The Darker Side (22 page)

He had various protection rackets running, as bullies will. Some lunch-money graft, comic-book offerings, allowance percentages. Noncompliance was met with punishment, and it was here that Mark truly excelled. He was a cut above, willing to go that extra mile.

The average bully would smack you around, maybe give you a titty twister, or hold you down while dripping a stream of spit into your mouth. Mark used these standbys as well, but the difference was in how far he was willing to take it. Tears were generally a sign that your point had been made. Not so for Mark.

Dexter had been on the receiving end one time. For some reason—he still didn’t know why—he’ d refused to turn over a comic that Mark had asked for. Mark’s response had been instant and savage. He’d slapped Dexter’s face so hard it made him feel like his eyes were rattling around in their sockets. Mark had followed it up with a shot to the solar plexus that drove Dexter to his knees, gasping for breath.

Mark had swarmed on top of him in an instant, pinning him to the ground, arms trapped under Mark’s knees.

“Faggot grew some balls, huh? Bad idea, faggot. Now you gotta pay.”

Dexter had felt he was already paying. His inability to catch his breath had panic rising in his chest like a flood. He was sure that he was dying. He wasn’t, but it felt like it.

“Gonna show you something I learned watching a martial arts program, faggot,” Mark said. His tone was almost happy, and Dexter looked up at the boy and removed the “almost” from that equation.

Mark put a thumb to either side of Dexter’s face, digging into a spot just under the upper cheekbone. He pressed up. Not hard, which made it all the more terrifying, because even that little pressure hurt.

“It’s a nerve someajigger or a pressure point or something. Whatever they call it, it hurts worse than a kick in the balls.”

Then he really dug in, turned his thumbs into steel rods and pressed with all of his not inconsiderable strength.

Dexter couldn’t help it; his eyes bugged out and he didn’t just yell, he screamed. The agony was instant and terrible and everywhere. It felt like Mark had driven spikes into Dexter’s jaw.

He could see Mark through his pain, white-edged now, grinning away. Mark’s eyes were shining and Dexter became aware that the boy actually had a hard-on. Mark was making Dexter scream, and it was giving the bigger boy a woody.

It should have stopped there. With another bully, it would have. But that was the day Dexter learned that Mark was willing to go that extra mile, to really put his heart into it, so to speak.

Because he didn’t stop. He pressed harder. He pressed and grinned while Dexter screamed, and kept on pressing until Dexter pissed his pants. In the end, Dexter was begging the older boy to stop.

“Is your momma a whore?” the older boy asked.

“Yes, yes, yes!” Dexter screamed.

“Say it, then. Tell me your momma is a dirty old wetback buttfuck-loving, cock-gobbling whore!”

Again, that dim awareness of Mark’s hard-on, throbbing now.

To his credit, Dexter actually paused for a moment at this demand. But then Mark pressed harder.

“Okay, okay, okay! She’s a dirty old wetback cock-gobbling whore!” he screamed.

“Buttfuck-loving, cock-gobbling whore.”

“Buttfuck-loving, cock-gobbling whore! Please stop please stop please stop please stop please—”

And then Mark did let up. He removed his thumbs. He didn’t get right up and off Dexter, though. He stayed where he was, staring down at the smaller boy, eyes half-lidded and predatory, hard-on throbbing against Dexter’s stomach. Drunk on power, the power of might-makes-right and the dispensing of pain.

“Listen up, faggot. You ever tell anyone I did this to you, and I’ll find you and tear your cock off. You think I’m kidding?”

Dexter couldn’t speak. He was shivering, the throbbing in his cheeks wouldn’t stop, it was almost as if Mark had never pulled those thumbs away. He shook his head no, and began to weep, big, long, ropy sobs. Mark looked down at him in disgust.

“Fucking pussy faggot.”

A moment later the bully was gone. Dexter turned on his side and vomited into some of that good old Texas dirt. His cheeks were on fire. It took almost two days for the throbbing to die down completely and he couldn’t eat right during that time.

It was Dexter’s first brush with full-on gibbering terror, and it had left a mark. He had no doubt the bully would make good on any threat. Mark
liked
handing out a hurting. Handing out a hurting put some air in Mark’s tire, put a little bit of bone in the old hot dog.

