The Last Days of Mr. Right

'Well, at least I got the words right', he thought.

Out of all the people who had to work on that spot, people who had to approve it before it went on the air, not one of them could have made the call not to use it? It confirmed his suspicions. They were out to get him. He wasn't exactly sure who they were, but he knew they were out there, trying to bring him down.

Bill Rush decided to start looking for 'they' at the place that made the most sense to him. The production company that filmed the video. He knew they would still be there. The editor often worked late at a job like that, and after all, isn't it the editor's job to make sure that things like quaking junkies don't slip through the cracks?

Bill didn't even bother to put on the Mr. Right suit before stepping out onto the balcony of Rush Manor and taking flight, heading to the production company for his measure of justice. He roared his rage mindlessly into the evening air.

In mere moments, he was crashing through the wall into the facility where the spot was filmed. Another commercial was being shot on the soundstage, for dishwashing detergent or something, judging from the kitchen stage set. "YOU SONS OF BITCHES!"

People screamed and ran in all directions, scared from his explosive entry as well as his raging voice. The actress who had been selling the dish soap fainted dead away. But it didn't matter. He wasn't here for her. He saw one of the people he was after.

The little faggy director. He was the same guy who had directed the Mr. Right spot. He had to die.

With one massive punch, the director dropped lifelessly to the floor, the force of the blow roughly equivalent to being hit by a freight train. The director's torso crumpled around Bill's fist and he had to shake the body free to move on to his next enemy. The guy holding the microphone on the long boom turned and was trying to get away. He was there the day they filmed his commercial, too.

"DIE!" Bill Rush bellowed, grabbing the microphone guy by his headphones and squeezing until his eyes exploded from his head like two huge, gelatinous pimples. They splattered against the front of the prop kitchen cabinets.

The rampage was brutal and total. Everyone on the set had to die. Everyone in the building had to die. No one could be allowed to witness the murderous frenzy. Bill used his super speed to fly around the room and corral all the fleeing, screaming victims, pushing them harshly back toward the center of the soundstage where he could more easily control them.

Once he was certain that everyone had been gathered in the center, he picked up one of the smaller men by the ankle and used him as a club, bludgeoning the huddled mass into bloody pulp. By the end of the beating all that was left of the man he had been using as a club was the gore-dripping stump of his ankle and foot. Everything else was an unrecognizable pile of goo.

At long last, his rage wound down, as soon as there was nothing left to kill. He dropped the ankle and foot into the spreading pile of goo and headed for the hole in the wall where he had burst onto the set.

Turning to take one final look, just to make sure that he hadn't left anyone, he noticed the fainted actress. She was still unconscious. Bill had no way of knowing what she had seen. Possibly nothing, but he couldn't take that chance. He casually walked over to her prone form and stomped her head flat.

With one more quick look around, Bill Rush was satisfied that he had gotten everyone. Leaving no witnesses was very important. As it stood, things would be perfect. He was sure that he could pin this on the AAATA. Bill streaked into the night sky, his bloody robe flapping in the wind.

Unfortunately for Bill Rush, he didn't see the man who had been hiding in the break room, just off to the side of the set, with his camera rolling like a big wheel.

The whole thing was on film.

Chapter Seven

The White House

One week later…

"What the blue fuck were you thinking!" the President shouted.

Bill Rush sat forlornly in the Oval Office, head down, the mask of the Mr. Right costume pulled back from his worried face. "I thought I killed everyone! If I had known there was someone with a camera rolling I would have gotten the film and killed them, too!"

The President was worried, and rightfully so. For the first time in his administration there was a real chance that the American people may get to see the truth. That simply could not be allowed to happen. The President weighed his options, tuning out Mr. Right's protests. Friends were important, of course, but the President was a survivor above all else. If someone had to go down for this it would damn sure be Mr. Right. The President knew that his position was precarious and that allowing a connection to continue with Bill Rush, should his murderous indiscretion be discovered, the presidency would likely be stripped from him via impeachment. And unfortunately for the sitting President, the issue of killing Americans was much more serious than a blowjob from an intern.

