"A Queer As Folk USA FanFic"

by Gaedhal

This is Part 2 of Chapter 78 in the "Queer Theories" series.

Go back to "White Light -- Part 1", the previous section.

The narrator is Justin Taylor, featuring Brian Kinney, Rowan Conley, Kenroy Smith, Dorian Folco, Hughie Marsh, Tony, Nick, Charley Weston, Helene DeMarr, Others.
Summary: Justin watches Brian perform and comes to make a dangerous decision. London, July 2002.

Brian is awake and in the bathroom when I come back to the room after breakfast. I wonder what he's doing and knock on the door.

"Are you okay in there?"

"Sure. Why wouldn't I be?" he says, all defensive.

"Then why do you have the door locked?" Brian never locks the door. Shit -- he never CLOSES the door! I pound harder.

"Can I have a LITTLE privacy? Please?"

"Open the door, Brian. Now," I demand. There's a pause, and then the door opens. He has a towel wrapped around him and his hair is wet from the shower. He also looks pale and drawn.


"What were you doing in there? Brian?"

"Taking a piss, what do you think?" His hand is shaking.

I take hold of it, gently. "You need to get some more sleep. See how tired you are?"

"Maybe," he says, running his hand through his hair.

"I'm going riding in about an hour. I rescheduled from yesterday. But I don't have to go if you don't want me to." I'm trying to do what I was planning to do. Act normal, like Sir Ken told me to. Go about my business. Which is difficult when I feel like screaming. Feel like grabbing Brian and running off with him somewhere where he'll be safe. But I don't know where that is.

"No," he says. "Go riding. I'm just going to crash here until we have to leave for the location."

"Brian -- is it all right if Rowan comes with us in the car? I promised him last week."

Brian rolls his eyes. "I can't get away from that kid, can I? I might as well start a school for young fags!" He sighs. "I guess he can come with us. Why fight it?"

I get into my riding clothes while Brian watches. I like getting dressed in front of him almost as much as I like getting undressed in front of him. Almost.

Brian smiles a little. A normal smile. "I like this look. The boots and tight riding pants that stretch out over your ass. Do you want your riding crop? I still have the one I copped from Sybil down at Gerry's house in the country."

"I don't need a whip for my horse. Although I can think of someone else I might use it on."

"Is that a threat or a promise?" He's perfected that dirty smile.

I think about canceling my lesson again and staying with him. But then my phone buzzes. It's Kenroy Smith ringing me to let me know he's downstairs with the Rolls.

"Get moving or your horse will get mad at you." Brian lays back down on the bed and flicks on the TV with the remote.

"Don't forget to EAT something, Brian! Order room service."

"Sure. I'll request that Rowan bring it up. Then I can take MY turn with him and see what all the shouting is about."

"Now who's the twat?" I say. Then I stop and go over and put my arms around him. He seems puzzled when I hold him so tightly. Then I walk out the door.

When Kenroy drives me around, I always sit up front with him. That way we can talk. Plus, I feel funny sitting by myself in the huge backseat.

"Feeling better today?" he asks first thing.

"Health-wise, yes," I say. "But otherwise -- not so good."

"What's wrong, Justin?"

"Brian. What else?" I look at Kenroy. He's been driving me around the city quite a bit and we always have an honest conversation. He's easy to relate to and he knows a lot about people. It must be from having to drive them everywhere. It gives you a chance to observe people. "Remember that stuff we talked about before? About Brian? Well, he told me he wouldn't do it anymore, but...." I shake my head and bite my lip, hard.

"Didja find something?" I nod. "That's a tough lot. But you realize that sayin' you're not gonna do something, and not doin' it are two different things altogether, don't you, Justin?"

"I know. But... he SAID he wouldn't."

"But if he's got an addiction..." I bristle at the word, but Kenroy holds up his hand before I can protest. "If he's got an addiction, then it isn't just a matter of sayin' you want to stop. It's deeper than that. I bet people told YOU that you couldn't ever see HIM again -- SHOULDN'T see him again -- at one time, huh?"

"Practically every day," I sigh. "My parents mainly. They still say it."

"But did that keep you away?"

"Not for a minute. But that's completely different."

"Is it? Aren't YOU as addicted in your way? To him? From what you tell me he's not necessarily physically addicted -- although he could be if it goes on long enough. It's all in his head. Thinkin' he needs it. Isn't that what you said?"

