Black and white.

The world has become... black and white.

There are only two choices. No grays. No in-betweens. No middle ground.

You’re either one thing... or you’re the other.

Good or bad.

Right or wrong.

Gay or straight.

Democrat or republican.

You’re one or the other. And that’s what defines you as person.

Course, that’s just fucked up.

But life is fucked up. This goddamn world is fucked up.

It’s wrong. So fucking wrong in that completely stupid, infuriating way that things can be so, so, so wrong.

But... what’s done is done. And now I’m helpless. Unable to stop the thing that I started. Powerless to shut down the fucking spin machine that’s whirling so far out of control... so far...

And it’s made my world black and white.

Taken the color out of everything. And forced me to define myself as part of a group... as part of the one thing or the other.

Fucking ridiculous.

I watch as things change before my eyes. Watch as the things that I almost took for granted get taken away. My freedom to fuck who I want, where I want, when I want... my freedom to say the things I want to say. My freedom to just fucking be the person I am.

My God-given right for human dignity and respect.

And I watch as Stockwell’s flunkies start their job... patrolling Liberty Avenue and shutting down bathhouses and clubs and porn shops... cops standing on the fucking street corners watching what goes on... acting as though their mighty leader has already won the race. Won the fucking war with the army I built. The weapons I developed and put in his hands.

I watch mutely. Helplessly. Infuriatingly immobile. Nothing I can do now. Too late. Just have to watch this little tale play out to its inevitable conclusion, then deal with the consequences.

Fucking cops are everywhere. Justin and I sit together silently, nestled into a booth at the diner, plates of half-eaten sandwiches and nearly empty cups of coffee on the table in front of us. Our heads turned toward the counter, staring at the backs of the cops sitting there. In our diner. In our place. Where they don’t belong and they sure as hell aren’t welcome.

One starts to laugh, and I glance at Justin, watching as his face changes. His eyes narrowing, lips pursing tightly together... I know he imagines what they say. He imagines they’re laughing at us... at everyone here in the diner. He imagines they’re judging and criticizing and ridiculing us.

He’s probably right.

I sip the last of my coffee and his eyes flick to mine, then back at the cops. One of them turns around and meets Justin’s stare. It’s a showdown, and I know damn well that Justin will never back away. He’s proven that to me time and time again.

The cop shakes his head and breaks the stare, turning back to the counter. I swear I hear him mutter something about fags, but I’m probably just making it up in my head.

Or not.

I kick Justin’s shoe under the table to bring his eyes back to mine. He snaps his head at me, his eyes still hard... dark blue and fucking blazing.

He drums his thumb on the table... thump, thump, thump... tapping out nervous energy...

“Fucking bullies,” he mutters, looking back over at them again. “They have no right to be here. No right to... come in here, and make fucking comments,” he says it louder than he needs to, and the cop throws a warning glance over his shoulder.

Justin pushes himself up in the booth, then slides back down again. “I hate this,” he says, his eyes locked on mine again, looking at me in that way that makes me feel like he honestly thinks there’s something I can do to fix this. As if I can really stand up and haul them outta here. As if I can really say the magic words to make them disappear.

Nope... not this time, Sunshine. Not this time.

I press my hand on top of his, flattening his palm to the table, and stop his thumb from tapping. His fingers are warm, his hand practically vibrating under my touch. I lean across the table, and touch my fingers under his chin, the slight blond stubble that can be felt but barely seen prickling against my finger pads.

Pull his lips to mine... kiss him softly... he doesn’t respond at first, then relents and parts his lips, sliding his tongue across my mine and into my mouth... coffee flavoured kisses, just like the song.

“This is a much better way to piss them off,” I say in a low voice, climbing out of my side of the booth and slipping in beside him.

He grins at me, and grabs at the sleeve of my jacket, pulling me to him for a kiss. I wrap my arms around him, pressing him into the back of the booth. He pushes his hand up my back, and I feel my sweater lifting up, exposing a sliver of skin above my jeans... his fingers slide down the back of my pants, cupping my ass in his palm... his fingers are warm... his mouth is welcoming... his hair so soft as my fingers slide through each strand...

How could anybody say that this is wrong? This can’t be wrong. Nothing that feels this good is wrong.

“Jeeees-sus Christ,” I hear one of the cops exclaim, and I know all eyes are on us. Justin tweaks my ass with his fingers, and I feel the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile... but all I can really think about right now is wanting him and wanting to fuck him and the way my cheeks feel warm with that flush of pleasure and how my cock is growing ever harder, ever harder in my pants...