The day after Bill Rush's rampage, a videotape copy of the film arrived in the hands of the White House Chief of Staff. The President was dismayed to see the carnage on the tape, especially to see the insane rage on the face of his friend as he bludgeoned all of those innocent people. Mr. Right had gone off the deep end, and just maybe, there was no way to save him. The President thought about cutting his losses and breaking his ties with Mr. Right. Also, cutting off his supply of Juice to keep Rush from coming back after him once he was cut loose.

"Bill, you have to get off of the pills. That's all there is to it," the President said, sounding concerned. "If you don't, we're both going down."

Mr. Right nodded his head sadly. "I know. I know. These drugs are just so easy to get hooked on and so hard to kick."

"Well, suck it up and get off the shit! We can't have you running around on a kill crazy rampage whenever you can't get your fix."

"Then maybe you should figure out a way to keep me supplied with whatever I may need in order to maintain your goddamned power base!" Mr. Right shot back, immediately regretting his outburst.

The President went quiet, furrowing his brows. It was a bad sign. It indicated that he was thinking hard, and that was certainly not his forte'. There was no way of predicting what may come out of his mouth next.

"I'm… uh… I'm sorry," Mr. Right stammered fearfully. "I shouldn't have said that. I know you only want what is best for the cause."

The President pursed his lips. He'd seen smart men do it and it looked like they were really thinking serious thoughts. The President had no trouble imitating intelligence. "Bill, you need to remember a few things."

"I'm really sorry!" Bill Rush whined.

"My family made you rich. Your wealth helped put me in this chair, but your wealth is ostensibly my wealth. Understand?" The President smiled on the inside, feeling very smart for coming up with that sentence on his own. Ostensibly was a very big word.

"Yes," Mr. Right nodded fearfully. "I understand. I'm sorry."

"Okay. Good," the President said, folding his hands on the desk. "Now here is what we're going to do."

Mr. Right leaned up in his chair, happy to know that the President wasn't going to abandon him like he had so many of his other friends who had become political liabilities. Mr. Right knew that he was too valuable for the President to dismiss, but still he had been concerned. When the President spoke again, Bill listened intently, knowing his future hung on the next words spoken by the man.

"You're going to take a couple of weeks off and get your shit together. Take a vacation. While you're gone we're going to track down every copy of this tape and the original film and destroy them. We're going to find the person who made the film and anyone outside the administration who has seen this videotape and kill them. The cover story of an attack by the AAATA should work fine after that is established. Then we're going to issue a new PR commercial explaining your pitiful condition in the last PR commercial as an attack by nerve agents that you received while fighting the terrorists."

The plan was risky. It counted on the stupidity of the American people as a whole.

Mr. Right liked the odds.

Chapter Eight

Two weeks later.

Somewhere in Montana…

Mr. Right walked along the top of the massive stone walls that surrounded Camp Rainbow, gazing down on the men gathered in the central yard. He perused them as if they were but lobsters in a tank, existing only to satiate his appetite. In actuality, they did only exist to satiate his appetite; otherwise these men would have already been gassed or taken out and shot.

With a smile and a nod, Mr. Right called out to the commander in the tower at the corner of the fortress. "This group will do nicely."

With a terse nod to the guards on the ground the commander gave the order for this formation to be led into the killing house. Mr. Right was on vacation and one of his favorite ways to relax was to come out to Camp Rainbow and kill faggots to his hearts content. They say the only way to kick an addiction is to replace it with another addiction, and that is just what he was doing. It wasn't a perfect solution, but unlike the pills he was strung out on, killing faggots was healthy. Hell, if they put up a fight he could even get a little cardiovascular workout in as well. He'd been here for two weeks, killing faggots every day and he felt great!

Camp Rainbow was created in the early days of the President's second term as a place to remove this particular undesirable element from society. Considering that the President rode to victory primarily for his hardline stance against homosexuals it was hardly surprising that America stood quietly by while he raped these people of their rights as American citizens. After all, as long as you were interested in the correct sex you had nothing to worry about. Once the fags were off the streets it became a case of out of sight, out of mind, so no one even wondered what was going on inside the sprawling grounds of the camp in Montana. The fact that Americans were being rounded up and slaughtered with less dignity than your average herd animal probably wouldn't have even been a blip on John Q. Public's radar, had it even had the chance to become a news story.