"Yes. Because he can go a long time with taking anything -- and then -- BOOM! -- he falls right into it. Especially when he's upset or stressed out."

"And who do you run to when YOU are upset or stressed? Huh?"

"I told you -- that's different. I love him. He makes me... feel better...." I start to understand.

"Love's the same kind of addiction, I'd say. Same symptoms. Same obsessions. Same heartbreak. That's YOUR addiction. Only difference is that YOURS can have a positive impact. His is only going to kill him."

"Don't talk like that, Kenroy. It scares me."

"It should bloody well terrify you. It's that serious, Justin." He turns in at the stables and stops the car. "He loves you, you know. I watched him when you went to church that day down in Sussex. I watch a lot of people and I think I can read 'em fairly well. You can read it in his face as clear as day."

"I KNOW he cares! But if he really... loves me -- then why can't he SAY it? Just say the words?"

"People communicate in a lot o' ways, Justin. I had a mate once could tell ten different women in one night that he loved 'em. The words just fell out of his mouth like the rain from the sky. Course, he didn't mean a bit of it, but he could say it and say it real lovely. And if just one woman in a night believed it, he figured he was doing just fine. And the next night he'd start all over again."

"I don't see what that has to do with Brian at all."

"I'm just saying that words are sometimes just that -- words. Words are free and they can come awful cheap. But actions are what tell you the truth."

"Then I'm still fucked -- because Brian's actions lately tell me that he's still only thinking of what HE wants and what HE needs and doesn't really give a shit about how it's killing ME." I think of how he can say "I love you" to Michael. Lindsay and Gus. Even to Ron! Why NOT me?

"I'm sorry, son," Kenroy says, and opens my door. I get out and then Kenroy goes to park the Rolls. He always stays while I have my lesson and watches me in the riding ring, before the instructor takes me out into the park. There's a little girl, younger than Molly, who is also having a lesson. She's a much better rider than I am and she makes me feel very self-conscious. She's basically running circles around me, literally.

Kenroy leans against the fence with the girl's mother and they both watch us trot around. The mother keeps looking at Kenroy and at the Rolls and then at me. She probably thinks I'm some rich kid with a chauffeur. She should have seen me bussing tables at the Liberty Diner!

The horse I'm riding is a little spunkier than I'm used to, but that's good, because trying to control him takes my mind off my worries for a while. When we finally go out into Hyde Park I have no trouble getting him to trot or even canter along the path -- and I don't need the riding crop at all. He's very different from old McGuffin down at Firelands.

I think about the ride that Brian and I took down there. Before I was thinking all these thoughts of drugs and Brian in so much trouble. Of that spot by the stream where Brian tried to lose Sybil and her husband so that we could fuck in the grass. Why do I have to obsess about that now? About things that we might have done and now will probably never have a chance to do. All those wasted opportunities.

It's beautiful in the park and the sun is shining and I'm in London. And I've never been more miserable in my life.


After I get back, Brian spends the rest of the day in bed, mainly staring into space, pretending to watch the TV, but just clicking the remote from channel to channel, compulsively.

At 3:00 he finally gets up and starts roaming restlessly around the room. He's on edge and I wonder if it's a product of the drugs. The stuff he's going to wear at the shoot is with wardrobe, so he doesn't have to put on anything in particular, but he still tries on about five tee shirts before he settles on one. Then I remind him about the bit part I'm going to do with Hughie.

"Shit! What are YOU going to wear?" He's suddenly gone from almost inert to manic. And he's tearing through my clothes, pulling out tops and pants to find something that looks 'right'! "These clothes are all wrong! You're going to have to wear something of mine! Why didn't we do this before?"

"Brian, sit down! Nothing of yours is going to fit me right! Don't be ridiculous!"

"Leave it to me." And he's throwing clothes around the room. Finally he hands me a pair of my jeans. "Pull these on."

"These are my crummiest pair!"

'That's exactly why. Too bad they don't look even worse." He drags me into the bathroom. "Stand right there." He goes out and comes back in with a couple of tea bags. He runs hot water in the sink and soaks them, then he rips the bags open and starts to rub them all over my jeans.

"What are you DOING?"

"Staining these things. You should have reminded me earlier about this and I would have had more time to get this right." He's grinding the wet tea all over the denim, leaving nasty looking spots and smears behind. "It's too bad these aren't tighter. Why the fuck do you wear your pants so baggy?"