Mark was evil. Dexter understood this. Kids don’t look for shades of gray. Moral ambiguity is something that comes later, when they need to start justifying their own misdeeds. Mark was a monster, black and white, and Dexter took that at face value.

So, hearing the boy say “kiss it, retard,” was not a good sign, not a good sign at all.

In later years Dexter would wonder why, knowing this, he didn’t just turn around on that tan Texas dirt and head right back to where the pavement began again, back up to the junction and the way that led to the park, the pool, and still being an eleven-year-old.

He moved forward that day, toward the voice, filled with dread but unable to turn away.

Once through the first line of trees, a small clearing opened up. Dexter saw Mark there, standing above Jacob Littlefield.

Jacob was older than either Mark or Dexter, almost seventeen, but Jacob was smaller than Mark and mentally slower than either of them. Dexter now understood that Mark’s use of the word
retard
was not figurative. He was using the unkindest cut as a matter of course, an insult that Jacob had surely heard before and probably understood.

Jacob was down on his hands and knees, and he was crying like a lost baby. He had a big round face and short cropped blond hair. His skin was milky white. Dexter had always thought privately that Jacob had the most beautiful skin he’d ever seen on another guy. Jacob was a sweet kid, always smiling, very trusting. His mom usually kept a close eye on him. Dexter wondered what the hell had happened.

Mark pointed at his right foot, which Dexter noticed was bare. It looked fugly and toe-jammed and altogether unappetizing.

“I said, kiss it, you stupid retarded fuckup. You drool enough already, you shouldn’t have any problem working up the spit to clean up between my toes.”

“But I don’t wanna,” Jacob blubbered. “Please don’t make me.”

Mark slapped the boy’s face. Hard. Dexter heard the smack and shivered.

“Do what I tell you or I’m gonna beat the shit out of you, you fucking retard! You hear me?”

Mark slapped the boy again, and now Jacob was really bawling, full bore, the way a baby does, total abandon. Dexter watched with a mix of horror and fascination as Jacob bent forward and began to kiss and lick Mark’s nasty foot.

Motherfuck
was all that came to mind. Dexter didn’t swear too often, but
motherfuck
was a versatile word. It just fit right in some places. This was one of them.

“That’s right, retard, clean ’em up good.”

Dexter recognized that look on Mark’s face. Savage joy. He was just as certain that Mark had
pitched a pup tent,
as they liked to say during sleepovers. Its usual witticism seemed to fall flat here. Dexter’s throat was dry and his mouth tasted like dust. He was witnessing the worst thing he’d ever seen in his life right now. He was sure of it.

He was just as sure that he needed to get the fuck out of there. The
motherfuck
out of there. Otherwise, he was pretty certain he was going to find himself right down there on his hands and knees with Jacob, licking the toe-jam and grime from Mark’s feet until they gleamed.

But what about Jacob?

The thought came, of course. Dexter was a decent boy, after all. The answer followed, fast and shameful:

Sorry, Jacob. Sucks to be you.

Not noble, maybe, but even the thought of what Mark had done to him before made his bladder feel loose and jiggly. Jacob was on his own, which was a motherfuck, but that’s the way it was going to have to be.

Dexter turned to go and that’s when it happened. It was like something from a bad movie, the oldest cliché around: he stepped on a stick. It had been a dry summer, so the wood snapped like a firecracker.

The thing about guys like Mark, Dexter would ponder later, their double whammy, was the singular lack of hesitation that having no moral code gave them. The stick cracked and Mark was on him in seconds. He heard the older boy’s movements first and felt one of Mark’s big, meaty hands grip his neck a moment later, all before Dexter could get the idea of
run
translated into motion.

“Well, lookee here,” Mark chortled. “Looks like we got ourselves a regular retard convention going.”

“Let me go, Mark,” Dexter said, more from force of habit than out of any real hope that the older boy would listen. “I was just walking. I don’t care what else is happening, I promise.”

Mark squeezed a little harder and Dexter squirmed. It wasn’t exactly pain, but it was the promise of it.

“I don’t think so, fag,” Mark said. “I’m having a little party here and I think you need to join in.”

He turned without another word, still gripping Dexter around the neck, and marched them both back into the clearing. Jacob was still down on his hands and knees. He was shivering and blubbering. Dexter didn’t wonder why the boy hadn’t run away. Mark had probably said if he did he’d kill him. Better the foot slobbering in front of you than the unknown promise that kept you looking over your shoulder. All small kids who got bullied understood this logic.

