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clean and smiling.	By : kat9y Category: A through F > The Dark Tower > Dark Tower, The Views: 1360 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Dark Tower series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-clean and smiling.
- 1
Clean and Smiling
As Owen Underhill shoved his legs through the heavy snow toward Kurtz’s winnebago, the only thing on his mind was to get through this little conference as quickly as possible. How did Old Creepy Kurtz put it? Go in fast and hard, come out clean and smiling.
Underhill opened the door of the ‘bago and stepped inside. In the back of his mind, instructions ran on a loop like a skipping record; straight face, tell him what he wants to hear. Straight face, tell him what he wants to --
“Owen,” came Kurtz’s voice as he entered the living room from one of the winnebago’s adjacent sections. Though the greeting wasn’t sharp, it was in that smooth drawl that Kurtz used when you were either about to get promoted or get shot, Owen started. His slight twitch of muscle would have gone unnoticed by anyone else, but Kurtz’s pale blue eyes had the precision of a hawk.
“Settle down, buck,” Kurtz soothed, “have a seat. Take off your coat,” he offered. Underhill unzipped his parka and slung it over his arm, relieved to have the heavy garment off. He followed Kurtz into his office where the fax continued its constant drone, taking a seat in a chair in front of Kurtz’s desk after draping his parka over the back of it. It was only then that he noticed the uncomfortable atmosphere in the winnebago; the air was warm and humid. Owen felt like he was inhaling damp cotton. This, he assumed, was the reason for Kurtz’s clothing. He was wearing a pair of gray workout shorts and a black t-shirt. Though Kurtz was thin, Owen noticed that his body was lean -- made up of corded, coiled muscle ready to spring at the slightest provocation. Underhill swallowed against the heavy air. Rather than sitting, Kurtz leaned against his desk.
“Now, Owen, you realize that after your little incident with Blue Boy, you have fucked with my orders twice now? Am I right?” Kurtz’s pale blue eyes expressed a void as his blank stare bored into Owen’s. Owen stayed silent.
“Am I right, laddie-buck?” Kurtz had raised his voice. Owen’s internal record screamed, TELL HIM WHAT HE WANTS TO HEAR!
“Yes, boss,” Underhill answered in a strained voice that he was positive didn’t come from his mouth. He pulled off his gloves, his fingers itching with heat -- or something else. He was sure that Kurtz took immediate mental note of the tiny threads of byrus lacing his now-exposed fingernails. Marking Owen’s infection in his crazed, steel trap of a brain. The mental equivalent of Pearly’s fucking clipboard.
“Twice,” Kurtz softly reiterated, marking that as well, Underhill was sure. “Buck, you need to understand that I try to run a fair operation here. And running a fair operation, praise god, involves according punishment for those at fault.” Owen remembered Melrose’s foot exploding with the gunshot, fine little pieces of flesh and bone littering this very floor like New Year’s confetti. Kurtz had strolled around the room and come to a stop behind the chair Underhill sat in. Owen didn’t gratify Kurtz with so much as a glance, staring straight at the wall behind the desk.
“You do think that’s fair, right buck?” Kurtz’s voice was close now. So close that it nearly made Owen shudder. He didn’t have time to answer before the coils sprang. There was no time for Owen to fight off the hands that gripped his shoulders like talons, and he was flung forward into Kurtz’s desk, bent at the waist. Most of the items that had been on Kurtz’s desk were now scattered on the floor, the “I LUV MY GRANDPA” mug in shattered pieces of ceramic. The coffee stains mingled with the leftover flecks of Melrose’s blood. Kurtz dug his elbow into the nape of Underhill’s neck, stabbing a bundle of nerves that made Owen snarl a curse between his clenched teeth, cheek pressed against the chilled surface of the desktop. Kurtz leaned over Owen, his breath making his ears hum.