"That's the way I've always worn them, Brian!" I'm standing in wet jeans, dripping with tea. Brian goes to his kit and pulls out a package of razor blades. He then proceeds to slash at my jeans, splitting the knees open and making little cuts here and there. One he makes on my thigh, right up under my crotch "Geez, Brian! Be careful!"

"I won't cut you! Just don't MOVE!" He makes the cut, then sticks his finger in it, ripping slightly. "Take off your pants. Now." I slide them off. "Now, take off your briefs."

"But Brian...."

"Just do it. No one hot wore underwear in the 1970's."

"But nobody is going to SEE that I'm not wearing underwear!"

"But YOU'LL know it. And that's what matters."

I'm not used to wearing my jeans without anything on under them. The denim rubs raw against my ass and my dick and I'm aware of the slashes, especially the one near my crotch. "Brian, I'm afraid something is going to poke out!"

"Good. Then you'll be thinking about your dick all night."

"I don't need a hole in my pants to think about my dick! All I need is to think about you!"

"Ass kisser! But you'll think about it in a new way. Believe me -- it'll make a difference in the way you feel, the way you move." He takes out his blowdryer and dries my jeans, brushing the tea off onto the floor. The bathroom is a mess by the time he's finished.

Then he pulls the punked up tee shirt with the rips and safety pins he wore to rehearsal last night out of his suitcase. It's sweaty and smelly and has some kind of stain on the front, like he spilled beer on himself.

"Brian, I was going to send that to be washed!"

"Good thing you didn't, because you're wearing it."

'But it's fucking filthy!"

"Good. You're supposed to be a filthy punk boy. Put it on. Then put on your boots. No fancy running shoes or anything like that."

I pull the tee shirt over my head. It smells like essence of Brian, that's for sure -- all beer and sweat and cigarette smoke. Then he pushes me back into the bathroom and brings out a tube of hair gel and spikes up my hair on the top. By the time he's finished with me, I look like I just stepped out of 1978.

"It's all in the look," he says. He adjusts a few of the safety pins, making the tee shirt tighter to my body. "Perfect." Then he stops. "No, wait." And he takes a little black pencil out of his kit. "Close your eyes and stand very still. Don't blink." I feel him drawing lines on my eyelids.

"I don't want to wear makeup!"

"Quiet. And don't blink!" Then he smears the line up and over my lids. "Take a look." I peer at myself in the mirror. My eyes stand out from my pale face, all smoky and strange. Like Brian's Rock God look! But on me it looks different. Innocent and trashy all at the same time.

The studio limo is waiting downstairs at 5:00 sharp. So is Rowan, wearing jeans and his brother's Bowie tee shirt.

"What the fuck is HE doing here?"

"Remember? Dorian said it was okay for him to be an extra."

Brian gives me a look like he's going to make me pay for this. "Right. Get in."

The Roundhouse is an old streetcar turnaround that became a music club about forty years ago. All kinds of famous groups played there, like the Doors and Jimi Hendrix. It's not the fanciest place, but I guess it's full of rock and roll history, which is why Dorian picked it for the location.

The extras are lined up in front and some of the assistants are walking up the rows, pulling out certain people with a certain look to put in the front, and telling other people they'll have to change their clothes or stand in back to fill up space. When the limousine pulls up, they all look to see who is in it. Brian gets out and an assistant hustles him inside before he even has a chance to say that he'll see me later. Another assistant takes Rowan and me to the side.

"You're doing the bit with Hughie Marsh, right?" And I nod. "There's a slight problem, but we are working on rectifying it now."

'What's the matter?"

"It's seems that Mr. Marsh is balking at doing the scene."

"But why?"

"I haven't a clue. But if he doesn't do it, we'll need another boy."

"What about me?" Rowan pipes up. I turn and look at him.

"Possibly. You boys follow me and we'll get you set." The assistant checks me out. "This is a good look. Very good." Of course, I think. Brian dressed me. It's perfect.

The assistant takes Rowan and me into a little room in the back. The whole venue is jammed with equipment and people working on the film, making me wonder how they are going to fit the audience in. The stage looks a little broken down, but then I realize that it's been made to look like a broken down stage in a 1970's club. The whole place has been dressed to look grungy and punky and the last place that Sir Kenneth's character would be caught in. Which is exactly the point. But Sir Kenneth isn't here tonight. He's doing his bits tomorrow.