Publicly, Camp Rainbow was a model internment camp. Sometimes the guards would bring out chain gangs and the gays would cut hair along the side of the road or, occasionally, they would be taken to the home of a prominent citizen and completely redecorate their house. To everyone who would see these gay men shuffling along, dressed in pink jumpsuits and chained at the ankle, things looked to be very decent for the detainees. The government was very careful not to use the word 'prisoner'. That word had bad connotations. Detainee just sounded friendlier.

Camp Rainbow and it's sister institution, Camp Triangle, kept their workforces and cell houses stocked through the diligent efforts of a new government agency, the Federal Bureau of Sexual Deviancy. The FBSD was a smaller agency within the FBI, charged solely with identifying and apprehending homosexuals. Commonly referred to as "fruit pickers", the qualifications to be a member of this elite agency were similar to the requirements of a regular FBI agent. The only difference was that fruit pickers had to have exceptionally developed gaydar. The reason it was so hard to find members for this agency was the fact that few heterosexuals could demonstrate gaydar sensitive enough to pick out any homosexual less flamboyant than Elton John. Those who could were recruited very aggressively.

Mr. Right entered the killing house, flexing his muscles and clenching his fists, ready to pummel as many rump rangers as he needed to feel better. The killing house was nothing more than a large room with one entrance, a large hangar door in the front. It was built with Bill Rush's private money, for just this occasion.

About one hundred men, or so, twittered in wonder and confusion as they watched Mr. Right stride into the center of the room, his body pulsing with pent-up aggression, his cock erect and straining inside his red, white and blue spandex. He flexed and many of the men swooned, even their fear not strong enough to repress their biological urges. Mr. Right was one sexy man.

All grew quiet when Mr. Right froze in the center of the room, holding his Charles Atlas pose. The suspense was hellish. Then he made his move.

"DIE FAGGOTS!" Mr. Right roared and leapt into action, punching and beating the men closest to him. He cut through the crowd like a knife, pink jumpsuits falling to the floor in his wake. "DIE YOU FUCKING FAGGOTS!"

Outside the hangar door even the most hardened of Camp Rainbow's guards cringed at the sound of the carnage going on in the killing house. That Mr. Right sure did hate the queers something fierce, they all said to each other. Most of the guards thought homosexuality was wrong, an affront to God, but they didn't hate the gays as rabidly as Mr. Right. It was scary how much he hated homosexuals.

The screams reverberated off the walls inside the killing house and drifted all over the camp, spreading a black cloak over an already dark atmosphere. Bones cracked impossibly loud from the massive strength that was used to shatter them. The splattering thuds of bodies hitting the door and the inner walls made even the camp commander jump every time.

For long minutes the cacophony of destruction went on, screams and thuds and pops and cracks. When things finally died down a wave of relief washed over the entire camp. Hearing Mr. Right's killing spree was just too much for the inhabitants of Camp Rainbow, guards and detainees alike. For several minutes the camp stood in silence, thankful for the respite.

Maybe being so disconcerted at what he had just heard was what caused Private Reed to open the door too soon. All Camp Rainbow staff were under orders never to open the door until directly commanded from inside by Mr. Right himself, but for some reason, unknown even to himself, Private Reed flipped open the lock and slid the hangar door wide. A shockwave rippled through the camp.

Inside the killing house, amid a carpet of bloodied, mangled bodies, stood Mr. Right, his pants around his ankles and one of the pink jumpsuited men kneeling before him. Mr. Right's head was thrown back in ecstasy, his hand gripping the kneeling man's hair, as he spent himself into the man's mouth.

Hearing the collective gasp that went up from the platoon of guards and the camp commander, both men turned their heads toward the door, one in shock, one in fear. The man on his knees had been beaten very badly and had blood running from his nose, mingling in his moustache with Mr. Right's super semen. Mr. Right, caught with his pants down, literally, panicked and did the only thing he could think to do.

"FAGGOT!" he yelled, delivering a killing blow to the top of the kneeling man's head.

The man toppled over, leaving only Mr. Right standing inside the killing house, his pants in a pool at his ankles, his penis shriveling quickly. "Um… it's not what it looks like."

The camp commander stepped up to the hangar door and slid it closed, turning to face the stricken guards.

"No one saw anything! And that's an order!" he bellowed.

The guards dispersed and the commander made his way into his office. He had a phone call to make. The commander would make a full report to the President, and ask that Mr. Right be summoned back to Washington immediately, if not sooner.

Mr. Right would no longer be welcome at Camp Rainbow.

Chapter Nine

The Oval Office

Later that night…

Mr. Right sat in the chair in front of the President's desk, his head hung in shame. The President looked coldly at his old friend, his fingers steepled under his chin in thought. The news from the commander of Camp Rainbow had been devastating to the President. His best and oldest friend, his ally in the war against freedom, was a low down dirty homosexual.

"I'm sorry Mr. President," Mr. Right said, never meeting the President's gaze. "I'm sorry."

The President spun in his chair and peered out the window behind the desk, too disgusted to even look at this friend who was quickly becoming a liability. "Anything else you need to tell me, Bill? Perform any abortions on the way over here? Anything like that?"

"It doesn't mean anything! It was a mistake!"

"It sure as Hell was a fucking mistake!" the President shouted, losing his composure. He quickly put his President face back on and turned back around to face Mr. Right. "Are you trying to bring me down?"

"What? No, of course not!" Mr. Right shouted, shocked that the President would even think such a thing.

"Then what's going on?" the President asked, his voice earnest. "You're losing it, Bill. The drugs, the reckless killing, and now this. How could you be gay? I thought we were on the same page on this issue. God hates fags, so we do, too. Right?"

"Mr. President, I'm not gay!" Mr. Right argued.

"You had your winkie in that faggot's mouth, didn't you?"

"Well… yeah," he admitted in defeat.

"So you're gay!"

"No, it's not like that at all." Mr. Right swept his mask down to look his friend in the eye. "He was sucking my dick. I never touched his."

"For one thing, don't say 'dick'. Say 'winkie'. It sounds better. And two, that still means that you're gay. You had your winkie in another man's mouth. That means that you're gay."

"BUT I BEAT HIM UP!" Mr. Right whined. "And I killed him when it was over."

"That's all well and good. But it doesn't change the fact that you were witnessed by a whole platoon of U.S. soldiers with your winkie in a man's mouth."

Mr. Right sank dejectedly into the chair and it groaned under his weight.

"Look at the position I'm in," the President began, leaning back in his chair and fidgeting. "I was elected by the people of this country so that I could wipe out homosexuality. We all know that homosexuality is what is destroying America. I have allied myself with you, our greatest national hero, only to have you caught in an act of horrific faggotry.

"What if word gets out? What then? Do I tell the American people that homosexuality is a sin against God, unless Mr. Right does it? Do I risk maintaining my ties with you and go down with your sinking ship? I sent you away to get your head straight and give us a little time to fix your last screw up and you go away and screw up even bigger! Unbelievable!"

The President buried his face in his hands and sighed.

"Seriously, Bill, what do I do? Any ideas?"

Mr. Right sat silently, offering no advice to the President.

"Maybe I should out you?"

Panic washed across Mr. Right's face like a flash flood.

"We have given the order for none of the guards to ever say anything, but what if they do? What if one of them says something and it gets out to the wrong people? Suddenly this administration that is tough on homosexuality becomes a laughingstock. Maybe I should cut my losses and announce to the country why you are no longer associated with me. With this administration."

Mr. Right began to tremble. It would be very easy to lean over the desk and snap the President's neck, but that would solve nothing. He would be an enemy of the state at that point and would lose everything he worked for anyway. His only hope was that the President was bluffing.

"Ok, say I out you," the President continued, thinking aloud more than discussing the situation with Mr. Right. "I name you as a homosexual and have you sent to Camp Rainbow. Would you go quietly? No, probably not. Would you spill your guts to the press, even though it incriminates you as well? Possibly. Would you put up a fight and destroy many American soldiers if they tried to forcibly take you into custody? Almost assuredly."