“You’ll have to speak up, laddie-buck. I didn’t quite catch that,” Kurtz murmured. The words bounced around in Owen’s brain, hitting the walls of his mind like a racquetball. Mustering a burst of power, Owen threw an elbow back at Kurtz’s stomach. What Kurtz lacked in brute strength, however, he made up for in dexterity. He had the reflexes of a striking cobra. As soon as Kurtz felt Underhill’s muscles shifting beneath him, he had drawn back in a movement so quick it nearly made a snapping sound. Owen’s driving elbow halted inches away from its target when he felt the cold rod of steel, like Death’s fingertip, press into the back of his head. It no longer mattered that Owen had seventy, maybe eighty pounds on Kurtz. Kurtz had thousands of pounds packed into the .9mm handgun he held.
“Settle down, laddie,” came Kurtz’s stern voice, “we don’t want to make things between us any more messy than they already are.” Owen recognized that as no empty threat.
“I said, kiss my bender,” Owen spat. But that wasn’t what he had said. He had no idea where that colorful phrase had come from until the dim image of a tall, spectacled man flashed into his mind. Henry! he almost gasped aloud; he had drawn the obscenity from Henry’s mind like water from a well. Underhill felt Kurtz smile, as if that manic grin was channeled from Kurtz’s mouth, through his arm, up the barrel of the gun and implanted directly into Underhill’s skull.
“That’s a new one,” Kurtz said with a chuckle that was more like a series of low growls. It was that animal laugh, Owen thought, that was making his blood run cold. A chill ran down his spine; almost a welcome sensation from the heat of his winter clothing. What was not a welcome sensation was the feeling of cool fingertips against his bare skin that followed the chill. It didn’t take long for Owen to realize that Kurtz had unzipped the back of his heavy green coveralls. All the while, the gun loomed as a steady warning.
“You’ve done me over twice, buck,” Kurtz gently reminded Owen, pulling each side of the coveralls down to Underhill’s waist, peeling them away as if he was shucking a cob of corn. “Now it’s only fair that I settle the score.” A short blurt of a laugh erupted from Underhill out of sheer disbelief.
This crazy bastard is going to fuck me into rank, Owen thought, and didn’t give a shit if Kurtz could read the thought. Underhill felt the muzzle of the gun circle his head like a brain surgeon’s scalpel as Kurtz rounded to the other side of the desk. The gun was then trained between Owen’s eyebrows, where the bridge of his nose began. Kurtz pulled open a desk drawer and began to search blindly, his empty gaze never leaving Underhill.
“If you so much as move a goddam muscle, praise god, your gray matter will be wallpapering this office. You hear me, laddie?” Owen made no response, but Kurtz figured that he had. From the drawer, Kurtz had produced a condom wrapped in extremely outdated packaging. While Kurtz tore it open with the aid of his teeth, Owen wondered how long the Durex had been hanging around. Since Kurtz was sixteen? Seventeen?
Well, today’s your luck day, you son of a bitch.
Kurtz removed the gray shorts he wore, exposing his bare groin. Owen couldn’t stop his eyes from widening. Must’ve been some muscle pull to incapacitate that thing, he thought in astonishment, remembering Kurtz’s accident. Underhill watched with a morbid fascination as Kurtz began to methodically stroke his limp cock, applying the condom with nimble precision once it was erect. What disturbed Owen more profoundly than the fact that he was about to be violated by this man was the lack of sensuality, of pleasure, that Kurtz displayed. He treated his genitalia like a standard-issue military rifle. Kurtz kept his t-shirt on as he walked back around the desk. He despised the feeling of hot flesh pressed together, and wanted to avoid it as much as he could. It reminded him of frying greasy slabs of lard-laced pork. That made his stomach turn.
“Praise god, if it can stop AIDS, herpes, and syphilis, it should be able to stop the ripley,” Kurtz said, replacing the gun at the back of Underhill’s head.
“Abstinence is the only guarantee,” Owen replied, his voice calm and even. Above all, he needed to show that he was not intimidated by Kurtz; that was exactly what he wanted. Which is why he chose to sarcastically cite his daughter’s health-class mantra. As an afterthought, he added, “I hope your cock rots with the ripley.” Kurtz grinned. The grin of the shitweasels with their nests of sharp teeth. He decided to humor Underhill, speaking to him as if he was indulging a child.
