Toby, in his infinite wisdom, decided that the Nazi tattoo needed a friend.
This is lives after, in a new city and a new life and after death and destruction. This is tragic. This is nothing he can define or name or take off at night. Beecher hates the swastika, with all his being and then some. He feels the burn and has the nightmares like an animal upon his back, nibbling on his ear lovingly.
The swastika, he knows, needs a mate. It cries, like he cries, throughout the night. He needs to hug love between his asscheeks, just like he squeezes the hate.
His son Harry had always loved Disney movies. HIs favorite was Hercules, because he liked Hades, lord of the underworld. A smooth operator -- but everyone's seen the movie. A description isn't really necessary.
But Toby didn't like Hades. He could have gone for a colorful rendition of the Greek Hero, big smile and bigger sword at the ready, He could have taken in the spirit of the warrior and lover, shield at the ready and spear arrow-straight, proud.
It didn't appeal, though. He wanted something original.
Something to remind him of Gary. Yes, that'll balance out the Vern-mark well. Something bright and happy. Something--
Gary liked Tigger, too.
The tattoo parlor looks and smells like the kitchen in prison. Even in Southern California, at the gates of Hell, there is still memories that tug at the leash and pull him back to the barless cell. Toby takes a drink, and undoes his belt. This is a significant scene, moment, and article of clothing -- the woman with too many piercings can't help but notice his hard-on. He's remembering the guy he nailed last night.
That's not what's making him hard, if you asked him, but no one did. Nothing in particular is making him hard. He just is. Toby has learned that the things that make him hard often don't want to explain themselves.
They don't like being called by their names, either. Especially the one waiting at home for him.
Hardness, he learned, is an aquired taste. A skill, like sharpening knives. It's in his face, now.
She's not noticing any of this; she's just impressed by his size. He folds up his pants and lays face down on the table. She pats his shoulder, and jokes, "Your girlfriend must be proud."
He says, "I'm getting deja-vu." She doesn't comment on the swastika when it's finally bared to her, but he can feel the change in the atmosphere. He adds, to try and lighten things, "I've been in the hospital in this very position."
Oh yes, and did I mention that I was in prison at the time? And the stitches kept coming out because he wouldn't stop fucking me long enough to let them heal?
Jesus. He didn't say that out loud just now, did he?
She giggles nervously. He turns his head, crans his neck, and grins at her, apologetically. He's trying to say with his eyes 'I'm sorry for the symbol that offends you.' His erection wilts away, bored. He lays his cheek back on the table.
He breaths in, sharply, as the needle goes in. He pants, almost, as it continues to draw on his skin, an image that his kids always liked to watch on television. He could remember their excited faces, clouds on the breeze. His cock quivers. His mind quivers.
Outside, things feed. He almost forgets about them.
This is nothing he can name. She chatters to him, trying not to talk about race. She assumes he is a racist. He's not. He thinks he's an equal opportunity slut, but it's been a while.
Or, it hasn't. But. It's been a day. That's long enough. His breath hisses in, an animal in and of itself. His cock quivers again.
He puts his mask back on, fufilled.There is balance on his ass, and it makes him smile. Gary makes his mark. He's already planning the tattoo for his arm, one with Gen's name wrapped in flowers. Or wire. Or--
She says to him, and her sad earrings jingle, "You've gotta make sure you take care of that now. Lay on your front while you sleep, and if I were you, I wouldn't, well, get any for a week or so."
Something bites at him, drawing blood, deep down in his stomach. He might be getting an ulcer, but no, this feels like he's being eaten from the inside out. That beast, the thing that calls himself Toby, is eating him from the inside out.
He chuckles, and says kindly, "You saw the brand. Don't worry, I'll be fine."
He goes home, has a drink of tepid water. Toby is afraid of the animal nipping at him. It burns. But, a lot of things burn -- the sex burns, each time he can't call Chris by his name burns. The claws at his stomach lining and the base of his skull made themselves comfortable a long time ago, little pinpricks of pain and change.
When he put his hand against it, even the glass used to burn. But, he survived. He got out. He found himself in a place beyond, and still the demon followed him. They are on a first name basis; he finishes his drink of water, and stops thinking. Goes to bed. The thinking never got him anywhere.
Besides, the tiger on his asscheek hurts like hell. And the brand itches.