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"Wow, that must've hit a transformer," Jake said as he found his way to the bank of emergency closets on the side of the room, extracting flashlights.
The whole city had been under intermittent flood and storm threat the past month as the Hill Country of central Texas remained ensconced in the turbid trifecta of weather systems training over the area. El Nino had developed strongly to the west off the Peruvian coast since the spring and such an event always imbued volatility into our local forecasts. Just two weeks before, the tranquil rivers surrounding us had become raging walls of flash flooding, wreaking havoc on the surrounding multi-county area.
After the several day hot respite during our downtime, we were now experiencing another wave of training rain systems accompanied by thunder and lightning. The emergency generators were working overtime these past weeks in response to numerous challenges to the power grids.
We knew the ER complex would already be boosted by the power backups, but acritical parts of the complex where we were could take a while sometimes before power resumed. We made our way to the hallway and proceeded toward the treatment bays, intending to check triage status due to the sudden weather emergency onset.
Remarkably, the admissions center remained fairly quiet and we thanked the break between spring and summer terms as the probable reason. The staff had things well-controlled and the generators hummed synchronously amongst the ER sections. We weren't needed, as it turned out, and administration verified our release from duty until the next day, so we exited the area for the locker rooms to change and head for home. I needed to assure the dogs were safe and not flipping out by the thunder rolls, though they were typically immune to the phobia some animals experienced.
Jake pulled up abruptly in the dark and deserted hallway connection, looking toward me, "Hear that? Something over that way," his acute hearing regularly tested everyone, the sense attuned to things most people relegated to white noise. "Over there, Luke—I hear something strange." Thinking he was noticing a sizzling breaker or dripping ceiling leak, I followed his lead toward the hallway door marked "Maintenance".
Upon knobbing the door open, our eyes gradually acclimated to the surprising form of one sexy little janitorial supervisor, Tevin. He was presently busy humping an exposed set of buttocks. In the small of the recipient's back there was tattooed a blood red cross, inscribed with John 3:16. The attached upper end of the person's pasty buns descended beyond our view. Tevin, not to be flummoxed by the interruption, grinned at us and continued the slow slide in and out the welcoming hole.
Jake and I stood transfixed, staring at the spectacle, jaws surely widely gaping as we focused on the thick fatness of the diminutive maintenance man's piece. Out-sized for his body— the man stood barely three inches over five feet tall--- he seemed quite at ease showing us what he had. He even turned just a tad sideways to allow better angle for us, not changing pace in the slightest. His small dark hand reached down and raised his work shirt tail up to his chin, wedging it there, exposing a kinky-haired flat stomach and muscled pectoral pair.
The hand returned to the cheek siding the crack where his whopper was pumping methodically in-and-out. "Wassup, docs?" he asked, as if we were nonchalantly passing him in the hallway. No sign whatsoever of chagrin, the mighty mite beamed at us while demonstrating his best feature. The endowment, thickly veined and rigid, showed at least eight inches between pumps, never exiting entirely. While we watched, the engorgement factor seemed to increase the big thing's girth by another half. It liked the publicity, apparently.
The attached torso attempted raising up but the little palm squelched the action, deliberately pressing it back down into the shadows. "Stay down, bitch," the order plain. The person did so.
To us, he quipped, "Check it out, dudes, Little Tev ain't no wallflower now, you can touch 'im. He'd be likin' that, truth tell—go'head, check it."
The two of us, no wallflowers either, were still taken aback by the brash behavior here inside the hospital confines. Jake glanced at me, looking for my reaction, and seeing my obvious interest in the proceedings, he riveted right back to it, obviously enthused by the exhibition. We fed on each other's attentiveness as moments passed, and upon additional urging by the sybarite in front of us, Jake's hand tentatively reached toward the conjoined junction. I inadvertently licked my lips and reached down to my own responding crotch as his fingers explored the hard slippery piece in its progress.
That pretty much sent the little guy over the edge and he backed out, exposing the eight inches already visualized, plus an extra two and a half more unseen until then. Uncut, with a nicely helmeted crown, the thing was definitely happy to be looked at. Tevin fairly levitated at the act of ejaculating before our singed eyes. The piece bounced on and off the butt just vacated, sperm spewing copiously over himself, Jake's hand and arm, and the entire expanse of the recipient's lower back. Some hit the surrounding closet space.