“Well that got them to leave,” Justin pulls away from my mouth to speak, his eyes shiny and bright with arousal. He turns his head to watch as the door slams shut behind the cops.

I keep staring at him... his lips red from our kisses... a high blush on his cheeks and hair falling onto his forehead. He looks at me, and his eyes blaze with lust now instead of anger... he smiles. “Good plan,” he says, kissing me lightly on the lips again and pulling his hand out from my pants.

“Albeit a selfish one,” I say into his hair, kissing him on the ear.

He laughs a little, and the fading blush on his cheeks starts to creep up again. I find it amazing that I can do that to him with just a few words.

“Hey Justin!” Mikey’s voice breaks through the noise of the diner, and Justin’s eyes pop open.

“Fuck!” he gasps. “I forgot about our meeting!” He glances at his watch and grimaces.

Michael gets to our table and takes one look at me and shakes his head. “Don’t you get enough of that at home?” he says, folding his arms across his chest.

“Never enough, Mikey. You know that,” I nudge him with my knee, and slide out of the booth to let Justin past.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Justin mumbles, and grabs his portfolio bag from the floor. He spares a parting glance at me, and pulls his bag in front of his crotch to hide his bulging hard on.

I smirk at him and catch his scarf in my hand before he goes. “Come over later?” I ask.

He smiles and nods at me. “Yeah... later,” he says and that damn blush starts creeping up his cheeks again.

I watch as they leave, and stare at the bottom of my empty coffee cup. A thin layer of liquid lines the bottom and I see my distorted reflection shine back up at me. I push the cup away. I don’t really like looking at myself right now. Don’t like what I see anymore.

Outwardly... I’m the same. But inwardly...

Fuck. My stomach grinds and I feel the nervous flutter of anxiousness building again.

I need to do something. Have to do something. Anything.

Just... what? What can I do? I don’t know what I can possibly do to stop this thing I’ve started, and so I do nothing.

Maybe that’s not good enough.

When have I ever let myself get away with not being good enough?

I’m slipping. Fucking losing it.

Christ, I feel like shit.

Time to go shopping.

JUSTIN’S POV

So I get to Brian’s after my meeting with Michael, and he can hardly wait to show me. He bought a TV. A new, fucking HUGE TV. I can’t believe him.

I help him drill the holders into the wall, and we lift it up, hanging it up on the concrete. I have to admit, it’s pretty fucking cool.

I don’t say anything to him at first, because... well, it’s not my business. Totally, completely none of my business what Brian spends his money on. Considering I’m one of the lucky beneficiaries of Brian’s cash, I’m definitely not in a position to tell him what he should and shouldn’t do.

But still...

It makes me kind of worried. I mean, he should be doing something. Looking for a job. Doing up his resume. Getting wasted and fucking everything that moves at Babylon.

But he’s not. He’s just shopping and hanging out with me. Me, for Christ’s sake.

Don’t get me wrong, I fucking love it. More than anything I want to be here again. More than anything I want to move out of Daph’s and come home here. But... it would probably be a mistake. At least right now, I think it would be a mistake. If I’ve learned anything in the last year, it’s that I shouldn’t be in such a fucking rush all the time.

I guess it’s just... weird. I mean, I’ve always known Brian to be business, business, business. It was part of the thing that drove me fucking nuts before. And now he’s... hanging out. Fucking weird.

Me and Michael talked about it today when I was showing him my new idea for the comic. He just says that Brian’s being Brian and that he’ll do what he has to do.

Which, honestly, is fucking Brian Kinney bullshit being spouted back. I don’t fall for that crap. Michael might, but I don’t. He should know better for fuck’s sakes. Yeah, I know Michael has known Brian for a hell of a lot longer than me, but he’s never seen Brian like this... I know he hasn’t. And nobody can honestly say that they know exactly what Brian is capable of doing.

So... all I can do is trust Brian and keep telling myself not to get worried. Tell myself that it’s okay that Brian is indifferent about the whole Stockwell thing. I guess I don’t blame him... I wouldn’t want to see that fucker’s face again for a long, long time. After what he did to Brian? It was pathetic.

Brian starts to read the instruction manual for his new TV, and so I pull out my new sketches for Rage and sit down at his desk to do some more work on them. Razorback. Michael loved the idea, though he agreed that it was kind of a cheap shot at Brian. A ruthless advertising executive helps evil Razorback become the mayor of Gayopolis.

But drawing it out and putting the whole story on paper like this is helping me deal with this fucking angry frustration I have at this situation. It’s what happened. And I want to immortalize it forever in our comic, so nobody will forget what happened. Including Brian.

I start working on the picture of Rage coming to save the day and using his powers of mind control to expose Razorback for who he really is.

