Queer Werewolves Destroy Capitalism

by MJ Lyons

  “You can take my 42s, but you ain’t touching my gun,” I said as I spun the chamber and dexterously knocked the lead slugs out of the nine chambers. The hillbilly looked to his compatriot, unsure, but the other man gave a shrug.

  “Leave it, not much he’s going to do without any bullets. And there’s twelve’a us and one’a him,” he muttered before clicking his tongue and heading down a rough path towards the Sweet Lickings.

  Our way into the camp was blocked by an aberration of a carriage, a huge, armoured beast with a hand-cranked, multi-chambered rifle mounted atop. A war machine if I’d ever seen one, and beneath sat a dozen boxes, filled with the ammunition and requisite parts, I reckoned, emblazoned with an ornate “WM.” I knew Madriz was a gun runner, but equipment like this could supplant a small army. What in the blazes was a small time crook like he doing with it?

  I counted nine other men on the ground, including Madriz and Narciso. Figured the other two must be out on patrol like the two idiots I’d had the misfortune of acquainting myself with. Madriz was grinning up a storm, which was tempered somewhat when the hillbilly admitted he hadn’t gotten my iron from me. He was a sun-darkened Mexican bandito, likely younger than he appeared, with a patchy beard and a lined face from years of squinting in the harsh daylight. I looked to Narciso who wouldn’t even meet my eye, not at all helped by a second shiner paired with the first, and a split lip to boot.

  “Come, amigo,” Madriz intoned, lifting a bottle of whisky from his rucksack. “We drink to your good health.”

  “Not my health I’m concerned with,” I replied as I swung my leg off Haughty Shade and hitched her next to the bandits’ poor beasts.

  Madriz walked over to Narciso and ran a hand through his hair; his companions chuckled to themselves, although a couple spat in disgust. “He is a distraction, is he not? I mostly prefer the fairer sex, of course, but a talented mouth is a talented mouth.”

  “I don’t mind a good mouth myself,” I admitted, sending the criminals into a fresh round of hooting and hollering like a pack’a apes. “I don’t usually thank my lovers by roughing ’em up, mind.

  Madriz snorted, “This little sinner right here?” he took his hands out of Narciso’s hair and then whacked the boy good across the head with the empty whisky bottle, sending him sprawling in the dust, sobbing. The criminal dropped the bottle at his feet and took a few steps toward me. I almost flinched, but couldn’t give the game away. “If you knew what he got up to back in Last Ditch, and before that, you might afford him a little discipline, but this was never about him, or even those whores,” he whipped his coat open and revealed the revolver holstered on his hip. “This was always about you, amigo.”

  My hand twitched and I showed him the grip of the Iron Queen. I took a step forward and he took a step back.

  “When my buddy roused me that night, claiming Slick Sam had bit the dust, and most of his boys, he told me the story of the Obsidian Devil, an unholy genie what rolled out of the desert to eat the souls of every man he gunned down.” Madriz took a step to the left, and I to the right, and forward, and he followed my step. “I gathered a posse quick enough from what was left of Sam’s what weren’t dead or mortally poisoned, and we tracked you easy enough. Tongues wag, and everyone from Las Cruces to Albuquerque knows about the colony of sinners led by a Black devil of a man.” I stepped to the right, and he to his in our little dance. “When we set up camp here and started planning our little assault, never guess my surprise when this little maricón trudged out of the muck looking to buy our peace with . . . what? Canned beans?”

  Madriz’s outlaws shared a good laugh, I noticed they’d formed a rough circle ’round us. They’d gone for their guns, but their leader waved them off. He clearly believed he’d find his mark. I planned to find mine.

  “He promised us anything if we left your little village of outcasts alone; liquor, women, gold.” Madriz smirked. “He was ready to sell your people out if it meant he’d survive.” I took another step forward and the outlaw almost stepped on Narciso’s head he was so close.

  “What he didn’t know is the only thing I wanted was information about you. See, way I heard it the Obsidian Devil was an old man, a mulatto out of New Orleans in Louverture.” Madriz spat, and the tobacco brown spit hit the earth just shy of my feet. “I admit it took a little . . . persuasion, but eventually Narciso parted with your name, and here we are.”

