This Is You
This is Not The Authority and you are Not Apollo. You are Teuton and you fail in almost every respect as a replacement. You're hair is not as blonde and you are sure your dick is at least a centimeter smaller.
You are sure you can be better if only you learned from the best.
But Last-Call tells you to shut up and you try and stop thinking because there is a dead girl in your hands and you are tossing her body into a hole. This hole is black and sucking and will take her and her dead family and her still breathing brother into the fold. This is clean up and you are the broom, little bits of guts and life catching in your bristles.
Last-Call tells you to shut the fuck up you fucking fag because you are crying big fat gobs of salt and you can barely see when you push in the bodies by the hundreds. You are a good guy. You swear.
You are not like Apollo, though, no matter how hard you try. You are better than him in the technical ways: you don't need sun, you don't need to charge up fucking solar cells to do the good and right things. You can stay for weeks under the bowels of the Carrier, drinking martinis and fucking beautiful woman. You can, but no matter how hard you try you still like big fields of flowers where you can dig your fingers into wormy soil and you like yellow petals and the hills of Austria.
This is you and you hate it.
You still smell like blood and you still smell like guts when all the bodies are moved away. You smell like corpses and Last-Call has that big smile on his face and you know he was hard the whole time. Vomiting in Level 492-Beta doesn't make you feel better and it kills you to think that you can never be as good your German creators want you to be.
You can hear the squishing sound that Last-Call's fists make five levels down where you are wiping you mouth. You can hear the soft grunts that Apollo makes almost unconsciously and you can almost imagine Last-Call cock deep into the sun god. They sound like they are fucking and you entertain the irony until you reach the door and it's not so pretty anymore.
Apollo is bloody and dripping: Icarus drawn from the depths of the ocean, flying too close to the sun, pissing off the gods that control Wall Street, pissing off Last-Call for loving the wrong person.
Another two punches and you grab a beer and sit down, knocking it back and trying to focus on the burn then the stench of shit and blood. You think Last-Call gets off on a lot of wierd shit and you almost get off on it as well.
But that would be wrong.
Last-Call grabs Apollo's hair, pulls it tight against the man's skull. Their lips are so close as he grabs Apollo's nuts and squeezes, lips whispering horrible, degrading things that make you want to look away. But you can't because they are two millimeters from touching, from their lips pressing against each other and cocks rubbing against spandex and leather.
You are getting hard and you shift so the beer hides the bulge.
Last-Call is finished and he snubs his cigarette against Apollo's cheek.
"Sun, bitch, I'll give you the motherfucking sun you fucking fag."
The sound of skin curling almost makes you cream your pants.
When Last-Call leaves he has the courtesy to turn off the lights; he's laughing at you and calling you a pathetic bitch. You wish him good night and Apollo barely looks at you.
You are left in the dark with your empty beer; when the door shuts the bottle shatters in your fist and glass cuts into your hand. It hurts and you feel pathetic for liking it.
Apollo laughs at you and you want to cry.
You are such a pussy.
Such a fucking loser.
Fucking loser.
You pick the glass from your palm but you leave a few shards in. When you clench your fist it digs in deeper and you hope you're bleeding.
Blood slips onto Apollo's cheek and it's yours for once and it's slick and hot and Apollo smiles into your palm. It's not because he's happy to see you, he's not happy to feel your fingers pull down his suit and cup his cock. Glass is still dug deep in your skin and when you squeeze you feel blood drip between your fingers.
You need him and that makes him better than you and that gives him power and he's got none when Last-Call burns cigarettes against his cheek.
You fall to your knees and take his cock into your mouth and you try to be a better man.
When he comes you swallow and then you punch that smile off his face until you are digging teeth out of your palm.
You are better than this.
You hope.