We go back into a little office that's been made into a makeshift dressing room. Hughie is sitting there, dressed in a glam rock-type glittery jacket that's been ripped and abused, covered with pins and buttons and little bits of junk stuck on here and there. Hughie's usually immaculate long hair looks greasy and tangled. His expression looks even worse.

"It seems Mr. Marsh is getting cold feet," says the assistant in disgust. "Make a decision soon, because once we begin shooting you can't change your mind either way." And he stomps out.

"What's the matter with you?" I ask, sitting next to him. "Don't you want to do it? Sir Ken invented this scene just to get you in this fucking film!" I look up at Rowan, who shrugs.

"I can't," Hughie whispers to me. "Tony is here! He decided he wanted to be an extra, too, and I couldn't tell him no! He'll fly into a horrible temper if he sees me snogging with you -- even for pretend! He's already jealous of you as it is!"

"Jealous of me? It's not like we ever hang out or do anything together! Shit, Hughie, no offense, but I don't even like you that much."

"I told him that -- but he's still being a nutter about it. What can I do? I told Kenny I was too nervous to go through with it, but he kept saying I'd be fine!"

"I'll do it if he won't," says Rowan.

"We know, Rowan," I sigh. "You'll do it. But that's not the point. HUGHIE is supposed to!"

"The people who see the film won't give a toss which one does it. He doesn't want to -- I do. So, let's get on with it."

And in the end, that's what happens. Hughie plays sick and stays in the dressing room. And Rowan and I -- after a few swipes of makeup and adjustments to our gear -- are placed in the front row of the club.

Or rather, in front of a surging mass of people, mainly guys, all pushing to get near the stage. There are no seats -- it's just a big round room with a raised platform at one end. Most of the cameras are placed to face the stage, but there are also some set up to catch the audience. Rowan and I have Nick, an assistant with a hand-held camera, who is 'in charge' of us. Nick positions us and moves around the people standing next to us "for better effect," he explains.

There are also assistants to corral the other extras and guide them through what's going to happen. Certain guys -- and a few girls -- have been picked as dress extras and they're the ones put around us. We're the ones who, when they show the audience, will actually get seen in the finished film. If we all don't end up on the cutting room floor, which, now that Hughie isn't the central player in this thing, seems pretty likely.

It seems like we're standing there a long time. Lights are adjusted, people move around, the crowd is getting restless. I'm getting restless. Brian said waiting around the set for something to happen can be soul killing and I see what he means. Eventually, I ask the assistant if I can go to the bathroom and he lets me. On my way back I see Hughie and Tony, making out behind a pile of equipment in the back. Hughie is a real jerk. I go and get into place.

Eventually Dorian appears and explains what is going on to the crowd. That there will a continuation of the shoot tomorrow to do pick up shots and the scenes with Sir Kenneth. Some extras will be asked back, others won't be needed. Our assistant points to Rowan and me, indicating that we will come back tomorrow. I was planning on it, of course, because this is where Brian will be. Rowan nods, eagerly. Then Dorian comes over and greets me and tells me he likes my look. He seems put out by Hughie's defection, but he appraises Rowan and approves him. Thank God -- we'd have to move to another hotel if Dorian had rejected him.

"You boys know what your bit is?"

I nod, but Rowan shakes his head. I realize that I haven't told him what we are supposed to be doing.

"Nick will cue you to do certain things. When to watch the stage. When to yell, jump up and down, and so forth. He'll also cue you when to start touching each other, kissing, that sort of thing...." Rowan turns and glances at me. "And just how far I'll want you to go remains to be seen. Follow the flow of the action on stage. Just don't get too graphic, all right? We'll be cutting in the bits we want, so it doesn't matter what song it is -- although we'll want a big reaction during the climactic number. You'll be cued for it." And Dorian moves off.

Rowan nudges me. "Kissing?" he says, dubiously.

"You wanted to do it. It was supposed to be Hughie! Never volunteer until you know what the fuck you're volunteering for."

And then lights dim and the show begins. Within minutes I totally forget that this is all for the film. That it isn't real. Because Brian fucking explodes onto the stage and the crowd explodes with him. The band is loud and I mean LOUD! The walls feel like they are vibrating and my ears are pounding. This is ten times more intense than any dance club I've ever been to and the sensation of being completely swept up in the experience is overwhelming.

Brian is dressed in his black boots and black leather pants, which are undone at the top, the heavy leather belt with the studs pushed down around his hips. A studded black leather vest only partly covers his bare chest. Bare -- except for a tiny gold chain and red heart dangling. He's got those black smudges of makeup around his eyes and there are flecks of golden glitter in his hair that halo out from his head as he shakes it. The rest of the guys in the band are punked out and flailing away at their instruments, but no one really gives a fuck what they are doing. Because it's all Brian. Every eye on him. Every body leaning to him. I can almost feel the cum rising in every guy in the crowd -- me included.

They crash from one song into another almost without pause. Some are the originals that Charley Weston wrote, but most are classic Ramones and Lou Reed songs. They are almost second nature to me because I've heard Brian playing the tape Charley made over and over on his Walkman.

"I'm waiting for my man!
Twenty-six dollars in my hand!
Up to Lexington, 1-2-5 --
Feel sick and dirty, more dead than alive,
I'm waiting for my man!

Here he comes, he's all dressed in black,
PR shoes and a big straw hat --
He's never early, he's always late,
The first thing you learn is you always gotta wait --
Oh, I'm waiting for my man!

Up to a brownstone, up three flights of stairs,
Everybody's pinned you, but nobody cares!
He's got the works and gives you a sweet taste,
Then you gotta split because you got no time to waste --
Oh, I'm waiting for my man!"

Brian isn't so much singing as rampaging. Shouting. Growling. The sweat is dripping off of him. The glitter is trailing down his face. He's spitting. I look at his eyes. They are like pin-points. Brian is completely tweaked.

He looks down straight at me, but I'm sure he can't see me. Because I'm not me, I'm just part of the audience. The crowd. He's so close I can smell him. See the outline of his cock in those skin-tight pants. I feel Rowan pressing up against me. Nick hasn't given us any cues, but we don't really need a cue. I feel Rowan's hard-on grinding into my hip, and his hand reaches over and rubs my dick through my jeans. The raw denim rasps against me. Rowan's finger finds the slit that Brian made with the razor and he touches my bare skin right there on my leg. I shudder at the contact. Another guy is pushing me from behind with his hips and a girl leans against my other side. Rowan's finger snakes up and brushes against my cock. I feel it lurch up and I gasp.

Now Brian is standing right in front of us. He's staring at me. At Rowan. His eyes are like green lasers. He fucking terrifies me! HE's spitting out words, but I don't even know what song it is. I'm vaguely aware that the hand-held camera is near, pointing at me and Rowan. But Rowan doesn't seem aware of it at all. He's breathing against my neck, my ear. His finger brushes my cock again through the hole in my jeans.

There's a short break while something is adjusted. The band stays in place, but Brian leaves the stage. Everything seems confused for a moment. People look around. The silence is deafening.

Then Brian reappears. He's been dried off and his makeup has been reapplied. His belt is also looser and I'm afraid that when he starts to jump around that his pants are going to fall down. Before Dorian calls action again, Nick, the assistant whispers something to Rowan. Telling him to do something to me during this next bit, but I don't know what.

The music goes on and on. Moisture is dripping down my face, my lips. I lick my lips and they taste salty and warm. The atmosphere in the Roundhouse is stifling. Between the volume of the bodies and their movement with the music and the warm July night outside and the friction between Brian and the audience, it's almost unbearably hot. Brian strips off his vest and picks up a cup of water and pours it over himself. He shakes the droplets off in a shower of water and sweat. I remember that first night in the loft, the water cascading down Brian's body as he taunted me with his nakedness. And my cock stands straight up in my jeans. Then he crumples the paper cup and throws it directly at Rowan and me, hitting Rowan's arm. Rowan starts and stares up at Brian, mouth open.

The set builds through some slower songs, while the crew is moving around, positioning themselves for the final numbers. Then Brian launches into the song that he and Charley Weston were arguing about. The Velvet Underground's "White Light/White Heat." The tune is monotonous and the lyrics basically a chant that builds up excruciatingly into a smash of guitars, feedback, and white noise. Rowan pulls open his shirt, flapping some air against his chest. He reaches his arm around me and pulls me against him and I move with him.