  “Guess there’s a bounty on my head,” I muttered.

  “You’re not very popular outside of Louverture. Turns out some folks have long memories, and ‘Obsidian Devil’ is much more memorable than ‘Ezekiel,’ or whichever old corpse you swiped that revolver from.”

  “Guessing that bounty’s dead or alive,” I reckoned.

  “You’re worth more alive.” Madriz’s fingers twitched. “But unlike my former employer, I’m a cautious man. Once we collect the price on your head, we’re going to go back to Last Ditch and kill that ol’ lezzie and any other of them whores what you left. No loose ends, and I figure the gold we’ll be sitting on, we can attract some new talent.”

  “Gold ain’t no good to a dead man,” I said, raising my voice enough so all the men around could hear it. “You let Narciso walk away and leave our settlement be. I’ll come with you if you leave me my iron, I won’t shoot none of you, you have my word.”

  I saw some of the men looking to one another fearfully out of the corner of my eye at the bold claim, but Madriz’s smirk just grew wider. “You trying to bluff me with an empty six shooter? Here I thought you were a clever kid. You had some of my men fooled, they were spouting all sorts of nonsense about leaving well enough alone, not tempting the devil, so to speak. But I can spot a charlatan a mile away, and you, son . . . ” He pulled his revolver and aimed it at Narciso’s head. “No deal. Like I said, no loose ends.”

  In a flash I angled my body so my right side was facing him and had the Iron Queen in my hand. Like I said, the Iron Queen was a special lady. I might have knocked the nine .42 caliber bullets out of the main chamber, but the two simpletons had failed to notice the central chamber, the thick, short, ornate cylinder arbour beneath the longer, slender barrel. The Iron Queen was one-of-a-kind, far as I knew, a prototype out of New Orleans, the hammer acting as a switch to the hidden buckshot in a centre chamber.

  I lobbed off the 20 gauge before I felt a bite through the back of my shoulder, and I stumbled, uttering an oath at the pain. There Madriz stood in the blur of pained tears in my eyes as I felt a warmth spreading over my back, my right arm already feeling numb.

  “You got a shot off at me and missed by a mile,” he chuckled, and his men got to stomping and snorting.

  “I didn’t miss,” I got out through gritted teeth as Narciso brought the remains of the bottle I’d shot through, little more than a sliver of glass, into Madriz’s side.

  I was hoping little Narciso would make a run for it, but I saw him bring the bottle down into Madriz’s prone form, a splatter of blood splashing across his pretty face.

  I ran for the fool, shoving him over a rock and pulling the Mexican’s body along with it as guns popped off around us, sending a spray of dirt and stone all around. I felt two more nips at my leg and neck and I fell, my mind swimming, but I fumbled in Madriz’s pockets for a few spare bullets and tried to load the Iron Queen, my hands shaking something fierce.

  There was some shouting behind us and then a terrible silence. I poked my head over the rock just in time to throw myself back down, pushing Narciso down into the dirt with me as the top of the rock exploded. An awful machine rattling off bullets began to chew up the rock, and if they kept at it, it wouldn’t be long before me and the poor boy were riddled with holes.

  I kept trying to load the revolver, Narciso sobbing beside me, my vision taking on the quality of walking down a long, dark tunnel that seemed to close in. Even the hellish spitting of the gun became distant, lost as the obl
ivion of pain and despair washed over me. I could swear, before the lights went out, I heard the machine roaring of the mounted gun cut out, followed by a thundering of hooves and the high shots of rifles. Perhaps vengeful angels had come to take me. My last thought was of how I’d failed the Old Man.

  I came to with Doc Poppy fussing over me, I’d been out the rest of the afternoon and much of the night, and he was still poking around in the hole in my leg for a bullet. Lodged against the bone like as nothing. I swore at the old fruit to get me a drink else I put a bullet in his leg, and there was Dalia with a bottle of tequila.

  “You old fool,” she said, smiling as she handed me the bottle.

  “I knew you’d follow,” I lied.

  Dalia went on about how, even though I appeared to have a death wish, Little Hope would miss me something fierce if I got myself gunned down. I reckoned they’d miss the Iron Queen and my gun arm more. Doc said I might not be gunslinging for awhile in the state I was in, but I swore him up and down until he finally gave up on me and left me to my bottle. Dalia got into me for my uncharitable behaviour, but I told her I was just airing the lungs. Helped with the pain, anyways.

