21st Century Freedom Part 4 by Tristan Drue Rogers

Early Bird Gets What It Deserves

Should I rotate ever so fearful to see—Walter?

     He stepped closer, never allowing his eyes to veer away from my absentee, “Uhh … Mac, I saw the blood everywhere. Thought you were screwin’ with me. I guess not.”

     I did rotate. “DJ?” It was my workout partner, the greatest annoyance to ever live. “So, yeah,” I said. “I don’t think I can make our workout today.”

  Beatman continued to be positively magnetized by my negative limb. “Yeah …” He broke his stare to look upward and “In any case, I brought this-like lead appendage majigger.” From behind his person he unveiled a right-handed mold with an almost exact corkscrew-like root. I suppose that it’s to enter me, and with my wound far from healed shut.

     “… the hell up.” The words from my mouth as of yet allow a void, a blank canvas wrought with such a pleasure as fortuitism, to be sealed.

     Not to be left within silent contemplation for but an interruption, Beatman answered not a question, “Okay, this may hurt—You can handle a little pain.”

     “Wha—” Beatman grabbed my right siding and slammed the screw into me as if a hammer were doing the deed instead of a few precise rotations of a screwdriver.

     My wince in pain being so very telling of the day I’m on path for; I tasted the raw moister of my inner lip as it quivered.

     I slapped him quickly with the weapon he had crafted onto me and then, of course, a supposed clocker to his 9:45. While not necessarily in ecstasy, Beatman was suppressed quite a bit in his determination to be as progressively near my engorged, yet defective state. No silence, more of a sporadic shot of dishes, boxes of already-mixed foods, et al. bricking every which way depending on the twitch.

     “Holy fuck,” Beatman held his left eye in wonder. “Why did ya hit me?”

     “Mothafucka are you serious right now?” Stupid fucking dick of an excuse to humanity.

     The rumination of the moment doing a sub-par job of lowering our stress levels.  

     Beatman sparked a light of confidence. “I only wanted to help you push it, bro.” He set himself up from the floor to near eye level, “Like this!” He dropped back down to the floor, only this time by his own choosing, and proceeded to do one-hundred wide-armed push-ups.

     I whispered to my oven, “But I’m hungry.”

     Beatman soarsed, again, to eye level, “We can eat after.”

     My stomach growled a wimpy, empty howl. Beatman barely raised an eyebrow as he earnestly smiled my way.


I dragged myself into the gym, sans robe and gore, to be submerged into the sea of alpha males. I was quickly halted of my progress by a clerk floating around the front desks.

     “No beanies, rule number two.” He pointed at the sign of stipulations that are only such because they are. And I lifted my beanie from my head, normally to experience my long-straight hair descending below my buttocks and dangerously behind or beside or above or below me at all times, but alas I had donated it a few days prior. Old habits die with rot.

     “That’s better,” the clerk said to either my skullcap being off or the disappearance of said hair, I do not know.

     I looked to Beatman, “Be back, gonna put this away.” Beatman smacked me on the shoulder and headed to the stretch and abdominal room.

     My thoughts began to mold into a full blown bacteria.


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