Obviously missing the squeezing heat of the chute, the honker re-entered almost immediately, sliding back in to the hilt. This evoked masculine groans from underneath at the re-stretching of the abused orifice. Finishing the cum-sequence, the root spasmed visibly until it spent itself.
The grin had never diminished; Tevin reveled noticeably in this impromptu performance, regaling us from his vantage point of ecstacy, "Day-umm, that shit bein' jood, dudes...keep on with that rubbin' doc--- don't stop that hand, now, man— 'dat be helpin' this thing. Got...day-umm!"
Still completely at ease with the verboten scenario playing out here, Tevin reached up to access a towel on the closet room wall within his reach. The shit-eating grin finally diminished to a satisfied smirk as he handed it first to Jake. "There been some thunderin' and lightnin' goin' on inside today, too, ain't there, doc-dudes? Hopin' we don't spring no leaks --- that could be serious," the man fixed his gaze on the spatters presently dripping around and off things. The man was incorrigibly unflappable.
I looked at Jake. He pointed at the still bent over and un-named torso, head still hidden somewhere in obscurity. Unseen and un-seeing. Whoever it might be more than likely did not desire 'outing'. The deduction suddenly dawned on us and we decided the better part of valor would be to vacate the premises. Post haste, and quietly.
To that point, we had neither one spoken out loud; it seemed wise to keep it that way. Other passersby could open a door and bust us any second, so we skedaddled toward the locker room. Opening the door to our private area, we stepped inside. A last glimpse backwards pictured a now disconnected shorty, wiping himself down, dong waggling languidly and still dribbling contentedly. The door slammed shut, leaving us safely unscathed by association.
"Can you believe the size of that? And who the hell was in there with him?" Jake was beside himself with curiosity. "Could you believe the way he was draggin' that boot?"
"Well, Jake, you can sure testify it was real--- I nearly came watchin' all that. Just too chicken shit to get into it here. You've got huevos, dude," I assured him.
"Yeah, for brains, maybe. Damn, we were lucky no one walked in, weren't we," he replied. It wasn't a question.
"No argument there, for sure, but that was damn hot," and we changed, leaving by the side door into the continuing deluge. There was a story to be told, and our respective partners were avid listeners.
***
Juneteenth arrived hotly humid and partly cloudy. The storm systems had dissipated over the past few days, again, leaving the city time to dry out and patch itself up a bit following the maelstroms that had wreaked havoc all around us. Being so elevated, our home had avoided any damage other than fallen tree branches and shredded umbrellas. Many lower lying homes and businesses had suffered flood damage and such.
With the dawn, we kept an eye on the gathering multitudes below in the meadow, preparations already unfolding for the upcoming commemorative march, speeches, charity run, R&B/hip hop concert, family-oriented games, etcetera. The minority communities of Austin had combined with the left-leaning white population to put on the immense undertaking and we anticipated tens-of-thousands in our 'front yard' as the day progressed.
Jeremy was ready for our role-playing part, appearing downstairs in his MLK singlet with official entrant number clipped across the back before 5:30 AM. We were excited to join in the festivities and looking forward to the concert. Our best men, Cal and Jake, were on their way into town to join in, as well, and all of us planned to partake fully in the panoply that epitomized Austin's liberal-leaning roots on the red-letter day.
When the boys arrived, we descended to the big field, now populated by multi-colored booths, gaming areas and a large elevated stage, erected a few days before for the music makers. Vibrant banners and pennants decorated the ground zero zone. Multi-hued people filled the grassy expanse even before 7 AM. Behind the stage there arose a monolithic screen used to play video accompaniment for the artists preforming later in the day.
The 5K, 10K and 20K runs staggered in their start times, and our longer run began first. We four were entered as a team and were shooting to set PR times for ourselves thereby upping our charity donation intake. We each had shanghaied friends and co-workers into backing us and had set a tiered level of donation as incentives to excel in our finishes. Anything sub- 1:10 (1 hour and ten minutes) as a finish time would max out our donors and we were resolved to do so.