  I was drunk out of my gourd by the time Narciso had shown up, his head bandaged to all hell, Diego along with him, and they relayed their story. By the time Diego had found Dalia, Irish’d had words with her first. Apparently she’d missed my habit of asking her if there was any crooks about, and she figured there was trouble. By the time her women had found us, I was in the thick of it, but it meant they could position themselves for a charge.

  “Couldn’a asked for a better distraction,” she admitted.

  Since two of the outlaws were off hunting but would return anon, she said Narciso had the idea to leave behind a note with two bullets sitting on it that read: “The Obsidian Devil. Run.”

  Dalia cussed me out a little more for acting a damn fool and then said she had a couple ladies waiting at home she wanted to warm up with. This left Narciso, Diego and I.

  Narciso was cleaned up of blood and dirt and seemed repentant as a whore in church. He started blustering all sorts of nonsense about an old life, but I held up my hand to him. “I don’t care. We do what we have to, to survive.”

  He started in again, about how he just wanted to help Little Hope, and he only meant to scare Madriz and his boys off with tales he’d heard of me, but I held my hand up again. “Don’t much matter now. I think we’ve both suffered enough for the mistake, let’s leave it at that.”

  There was an awkward silence before Narciso asked, “Is there anything we can do for you?”

  I considered his offer a moment, then I moved my drink deadened feet to make room for them. “You two could put a show on for me.”

  Narciso’s mouth dropped open, but Diego only giggled and sat on the corner of the bed, pulling Narciso into his lap. Their mouths found each other as mine found the tequila bottle, and soon Diego was working his lover’s shirt off. He pushed Narciso down onto the bed so his head was resting in my lap, then climbed on top of him so their bodies were pressed onto mine.

  “Mind the stitches,” I said laying back and cradling the tequila bottle. I was feeling mighty warm, so I threw aside my blankets and let them get a little more personal, which they obliged me right quick. “Well, might as well show your thanks,” I muttered. Each took a leg and slowly traveled up the inside of their respective extremity. I suppose that’s the benefit of having two of your lovers in bed, they certainly know what gets your engine blowing steam. Soon I had both boys between my legs, working me over with their thankful tongues.

  “Take your damn shirt off,” I growled at Diego, “this ain’t church.”

  With Narciso’s beautiful mouth polishing my pole, I put my hands behind my back to watch Diego give me a little tease. Unlike wiry little Narciso, the mixed boy was more muscle than sinew, and I’ve always said I don’t much understand the point of muscles unless a man’s going to show them off.

  “I took a bullet for you, amigo, you best show a little more enthusiasm,” I glared at Narciso and passed Diego the bottle of tequila as he stood over the bed, straddling his lover to work his pants off. As the drink made my head swim I started to wonder why I hadn’t visited Diego more recent. I also started to wonder why I shouldn’t insert myself in between a couple of handsome young gentleman more often.

  Diego climbed back down behind his lover and teased Narciso’s backside with his length, which got my piece a’vibrating from the delectable noise Narciso ended up making while utilizing his expert mouth. “Doc keeps some vegetable oil in the kitchen,” I muttered to Diego.

  “Ain’t your first time at the rodeo, cowboy?” Diego said, grinning as he went to the infirmary door. I got the feeling from the sound of scurrying on the other side Doc might’ve been enjoying the show, the old pervert.

  After Diego had gone I put my hand under Narciso’s chin and pulled him up gently; I’d’ve liked to be a little rougher, but the stitches and drink meant I had to move slow. He followed and took the lead in a kiss that made my head swim, and not from the booze.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. “I don’t care what you say, Ezekiel, you’re a hero.”

  I scoffed, “Would a hero do this?” I pushed him over backwards hard as I could, given one bad arm, and pushed his legs up high as I could get ’em. I plunged my tongue inside his tantalizing, tight backside and worked him over, getting him to kick up quite a racket.

  So drunk and preoccupied was I that I failed to notice Diego had returned until he wrapped one arm around me, slicking my length up with oil and making a damn mess. “Make a little more noise and we’ll wake the Quakers,” he purred into my ear. I took the hint and scooched to make room for him on bed, scooching myself right into Narciso.