Mark let go of his neck by tossing him forward. Dexter stumbled and fell, landing at an odd angle on his wrist so that he couldn’t catch his fall, only slow it. He ended up clipping his chin against the ground. His teeth clacked together so hard he felt it in his skull, like a brutal rap with a big wooden spoon.

“Get back to licking, retard,” Mark commanded Jacob.

Jacob kept sobbing, but his resistance had been broken. He went back to using his tongue to clean between Mark’s filthy toes. Dexter brought himself to a sitting position and wiped his mouth. His teeth ached.

The sun was hot, but no longer in a good way; it was more surreal now. It kind of made Dexter feel like he was being baked alive. The noise of bugs and birds in the air had a sluggish feel to it.

That bad dream syrup, it’s everywhere…

That’s what Nana called the quality of those nightmares, the ones where you needed to run but felt like you were moving through mush. She called it bad dream syrup, and had pointed out to Dexter that the bad dream syrup had the habit of appearing at times when you were wide awake.

Mark turned a sleepy-eyed, lizard smile to Dexter. He was well pleased. This was it, for him, right here. Subjugation, degradation, power. Mark knew what he wanted and he wasn’t conflicted about it.

“Listen up, faggot. You got a choice here. You can do what I tell you to do, or I’ll give you some more of what I gave you those months back.”

The words gave Dexter a chill. Sweat actually broke out on his forehead. His mouth went dry.

Whatever he wants, it can’t be as bad as that was. Nothing could be that bad.

“Here’s the deal. You’re going to whip out your tiny little dick and you’re going to make the retard suck on it. I want him to choke on that Oscar Mayer.” Mark smiled, another lazy, happy, unconflicted smile. “He sucks and you come, fuckwit. No come, and you’re getting the thumbs again.” He wiggled said thumbs and grinned wider.

Dexter would wonder, years later, how guys like Mark knew exactly where to stick the knife in so that it would hurt the most. It was an uncanny ability, like a shark smelling blood in the water.

Dexter wasn’t a perfect boy, but he tried to be a good boy. He had his moments of anger and selfishness, but up until that moment, he’d never done anything truly ugly. He’d never taken his rage out on someone weaker than him, he’d never harmed a defenseless animal, his lies were white and not big. Somehow, Mark knew this. He wanted to change this because he knew it would hurt Dexter a lot more than gobbling Mark’s toe-jam or writhing under Mark’s iron thumbs.

“And if I don’t?”

“Keep licking, retard!” Mark snapped down at Jacob. He turned the sleepy gaze and the lizard smile back to Dexter. “I’ll make you scream, fag-boy. I’ll make you scream until you lose your fucking mind.”

Dexter fought his fear. He allowed himself that truth, when he remembered this day in later years. He tried. But courage in the face of torture, he found out that day, was for comics, not eleven-year-old boys being offered a way out.

He stood up and walked over to where Mark was. He looked down at Jacob, who had stopped crying so much. He was still licking Mark’s feet, which were starting to look pretty clean.

Good job! Dexter thought, on the edge of hysteria.

Jacob stopped for a moment and looked up at Dexter. The boy really did have beautiful skin. He had the eyes of a child; big and trusting. He had snot running from his nose and his cheeks were tracked with tears.

“Now before you make him suck, I want you to slap his face,” Mark said. The bully’s voice was languid, lazy.

Don’t do this, a voice in Dexter’s head boomed. This is something, if you do, you can’t undo.

Dexter couldn’t take his eyes off Jacob’s face. His round, stupid face. He felt anger rising, an irrational anger that said it was Jacob’s fault that Dexter was in this position, that it was Jacob’s fault that Dexter was being forced to do something so terrible.

If you weren’t such a fucking retard, you wouldn’t be here and I wouldn’t be here and I’d just be taking my walk on a great Saturday morning.

Rage rose in Dexter. He’d realize later that the rage was really just fear and shame come together.

He pulled his hand back. It hung in the air, trembling.

“Do it, fag,” Mark goaded, gloating like a toad.

Dexter was in hell.

He closed his eyes so he couldn’t see Jacob’s face anymore. He hugged the rage to him, hard, and brought his hand down.