The winding track, while beginning at the springs, wound around the running trails of Town Lake (aka Lady Bird Lake, nowadays) and the numbers entered made for a crowded race, typical for the aerobics obsessed town of Austin. We got a good start and bunched together the first 5 or so miles. By the time we were on the second loop around the set course, we were mingling with the 5K and 10K entrants. Jostling and maneuvering at bottlenecks were counted as 'natural hazards' so contestants who desired a competitive finish were forced to strategize through the choke points.
We had gotten separated from our buds but knew them to be close by due to our similar gaits. Jeremy and I were comfortable at our race pace together and on schedule for breaking our personal records as we approached the 10-mile mark. While taxing, we were pacing ourselves well and planning for the upcoming bridge passage with its notorious congestion during multi-tiered races.
Upon hitting the half way point on the Congress Street bridge, the bottleneck intensified. Even with our plan, we were slowed to almost a halt. Breaking our stride was frustrating as the rhythm provided the best measure in long-distance racing for continuity.
We soon discovered the reason for the extra slowness forced on us. Ahead, we discerned a flock of people bearing signs and placards who had swarmed the narrow bridge and now blocked the greater portion of its width. Getting closer, we were able to decipher the home-made posters.
Most bore Bible verses, but others boasted vituperative slogans decrying not only the namesake day, but many minority-based issues. 'Stop hijacking the rainbow' was a favorite, followed by 'No Socialism'. Right amidst them were the Leviticus-shrieking crowd with their 'faggots burn in Hell' and 'God hates queers' messages. There were worse ones, but what stood out to the race contestants were the carriers. To a person, almost all wore masks of scowling spitefulness. Most were noticeably out-of-shape and suffering in the heat of the day. Police contingents arrived within moments, being on stand-by already. The rabble was herded unwillingly to one side to make way for the race contestants.
As we were all running for charities of some sort and not injecting political undertones into the event, it baffled us as to the motives on display. Jeremy punched me as we were escorted past a particularly rabid knot of protesters, gesturing at them, "Look, Luke, see who is in the middle right there. See--- the lady holding the 'I Am Here: You WILL Hear Me' sign?"
I hadn't focused on any of them until then, choosing instead to ignore the contingent and keep my focus on the race. But looking now, I spied the pear-shaped video-streaming woman form a few weeks back he was indicating. The rude person who had accosted us on a morning run. "Damn, honey, that is just sick, huh?"
I then noticed the lady was holding hands with and flanked by a man helping hold the demanding message aloft. It was none other than Brack's resident Southern Baptist hospital pastor, Marcus LeJeune. The man was a demagogue of magnificent lung power and preach-ability. The man was on par with the best (or worst) of his sect. Vocal as a religious-liberty mouthpiece, the man had made himself persona-non-grata around just about the entire staff of the University Medical Center, heaping self-righteousness and insults at every turn and providing precious little in the way of Christian love along his way.
The man, while not as obese as a majority of the group, was alabaster pale, wore extra-thick, over-sized black-rimmed glasses and sported a tacky comb-over hairstyle which was presently plastered in long orange-dyed strands over his bulbous head. The man's bug eyes were particularly so today what with the humidity and the vehement verse-spewing bombardment aimed at the runners.
Just then, a tap on my shoulder alerted me to Jake and Cal pulling up beside us. Jeremy filled in Cal on the Elderella lady's antics and Jake excitedly pointed at the Pastor LeJeune. "Luke, quick, look there--- LeJeune's got his hands up holding the sign...look down at his lower backside when he turns."
I panned down to the area. Through the ugliness of the exposed fat rolls, with his hands elevated and swaying to-and-fro as we passed him by, his lower back was bared. In the doing, he was showing the world the strength of his strong Christian character: a blood-red crucifix emblazoned with John 3:16 tattooed across the transverse of the cross...Jake and I stared at one another in shocked recognition and then burst into peals of laughter.
Cal leaned down into our faces, "What IS up with all this, dudes? You two enjoyin' the hate, now--- or what?"
Jeremy, equally mystified, pow-wowed with us three, scarcely able to tear himself from his desire to approach the woman again and confront her duplicity head-on. He absolutely detested hypocrites, and wasn't shy in the least at calling such tripe out into the open. Well, I thought, wait 'til he and Cal hear this.
