The Messenger Boy

It was the first official weekend of 2011, and Babylon was celebrating with a good old fashioned "Colors Party". An homage, if you will to the simplicity of the 1970's hankie code, when one's pleasure for the evening was clearly defined by the color of a hankie, and its left or right placement in the wearer's back pocket.

"Five thousand, nine hundred, and ninety-six. Five thousand, nine hundred, and ninety-seven. Five thousand, nine hundred, and ninety-eight..." Brian did the first tally of the night.

"It's been a good year. I've been giving some thought to revamping the place, making Babylon more upscale to bring in the A-List gays," Ted said.

"Five thousand, nine hundred, and ninety-nine. Six thousand. Theodore, you're supposed to be helping me count. Tony will be here any minute for the pick-up," Brian said.

The recent migration of middle class families near, and along Liberty Avenue, had brought with it an increase in violence aimed specifically at gays and gay establishments. Michael's comic book store had already been vandalized once and the Liberty Diner had been robbed twice in as many months. Brian wasn't taking any chances. He knew that keeping large amounts of money on the premises was an invitation for trouble. To lose a few thousand in a robbery would be bad, but to loose a whole night's receipts would be disastrous. Hence his decision to have two pick-ups instead of just one at the end of the night, and to keep the money in the safe at The Plaza where security was much tighter than the wall safe in Brian's office at Babylon.

"The neighborhood is changing. We should take advantage of that," Ted continued. "Maybe we should open for happy hour after work. That would attract all of the married guys looking for a little action before going home to the wife and kids."

"That's what "Woody's" is for." Brian placed a rubber band around the last stack of money, and pushed it over to Ted.

"We could put in a small kitchen, maybe get one of Tony's chefs to whip up some fancy hors d'oeuvres. Instead of calling it happy hour, we can call it martini time, and specialize in a variety of martinis..." Ted neatly placed the counted bills inside a manila envelope, and sealed it.

"First of all, we remodeled less than four years ago, after the fire. Secondly, Babylon wasn't built on gays looking to climb the social ladder. It was built on guys looking to get laid. Thirdly..." Brian's list was interrupted by a new text message on his cell phone. "Tony's here. He's on his way up."

"You might want to consider running my suggestion by Tony. I'm telling you, with all of the new blood moving into the neighborhood, up scaling would be a wise move," Ted insisted.

"I'll give it some thought, and I'll run it by Tony," Brian promised.

"Good." Ted handed Brian the manila envelope. "Now, if you don't mind buzzing me out, I think I'll go back downstairs. There's a hunky redhead with a gold lame scarf whose pants I'm dying to get into."

"Is he flagging left, or right?" Brian pressed the security button underneath his desk.

"Who cares? I'll take it any way he's willing to give it." Ted closed the door behind him.

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Flanked by two guards, Tony made his way through a sea of shirtless men, boldly displaying their colors in their back pockets. Along with the old standbys such as red for fisting, and yellow for water sports, there were some new ones. A sign of the times like black velvet for videos, and black & white check for safe sex only. While it was tempting to linger and enjoy the view, for now the strongest member of The Royal Trio was all business. That was until someone grabbed him from behind. "Wanna dance?"

Justin. Tony stopped, and turned around. It was difficult to tell which was shining brighter, the laser lights bouncing off the mirrored spheres suspended overhead, or his boy's smile. "Later, princess," Tony said over the music.

"Come on. Dance with me." Justin took his husband's hands.

It was clear to see that the binding member of The Royal Trio had had a few too many cocktails, which made him even more adorable. Justin swayed his hips to the beat, then released Tony's hands for a quick spin that flashed the navy blue bandanna that was peeking out of the right side of his back pocket. As if the skin tight jeans adhering to his bulbous curves, flagging to be fucked wasn't enough, Justin was shirtless, and covered in glitter. Some of the small pieces of reflective material that periodically rained down onto the dance floor had settled in his hair, and clung to his moist, porcelain skin. Irresistible. Tony's guards looked at Justin, then at their boss, and finally at each other. Business was one thing, but not even Anthony Massey could resist a frisky little bottom who was in the mood to party. The pick-up would have to wait.

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Brian cleared his desk while he waited for Tony's arrival upstairs. Maybe Ted was on to something. The neighborhood had changed, if not necessarily for the better. Who would have ever thought that one day breeders and queers would be living side by side? Brian refused to relocate into the gated community that Tony had originally selected for them because he wanted to remain near his people. He hadn't anticipated the draw that an Anthony Massey project would have on Liberty Avenue. The erection of "Camelot on Tremont" wasn't only attracting A-List gays, it was also attracting straight families who now offered top dollar for real estate that was once considered less than prime. Luckily Debbie, and Lt. Horvath had the instinct to hold on to Debbie's old house. The quaint little bungalow was now worth triple what she originally paid for it. Lindsey, and Mel were also happy that they stayed put. Like Debbie's place, their fixer-upper was now going for top dollar as well. If only Michael and Ben would have chosen to remain near their roots, rather than venture out into straight suburbia. Brian's thoughts were interrupted by the security bell. "It's about time!" he called out, and pressed the entrance buzzer underneath his desk.

