him to write great songs about it.) "She spent all that time hanging around us," Jean-Luc said. "And she still manages to get us all wrong. Stupid bitch." He breathed out like Worf. "I hope I never have to do another interview." He changed his mind when the results of her story began to be apparent. Everyone wanted a part of the Boys. Everyone had their favorite Boy. They were such macho queers that gay guys and women threw themselves at them, and straight men went to their concerts as a vicarious male bonding ritual and then went home walking taller and feeling proud. Their fan mail increased to amazing proportions. Q got almost as much as Jean-Luc. Even Will had his devoted followers, sheer dedication making up for what they lacked in numbers. "That Wyoming boy sent me another picture of his ass!" Q loved his fan letters. "Burn it." Jean-Luc ordered. "After I look at it." Oh, hell, that Wyoming boy was truly cute. He took a great photo. You could see everything. "Q, go back to your bunk and wait for me." Q shook his head. "You first." He was wise to this trick. Jean-Luc might get lost in Data's bunk on his way back to find Q. He might change his mind and send Will back to stand in for him. Jean-Luc loved the rush of knowing he could make people fuck at his behest. Jean-Luc smiled. Q obviously wasn't going anywhere unless he went there first. He considered, and then smiled and jumped to his feet. "Okay. We'll do it your way this time." Their fame grew and grew. Some leathermen wanted to fuck Jean-Luc so bad it was painful. They fantasized about bending him over in a prison shower. There was a strange fad for making fake pictures of Jean-Luc and circulating them. Quark got one from a little handmade Xeroxed newsletter. A picture of Jean-Luc's head had been pasted onto a body in full leather gear. Even Jean-Luc was taken aback. There were rumors about the nature of Q's relationship to him. Q wore a chastity belt. Q slept at the foot of Jean-Luc's bed. Q had been seen at an exclusive slave training camp. Q had been bought as a slave in prison (the only remotely accurate rumor). Jean-Luc was said to have declared once that sex is truth. It got printed on t-shirts and attributed to him. He didn't remember saying that. He tried to deny it, but it only made people want to believe it more. Parents were scandalized. Many gays were beat up – a few mean heterosexuals used this as an opportunity for backlash and attacked them on the streets. On a talk show Jean-Luc was asked if gays had a right to shoot people in self-defense before the fact. He shrugged. "You make your own rights." A famous right-wing actor declared in the press that he would like to slap the cocky little queer son-of-a-bitch. Jean-Luc told an enquiring reporter. "I don't beat up old guys. But I always liked his movies. Remember when he was in that ancient Rome movie with the hot-looking friend, I know I liked what he looked like then. I liked that a lot. I might have given him a ride then." "So you are definitely gay?" "You can call me whatever you want to call me." "But you would fuck Harlton Cheston?" This reporter was very dense. Jean-Luc was growing impatient. "Not now. Possibly when he was younger. If he kept his mouth shut." Harlton Cheston sputtered. "I'd like to see him try." Jean-Luc laughed his dark laugh. "I think he means that." Harlton shut up. At one concert, Reverend Earl Garak showed up! Out front! Singing hymns! He brought holy water and holy oil and baptized the stadium where the concert was taking place. He said the Lord had directed him to cleanse the very ground of the sin and perdition brought by these evil-doers. He gave a press conference about the Boys, pointing out how they'd burn in hell if they didn't repent of their perversions. Jean-Luc was genuinely astonished. "Am I the only one who thinks Garak's the biggest queen on nighttime television?" Some people were very amused by them. Some people adored them. Some people were horrified by them. It depended on how much of an insider you considered yourself to be. People said, "I don't get the gay stuff, but they're mountain men bred to the bone," or they said, "That mountain man stuff is just so over the top, but I'd do any one of them in a heartbeat." |