Glance up at Brian, then back at the paper, close my eyes for a second, and feel the image come together behind my eyelids... put pencil to paper and start to draw... a rough outline starts to form and I look up at him again, stopping for a minute... his brow is all furrowed and he’s angrily pressing every button on the remote, finally going back to read the instructions again.

Maybe buying the TV is is like a huge “fuck you” to everyone. Maybe Brian is trying to prove something to everyone or himself... trying to prove that he’s not worried. Trying to prove that nobody has to be worried about him. If he has five grand to spend on a TV, then he can’t be all that hard done by, right?

Except I know Brian better than that. Know that even if he didn’t have the money, he’d spend it anyway, just to try and prove something that he doesn't need to.

So I tell him that I’m impressed... in a way... tell him that I have to hand it to him for going out and spending all that money when he just got fired. Wanna see what he says to that.

He just laughs and makes some joke, and finally gets the TV switched on.

And who do we see but Stockwell’s fucking face looking back at us in crystal clarity. I rub it in a little, trying to make a joke of it, but Brian just drops his hands and walks away from it. Not changing the channel, but letting the fucking ad run through. He snaps back at me, and I suddenly see that he really is pissed off... and I see how disturbed he really is, and get a glimpse of the anger boiling beneath the surface. See he’s about ready to blow. See that he really does care.

I quickly stand up and show him the new drawings. Even if they are a bit of a shot at Brian, I know he’ll get a kick out of them anyway. I keep telling him how it’s going to turn out, even as he’s walking away from me. I know he’s feigning disinterest, but I want him to hear this. Want him to know that Rage saves the day.

That I believe in him... even if it is just through his comic-book alter ego.

I just wish Brian believed in himself half as much. Brian knows that in a crazy way I really believe he is Rage. Like not in a fanatical stupid comic book way... but I believe that Brian has certain... abilities. He can do things that no one else can. He’s pretty fucking powerful when he wants to be and it has nothing to do with what job he has or how much money he makes or how many electronic toys he can stuff into his expensive apartment. Some people just have it, you know? They can make people listen. They can make people do what they want them to do. They can control people. Some use it for good, some use it for bad, and some just don’t use it.

Brian’s got it. He just needs to use it.

We order take out for dinner and talk about going to Babylon, but instead we end up watching a couple of DVDs on the new TV. We smoke a joint and lie on pillows on the floor and it makes me think of old times and new times and just how glad I am that everything worked out the way that it did. Maybe some stuff is completely fucked up – my academic career and Brian’s professional career – but somehow being together makes all that shit better. Makes it seem... unimportant.

It’s the way I’ve always felt. Nothing else matters.

I lie my head on the pillow on the floor, pushing back against Brian's body behind me... his fingers weave in and out of my hair, pulling on the long strands. It feels really nice and I think again how glad I am that I decided to grow my hair out. He’s never said anything, but I think he likes it... hell, I know he likes it, because all he does lately is touch my hair... when we’re kissing, he runs his fingers through it, when we’re fucking, he grabs big chunks of it, and when I’m falling asleep, he buries his face in it, breathing deeply.

I close my eyes, just for a second... then find it hard to open them again so I don’t. Just lie here, Brian wrapped up all around me... warm and comfortable and feeling so good...

Just lie here... safe... knowing that Rage will do something... that Rage will save everyone and make it right.

Later the next day...

BRIAN’S POV

It’s late and I know Justin’s not coming over tonight. I surf the net for a while, clicking through the online ads but see nothing of interest. Start a chat with some guy that bores me in two minutes so I switch off the computer and stand up... stretch...

Flick on the TV and fucking Stockwell’s staring at me again. Christ!

Fucker’s going to win. He’s going to win and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. And there’ll be nothing I can do when they shut down Babylon and shut down Woody’s and all the other places that are already gone stay gone... and when the Pride flags are torn down and the businesses closed and everywhere and everything is gone...

A safe place gone. A community gone. Destroyed in the name of family and the heterosexual mandate of what’s right and what’s wrong. And I defined on the wrong part of that equation.

Fuck.

I jump up out of the chair, the anger I keep pushing down suddenly bursting up to the surface. The sick feeling comes back to my stomach and I feel my hands start to vibrate and I feel wired so fucking tight I just want to... just want to... fucking... do something. I’m frustrated and bored and angry and feel like I’m being pushed down and stepped on and nothing and no one can make this one better.

I pace around the loft blindly, staring at nothing, until my eyes fall on the last anti-Stockwell poster that Justin made. The one we never got to put up. The one that had the picture of Jason Kemp on it. The one that really, truly made the connection between his murder and Stockwell.