“Owen, Owen... never underestimate the wonders of surgical care,” Underhill felt the gun digging further into his scalp. “Function’s all you need, buck. Women are vile, manipulative things. Completely incapable of loyalty.” Kurtz leaned to press against Owen, tugging down the long john pants he wore until they were pooled at Underhill’s ankles along with the coveralls. After a thoughtful pause, he whispered maliciously into Underhill’s ear. “In fact, buck, they’re a lot like you.” Owen winced only slightly as Kurtz tried to push himself inside.
Kurtz leaned on top of Owen, his right hand reaching across the desk and grasping the edge with curled fingertips. His other arm was propped up by an elbow on Underhill’s left side, the handgun now against Owen’s temple. Kurtz had caged him with his body while avoiding as much skin-on-skin contact as possible. Just when Underhill thought that he could get out of this situation relatively unharmed -- clean and smiling, in fact -- Kurtz began to buck his hips like a factory piston.
A sudden gasp came from Owen as Kurtz drilled him right-fucking-there, the haze of pain lifting for but a moment. Until he hit it again -- and kept hitting it. The bursts of pleasure came in great rolling waves, but were always countered with skin-crawling repulsion when he remembered that Kurtz was behind him. His cock alternately saluted and retreated in painful confusion.
“You... crossed the... line,” Kurtz gasped into his ear, out of breath from physical exertion alone. But in Kurtz’s eyes, Underhill did more than cross the “Kurtz Line.” He powered over it in a gunship, and had circled back exclusively to piss on it.
A breathless “fuck,” was all the retort Underhill could manage. He forced his mind to draw a blank, to take him anywhere but leaned over Kurtz’s desk in this fucking winnebago. Every time he took his mind out of the situation, he found a slideshow of Dr. Henry Devlin. Owen barely noticed the falter in Kurtz’s rhythm of painful hammering. Oh fuck, the telepathy. Underhill quickly concealed the images of Henry with a veil of ride-a-cockhorse-to-Banbury-Cross.
Henry-goddam-Devlin. He was the reason why Owen was being fucked by his superior. If it wasn’t for Henry, he would have let Kurtz blow his brains out in the first place. But Owen believed that Henry was right; about Typhoid Jonesy, Imperial Valley, the Grayboys, all of it. Because he believed, he had an obligation to get Henry out. He needed to be the hero.
At some point in his thoughts, the Banbury Cross chant faded into the rhythmic hoo-hoo chorus of Sympathy for the Devil, the Squad Anthem. Kurtz heard the voice of Mick Jagger at a distance, as if listening to soft elevator music.
“But what’s puzzling you is the nature of my game,” Kurtz said in a soft singsong voice, his lips close to Owen’s ear, pressing the gun into his temple with painful force as he came.
Kurtz nonchalantly pulled away from Owen and peeled the condom into the garbage like a used tissue. He stepped briskly back into his discarded shorts and took a seat in the chair behind the desk.
“I hope we have an understanding, buck-o,” Kurtz said, making sure to give Owen those confidential friends-again-right-laddie? eyes. The eyes that used to flatter Underhill, the eyes that could no longer fool him. Yeah, I understand that you’re a fucking -- ride a cockhorse to Banbury Cross, ride a cockhorse to Banbury cross, ride a cockhorse to Banbury Cross. The mantra thrummed over and over in his head as he pulled his coveralls up over his half-mast cock, rezipping them and pulling on his jacket.
“Sure, boss.”
“That’s my laddie-buck.”
Owen wanted to sprint from the winnebago. Instead, he snapped Kurtz a particularly insolent salute and painstakingly pulled his gloves back onto his byrus-infected hands. As he turned and slowly walked to the door of the ‘bago, he felt Kurtz’s eyes burning into the back of his head like the bullet that was never fired. A chill passed through him before he stepped out into the storm. A chat and a cigarette was all, thought Underhill with a scoff as he casually started across the snowy camp that was ablaze with lights despite the dark sky. Let Kurtz think that Underhill was humiliated and degraded. Behind the road block at the front of his mind, Owen’s thoughts were racing. He can keep his humiliation when he finds that Henry and I have ridden his fucking-beloved phooka horse into the sunset.
He needed to be the hero.
- 1
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clean and smiling.