talked about them with a lot of complexity, like where he thought sexual fantasies came from, tracing his back to incidents in his childhood. I never felt endangered, actually. And now it just seems like a scene in a documentary.
"But, okay, since he moved overseas I think something cracked and he decided to do it because, yeah, I mean you read the letter. It sounds like he's actually killing those boys, right? He's not saying, `I'm transcribing this daydream I had.' " Warren has picked up the letter again. He's squinting down at it, wagging his head. "It sounds real," he says. "But then how would I know?"
Pierre flops in a chair. "I don't know what I should do," he says, fingering his hair. "I could write back and say, `Leave me alone.' Still, I have to admit that I'm kind of addicted to the letters now. But then I'm such a fucking aesthete about everything." "Mm-hm," Warren nods wildly. "If I were you, I'd let him write. That way you can keep a close watch on him. I mean, who knows, I mean..-."
Warren's eyes get a glary sheen that might or might not be imploding emotion. Strange. Anyway, they're not green anymore. More, well, metallic-hued, like those contacts Peter Gabriel wore to look mechanical when he was in Genesis. Come, lube, sweat decorate the bed sheets with grayish polka dots. