Danny Dog In Moon [Boys Reformatory #8]
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by William Maltese
Category: Erotica/Gay Fiction
Description: ... answers all of the questions you'll ever have about what goes on, sometimes before, mainly after, young men are incarcerated by the legal system behind confining razor-wire fences, steel bars, and locked doors. Are the horror stories of detention true? Are the rapes that frequent? Are the police and prison guards cruel and corrupt? Is true love never found among inmates? Short of becoming eighteen and being jailed by society, you likely won't ever get as close to the truth as these insightful and erotic Maltese vignettes take you. All characters in this series are 18 years or older.
eBook Publisher: MLR Press, LLC/MLR Press, LLC,
eBookwise Release Date: December 2011
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [18 KB]
Reading time: 6-9 min.
Aliases: Daniel Doginmon
Date of Birth May 23, 1991
Place of Birth: Spokane, Washington
Weight: 162 pounds
Race: American Indian
Occupation: Monthly stipend from General Walkins Mineral Corp
Scars and Marks: "C"-shaped scar on lower right cheek. Long, jagged scar, right forearm.
Bullet-entry scar, lower right belly; exit scar, lower right back.
Remarks: Dog-In-Moon is often drunk, inarticulate, ill-kept, and can be confrontational. He's usually armed with a hunting knife, and is familiar enough with wilderness survival techniques to stay clear of cities for extended periods of time.
Although he has four sisters and two brothers residing in central Washington State, none admit to any present ties with him and have expressed the unified opinion that he's mentally unstable.
DANNY DOG-IN-MOON IS WANTED FOR THE SPOKANE, WASHINGTON DOUBLE HOMICIDE OF TWO MEN IN THE ALLEY BEHIND THE MUSTANG-STALLION BAR. THE VICTIMS WERE MUTILATED AND BODY PARTS TAKEN FROM THE CRIME SCENE. CONSIDERED ARMED AND EXTREMELY DANGEROUS!
IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION CONCERNING THIS TEENAGER, PLEASE CONTACT YOUR LOCAL AUTHORITIES AND ON NO ACCOUNT CONFRONT THIS PERSON ON YOUR OWN.
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I'm in deep shit!
Who would have guessed it would turn out like this? Not me!
Hell, it wasn't the first time I ended up piss-ass drunk in some bar...even in that particular bar. I'm an American Indian. Everyone knows we can't hold our firewater. The white man took advantage of that fact from the very beginning, and he's still doing it. So what that I started out that fateful binge in the bar TEPEE LODGE on the reservation? Can't blame old Henry Whitefeather who cut me off when he said I'd had one too many, way too early in the evening to suit my taste (rather, thirst). It was just a few miles to Spokane and the Mustang-Stallion Bar whose bartender never has any qualms about pouring me, or anyone else, another drink. Rumor has it that the owner is the nephew of the mayor, or, maybe, the grandson. Who the fuck knows? Anyway, I headed there. As I've said...not a first for me, either. Not a second, third, fourth, either. So, why in the fuck did what happen, happen? Every other night, countless nights, even before I officially turned eighteen, I'd gotten just as drunk, stumbled out around closing time, woke up somewhere in the morning, headed back to the reservation and started up all over again.
Don't think I did all of my drinking on food stamps, either. Everyone seems to think we Indians can't work a lick and do all our eating and drinking compliments of Uncle Sam hand-outs. Well, fuck all of you who think that! For a fact, I have been drunk, so often as I have, because of the monthly stipend handed over to all the members of my tribe by the white man, some head honcho of General Walkins Mineral Corporation, although it's not General Walkins, himself (a "General", like "Colonel" Sanders is a Colonel?), who signs the checks. In fact, the signature has changed over the years and I've never been able to figure out even one of the names, all doctors, by the look of their scrawls. All I know is that the bank cashes those checks, no problem, as regularly as we receive them. All because white-man Uncle Sam was once told about the uranium on our reservation in the fifties, when American scientists were all hot to have more and more of it for more and more atom bombs. So, the white-man bureaucracy up and raped our beloved Earth Mother, without a by your leave from her or us. They polluted. They made our children radio-active; I sometimes swear I glow in the dark. They made drunks out of me and out of a helluva lot of my brothers--tribal brothers, although my two natural brothers are as much drunks as I am, although they'll deny it each and every time. And, you want to see even more drunks, take a look at a lot of our women. They take to the bottle as badly, if not worse, than we men do. Maybe, that's why I never got married...not that any sober woman would likely ever have had me in the state that I was in for so long...for that matter, have me in the state that I'm now in, sober as I very well might, finally, be.
But, I do like women. That's another thing that makes what happened so damned confusing, now that I've had some time, sober, out here in the wilderness, to just sit back and try to figure out the course of events. Why in the hell did those two guys follow me out of the bar, where I'd promptly passed out in the alley, and pull down my pants and start fucking the shit out of my virgin asshole? The Mustang-Stallion isn't a gay bar. Hell, no! While I have been approached for gay sex, that was way back in my younger days, or, rather, back in my looked-way-younger days (at nineteen, today, I'm told I look thirty-nine). I always refused a gay offer, never any more offended by it than I always hoped the guy who asked wasn't offended by my saying no. Lately, though, I've not been asked to have sex by any man...or by any woman. Actually, I'd come to the conclusion that no one--man or woman or animal--was turned on by my usually dirty hair, smelly armpits, and beery breath (beer my real drink of preference).
I'm thinking those two guys had some sorts of eagle feathers up their asses, more about Indians, in general, rather than about gay Indians, in particular. I'm wondering if the two fuckers, themselves, were really even queer, or if they just somehow figured anal rape was as good a way as any of giving any Indian, including me, what he deserves for whatever wrong done sometime in the past. While I don't remember a hell of a lot of the lead-up to that mind-blowing moment when the pain of that last guy's giant cock up my asshole grabbed hold of me to yank me from the depths of my drunken stupor, I do remember, albeit vaguely, guttural utterances through booze-and-pain-induced fog, like, "Take that, Cochise, for all the shit your people did mine!" Dude, was that cowboy confused, in getting that bit of history all back-asswards! And once, "How's it feel to be the one screwed for a change?" Oh, yeah, and the one suddenly just remembered, probably because of my "cowboy" reference: "Bet you never rode your pony like these cowboys' ponies are riding your sorry ass!"