My ears, which are already feeling the assault of sound, are now aching. My mouth is so dry that I'm licking my lips every few seconds. I feel like my body is no longer under my own control, but is just a throbbing element of the greater surge of bodies and sound and sensation around me -- all focused on the stage. On Brian. On his intensity and force. On his eyes, which seem to rivet into me as mine are riveted into his.

And then Rowan slips his hand down into the front of my jeans and touches the tip of my hard dick. Jerks at my cock, while he's trying to slide my face around to his. But I catch his wrist with my hand and pull it away from my fly, turn my face from his. I don't want this moment to be about fucking Rowan! Or about the movie! Or about anything but this ecstatic connection between Brian and me. And the audience. And the camera. And everything in the world!

But Brian spins away and the connection is broken, as if it had never been. I feel the air go out of my body, and I'm staggering with exhaustion and unspent emotion.

The music slams to a conclusion and there's a frenzied reaction from the crowd. Nick, the assistant is gesturing for us to react. Rowan leaps up and down, screaming. But I'm limp. All I can see is Brian, receding into the distance.

Then things wind down as the band leaves the stage and the lights begin to go up slowly. An assistant director is shouting instructions to the extras and a few crew members move equipment in front of the stage. Another assistant is going around marking the people to return for tomorrow's filming, including me and Rowan. They remind us to wear exactly the same clothes and do our hair the same. Nick takes a snapshot of each of us for continuity reference. We will have to do close ups tomorrow. And the final 'climax' scene for Rowan and I. I just nod.

"I have to find Brian," I say to Nick.

"No one allowed in the dressing rooms," he says and moves off.

"How will we get back?" Rowan is looking around as people begin to clear out.

But I head for the door where the band disappeared. People are going in and out, but there's a guy at the door, a minder they call them here, like a bodyguard/watchdog. I slip in on the other side of a cameraman coming out with some large bags. Inside is a big dressing room, with mirrors and tables and all sorts of people hanging out. Charley Weston is swigging a bottle of beer, and one of the band members is laughing and pushing at another guy while he feels up a blonde girl at the same time.

And Brian is sitting in the center, his chest bare and his expression empty. The black make up has run down the sides of his face like tears. And Helene, the bleached blonde groupie who has been hanging around Brian, the one he told me wouldn't take no for an answer, is fastened to his arm, her hand stroking the front of his leather pants, a smug look on her face. I feel an awful chill when I look at her. But I walk right up to them and Brian looks at me like he's never seen me before in his life. And he hasn't -- because it isn't Brian at all. It's someone else. James Hammersmith. The Punk God. The Outlaw Whore.

"Brian!" I say. He gazes at me blankly. The woman whispers to another band member, sitting on her other side. He whispers back and points at me, and then looks at Brian.

"THAT?" she cries in a flat New York accent. She looks me up and down. "No fucking WAY!" And she laughs. They all laugh. Except for Brian. He isn't doing anything. It's like he really doesn't see me. The air is heavy with the herby smell of some kind of British pot. Skunk, they call it. There's other stuff, too. Lots of stuff. I look around for Dorian or someone from the film, but all I see in the room are musicians and their friends and hangers-on. I try to take Brian's arm, thinking I can pull him away with me, but Charley Weston grabs the back of my tee shirt and hauls me to the door, shoving me outside and telling the minder to keep me out.

I stand there in shock until Dorian's personal assistant takes my arm and leads me to a waiting car. Rowan gets in next to me. We have nothing to say to one another. The car drops Rowan up in Finsbury, and then drives down and leaves me off at the Chatterton just before 1:00 a.m.

Brian eventually stumbles into the suite at 5:30 a.m. He's not just completely fried, he's paralyzed. He has no fucking idea where he is or who he is. I undress him and drop him onto the bed and he lays in one spot, dilated eyes blinking up at the tent. I try to get him back on his feet and into the bathroom, thinking that if I can get him into the shower, I can shock him into some coherence. But I can't move him. He's a dead weight.

I lay next to him on the bed while he drifts off into some kind of uneasy sleep. But I stay awake, listening to make certain he's still breathing.

And that's when I know that there is only one solution. Only one possible thing for me. Because if I can't stop Brian, if I can't beat him -- then I'll just have to join him. And that's exactly what I plan to do.

Continue on to "White Heat -- Part 1", the next chapter.

Picture of Randy Harrison from Showtime.

©Gaedhal, August 2002

Updated August 30, 2002