A tall figure dressed in jeans, and a black tee rushed in, and closed the door behind him. "Move away from the desk, and open the safe." The intruder pointed a gun in Brian's face.

There are no rules when one is confronted by a gunman. Some people run. Others fight. Brian Kinney froze.

"Don't make me blow that pretty face off. MOVE!" the intruder ordered.

Brian pushed his chair away from his desk, making sure that both hands could easily be seen. Slowly he stood up, and walked over to the wall safe. With trembling fingers he began to turn the tumbler.

"What's taking you so long?" the intruder demanded.

"It's kind of hard to remember the combination when there's a gun pointing at my head," Brian said.

"Maybe this will help you remember," the intruder said, then proceeded to use the butt of his gun to deliver a vicious blow to Brian's right temple. "Do you remember the combination now, bitch?"

With the lights still flashing before his eyes, Brian clung to the wall to maintain his balance. "What you're looking for isn't inside the safe," he managed to say.

"Don't fuck with me!" the intruder warned. "Where's the goddamn money?"

"It's in the envelope, on the desk," Brian said.

The intruder hurried over, and scooped up the manila envelope "Now open the safe," he demanded again.

Brian turned around to face his assailant. "I told you, there's nothing in there. You have what you want. Take your money and go," he said.

The gunman looked at Brian, then over at the safe, then back at Brian. It was obvious that the queer was trying to hold out on him. "I'm not going to tell you again." He moved in closer.

"Brian, it's me!" Tony rang the security bell.

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The pop of gunfire suddenly rang out from the other side of the door, followed by the sound of furniture being moved about. "BRIAN?" Tony tried the doorknob. "It's locked! BRIAN!" he called out again.

The guards pushed forward, and attempted to muscle their way through the steel door. "Shit! It's not going to move. Where's the key, boss?" They looked back at Tony.

The party raged on downstairs, with the revelers oblivious of the drama that was unfolding above them. The beat of the music drowned out a second gunshot, then a third amidst shattering glass, and bodies being thrown against the walls of Brian's office. Tony fumbled through his pockets while the guards continued their futile assault on the door. Where were the goddamn keys? Was it the small silver one, or the big gold one? Maybe it was the big silver key, or the small gold one. Tony's mind wasn't working. Damn it! He tried them all one by one until finally the tumbler turned, allowing the guards to rush inside.

There are no rules when one is confronted by a gunman. Some people run. Others, like Brian decide to fight. Tony froze outside the door, too afraid of what he might find inside. It wasn't until he heard a familiar voice that his body allowed him to move. "We've got him, boss!" one of the guards called out.

Tony cautiously entered the overturned room. To his left he could see the gunman being manhandled. On his right he could see spatters of blood against the wall, but where was Brian?

"I'm... down... here." A hand raised up from the floor.

"Jesus Christ, baby, are you alright?" Tony hurried over.

"I think so." Brian looked up at him. "Where the hell were you?"

"I was downstairs dancing with Justin," Tony said.

"DANCING?" Brian's eyes widened.

"I'm sorry." Tony helped his exhausted husband to his feet.

Brian took a moment to steady himself. "Where's Justin?" he asked.

"I left him on the dance floor," Tony said.

"I don't fucking believe this. I'm up here fighting for my life, and you two are downstairs dancing," Brian said between breaths.

"I don't believe YOU!" Tony fired back. "Why were you risking your life for money? Why didn't you just give him the goddamned envelope?"

"I gave him the envelope, but the son-of-a-bitch still wanted to see what was inside the safe. Before I could get it open, you rang the bell. I had no choice but to jump him. I wasn't going to let him hurt you," Brian said.

Tony noticed a trickle of blood oozing down the side of Brian's face. "You're hurt," he said.

"Really? That must have happened when he hit me with the gun. This better not leave a scar!" Brian looked over at his assailant.

Tony took a handkerchief from his suit jacket pocket, and gently pressed it against Brian's right temple. "Don't worry. You'll be fine," he said.

"Ooh, nice. Is that linen?" Brian took note of the fabric.

"It's Spanish linen, by "Guasch". Thank you very much." Tony smiled.

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Tony waited until Brian left to tend his wound before walking over to where the gunman was still being subdued on the floor. "What's your name?" He knelt down to ask.

"Fuck you!" the gunman said defiantly.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Fuck You." Tony chuckled. "My name is Anthony Massey. The man that you hit with your gun is my husband. His name is Brian Kinney, and this is his place that you tried to rob. I have some good news, and I have some bad news to share with you. The good news is that we're not going to call the police. The bad news is that you've just become my messenger boy. When you're finally released from the hospital, I want you to spread the word to your ignorant, crystal-meth smoking, Budweiser guzzling, toothless, flannel shirt, backward baseball cap wearing, inbred, crackhead friends that THIS is what happens to stupid pricks who think they can fuck with me, or mine."

"You can't do this. I'll tell the police. I'll sue you!" the gunman warned.

"Did you have anything special in mind for him boss?" one of the guards asked.

"No. Just don't kill him," Tony said.
 

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