Pick up... look at it... the soft lines of Justin’s sketch contrasting with the harsh lines of Stockwell’s face. This one was good. This one deserved to be plastered all over town.

But... we got stopped. Fucking stopped. And why? Because we were threatened, and had everything... fucking everything taken away from us.

What the fuck have I got to lose now? I’d love to go plaster these posters across the city. But that would be bringing Justin in to it... and... I can’t do that to him.

Stare at that face. Stockwell’s face. Remember the disdain... the hatred... burning from his eyes as he walked in here. My home. My fucking sanctuary.

Remember the lies as he tried to bribe me with suggestions of business and money and success... the way his mouth pulled up into a false grin while his eyes showed fear because he knew I’d discovered his filthy little secret... knew I’d figured it aaaaaaalllll out...

Fucker. Fucker. Fucker.

Everyone should know about it. Everyone needs to know about it. They have a right to know what kind of man they’re voting into office.

I let the poster fall to the table again. Glance back at Jason’s face. Yeah... everyone needs to know about this.

And then I get it. Fucking get it.

I know what I can do.

I flick on the computer again and rifle through my CDs of projects that Cynthia stealthily delivered to me. All for my portfolio of course. But I have other plans for this one.

Pop it in the drive and wait while the program loads up. Ah, there it is. The Stockwell commercial. The “If You Say It, Mean It” one.

Fucker. Fucker, fucker, fucker.

Scan in the photo of Jason. And think. Hard. This has to be good. Fucking good. I know I can do it.

Next thing I know, it’s 3:30 in the morning, and I’m staring bleary-eyed at the computer, playing back the final cut one last time.

Perfect. Fucking perfect.

And that bite of anger and frustration and anxiousness all sifts away... and I’m left with satisfaction.

Fuck, yeah. Satisfaction.

Next day I get up early and make a couple calls, pulling in old favours. Get a voiceover done and the digital copy transferred to tape, and I’m all fucking set. Head to Deekins office, knowing that I can walk proudly outta there and at least feel like I did something. Anything.

And then five minutes later find myself turning around again. Walking outta there pissed off. Angry. Fuckers. Pathetic, whining, scared fuckers. Deekins turned it down. How could he turn it down? It’s like the election handed to him on a platter.

I get home and slam shut the door, throwing the tape onto the hardwood.

Seethe for a little. Pace for a little. And stop.

Turn on the TV. Wait for the ad to come on, because damn, I know that fucking Stockwell ad is going to come on... and like clockwork, there it is. Grit my teeth and sit through it. Pick up my tape from the floor and push it into the VCR.

Watch the ad I created play back one more time. The haunting image of Jason Kemp... the facts about his murder and the cover up all spelled out there in black and fucking white.

All in black and white.

People have to see this. They just fucking have to.

I sit down at the computer again, and log into my bank account.

I’ve got about seven grand in there. Enough to buy one ad space. To buy 30 fucking precious seconds of time on TV and hope to God that everyone in Pittsburgh watches it.

Not enough. Not nearly enough. I check my watch. Nearly 36 hours until the election will be over.

Check my credit card balances. See what my credit limit is on the first one.

Extend it.

Okay... now I’ve got enough to buy four ads. Fuck. Not enough.

Click into my second credit card. Extend the credit limit.

Now we’ve got seven.

Open up my other bank account with my other two credit cards... we’re looking at 15 ads here, folks.

Almost there.

Last one. The emergency back up line-of-credit card that I never touch. The one with the loft as collateral.

*sigh*

Brings me to 20. Twenty ads. One hundred thousand dollars. One... hundred... thousand dollars.

That wouldn’t have seemed quite so bad when I had a paycheck coming in and quarterly and year-end bonuses to count on.

Now all I have is the expectation of a paltry unemployment check that isn’t even enough to cover my monthly maintenance and service fees for the loft.

One hundred thousand dollars. That I don’t have.

Truth doesn’t come cheap.

Morality has a price.

Call my contacts at the local stations, pull in my last favours, and it’s done. The invoice is in the mail.

One hundred thousand dollars.

The first ad will be on at 6:00 tonight.

One hundred thousand dollars.

Grab the bottle of Jim Beam and sit down on the floor in front of the couch. Pull out my stash and roll a joint.

One hundred thousand dollars.

Take a swig from the bottle... feel the smoke fill my lungs...

One hundred thousand dollars.

And feel relieved...

One hundred thousand dollars.

I did something.

One hundred thousand dollars.

Fuck. It’s only money.

Close my eyes... and feel...

Like I did something.

Go to Part 2...