  “You know,” I panted as I pushed into the prone young man in front of me, “I’ve given and I’ve received, but I ain’t never done both at the same time. I reckon I might want to try.”

  “I might be willing to oblige you,” Diego chuckled. “Out of thanks, of course.”

  “Hold your horses,” Narciso groaned. “I’m sore too. You read me some Whitman and work it in nice and slow.”

  I certainly did feel a touch poetic—drink and love making always does that to me. “O hand in hand—O wholesome pleasure—O one more desirer and lover!” I moaned as Diego pressed into me, pushing me slowly into Narciso until I was buried to the hilt. “O to haste firm holding—to haste, haste on with me.”

  I don’t put much stock in happy endings, but there’s something to be said about the great deck of cards that is life: three of a kind beat a pair, and it turns out I have the devil’s own luck.

  Peril on Gargara-5

  The substance is a mirror of onyx, a pool of unfathomable, undisturbed darkness. The pool juxtaposed with the lush, hyper-saturated greens, yellows, reds, oranges and purples of Gargara-5’s flora is breath taking. The substance sits inert, almost a perfect disk of blackness, pooled in the bottom of a small gully.

  “VIA, begin recording,” there’s a chime through my environmental suit’s headset. “Xeno-conservationist Hy Veryx’s log for the Interstellar Science Authority. In my investigation I’ve picked up an anomalous chemical profile on Gargara-5, an oxygen-rich terrestrial planet flagged for future terraforming efforts. VIA assures me the region is safe, although I can’t help but wonder how the profile of this substance on a seemingly random planet can so closely match what I’m after. This can’t be pure coincidence. Submit log.”

  “Affirmative.”

  I gaze down at the substance from the lip of the ditch. “And you’re sure there’s no signs of humanoid life on Gargara-5? No warp signatures?”

  “The sensors aboard the Crocus are limited, but multiple sweeps of the planet from orbit haven’t turned up anything, Hy,” VIA’s cool, androgynous voice returns.

  If this is his doing I guess he got
away, again . . . Here I was hoping I’d finally catch him and bring him to justice. I sigh and begin to pick my way down towards the substance, which shimmers, tantalizing, in the binary sunlight.

  As I approach the edge of the alien pool I check and re-check air compatibility with VIA, cross-referencing planetary survey results, before I unseal my EV suit, removing the helmet. That first breath of oxygen-enriched air is like three glasses of Centaurian wine, I feel light-headed and energized. The freedom from my helmet, the warm breeze on my face, the earthy smell of this verdant planet, the slight gravitational difference, is intoxicating as the breath of air. I can’t help but think of summers on Gimiwan, skinny dipping in the Halcyon River, stargazing in the fields outside Settlement 01, my first kiss . . .

  I shake my head, willing the reaction to the air to level out as I set my discarded helmet aside and fumble for my sample kit; the thick EV suit gloves make me clumsy. I crouch down and examine the pool. Up close the substance is impenetrable-looking as above, like an impossibly still lake of obsidian. I dip the sample cup in and I’m surprised by the resistance it’s met with. Viscosity is more evident than the xeno-biology lab had reported. I can’t get it to break so I can take a sample, although the substance does seem to cling to the sample jar. Eventually I pull it far enough away that the substance releases and settles into stillness again.

  Interesting, but not unexpected. I unseal my gloves and set them aside, the thinner material of the bodysuit underneath only coming up to my knuckles, giving me a greater sense of dexterity. I take the sample jar again and, with more mobility, dip it into the substance and pull against it. More comes away this time and I fight to take some of the substance, bringing the lid down to cut it off. My bare finger accidentally brushes the substance.

  In a fraction of a second, it has me.

  Curiously, my first reaction isn’t one of fear, but of seductive nostalgia. A memory floods my senses of wrestling with a hairy, giant of a man almost twice my size. He throws me against a desk, sending the contents tumbling and smashing onto the floor, tearing at my clothes. What initially feels like mortal terror turns to carnal delight as the cool sensation of lubed fingers penetrates my ass, and I fall over the trashed desk, groaning . . .