Jake and I took turns reminding the boys of our weird encounter in the maintenance closet at Brack a few days before during the power-outage. Between our fits of laughter at the 10-mile mark of a half-marathon, it proved difficult. We finally got to the description of the tattoo we had seen on the bent over 'bitch' who's face had never been visualized. The delicious knowledge that the erstwhile Pastor LeJeune's very distinct marking had been recognized in such an illuminative manner was priceless...
Wonder how many get-out-of-jail free cards this might require...for that matter, wonder how many he had already used? Hmmmmm.
Though we missed our PR's due to the hold-up, the four of us felt fulfilled and absorbed the disappointment. We wondered if further hijinks might play out by the antagonists. After finishing the race, we four recouped up at the house where showers and clean clothes made us whole again, then re-joined the day's events.
Roasted turkey legs and margaritas later, the first bands were warming up, the techies were revving up the big screen and we lounged on the big blanket toted down with us. The blanket next to us passed a cannon- sized joint over our way. After us, it went winding amongst the other partakers. The mood lightened nicely. We laughed some more about the two-faced bitterness of the LeJeune couple while conjecturing on the upcoming speakers. There had been numerous factions and activists sign up to address the crowd and we all anticipated some rip-roaring talks considering the issues being debated...or sound-byted. The speeches were the political platform of the day's forum.
"Wassup, doc-dudes?" The familiar voice perked both Jake's and my ears up. We looked around as Supervisor Tevin waltzed over to our spot. "How's it hangin', the lights all on today?" He was wearing nothing but baggie cut-off jeans and flip flops. In thug fashion, the pants hung low on the small man's hips, but no drawers were underneath them. The little lech certainly knew how to broadcast himself, and by the outline down his leg, he was succeeding in his mission. Cal leaned over to me and queried, "Where's the imagination there, now?" He wasn't dissing the man. His feeling was to show what you got, but the blatancy was unusual. Even through the oversized leggings, the humongous piece appeared just that--- humongous. Cal's own endowment exceeded the package, but at 6'6", his was lessened by the difference in perspective. I knew of each by firsthand knowledge... but that is another story entirely.
I whispered at Cal about Tevin's identity as Jake introduced him out loud, surprised at seeing him. Inviting him to sit, we hawked the nearby blunt as it floated near again and within a minute, the little guy chatted even more easily with us. He seemed pleased at being invited to stop, apparently expecting sheepishness on our parts due to the closet episode. He was disabused of the idea as our men openly discussed the episode, obviously aware of it. After the surprise at the openness, he warmed to joking with us about the situation, even alluding to the ID of the Pastor involved, though still not naming him. Seems that money had been involved and a repeat rendezvous was hoped for--- discretion likely a requirement for it.
A few more tokes, though, and the tripod guy was losing his reticence, "Yeah, the boot be worked over, now, but it takes deposits...and does those withdrawals, too. The wrinkled dude comes lookin' a couple times a week for this good stuff," --- pointing at the bulge--- and I noted other eyes following that point to it's target. "Always put dat bootie in the darkest closets and then it just be OK—that storm day, all the lights were out. Had to light us up wit' my phone to get goin' that time...I don' like the seein' it too much, but the pumpin' bein' fine, now. Ask the doc-dudes, they seen it all with those flashlights," still proud of the action.
Then, Jake hit on something I hadn't thought of, "Hey, Tevin, when you lit it up, did that video switch on, too?"
The grin said it all, "Hell to da' yes, I got that streamin' now--- trannie friend o' mine done paid for that shit, likes seeing my stuff all worked up, so's I got double-down payday on that. Shit yeah, set dat over on the wall inside that door and got ten minutes goin' on--- 'til these boys come in an' knocked the damn thing on de' floor. Lost it, then," again, pleased with himself. Recording his stuff for posterity, no doubt.
"OK, bra, that is hot. You gonna let us have a copy of that, too, right?" This from Jeremy, who had been listening closely. "We missed all that action, and our boys been filling us in on what's packin' down there--- we're ready to check it out, how about?" We all followed the idea forming as he spoke and concurred.
It worked. The shorty took the attention as an ultimate compliment coming from Jeremy, "Yeah, I can be doin' dat, a'ight. I can pass that shit over right here, right now, got ya' phone?" Jeremy pulled it out and in a minute, the deed was done.
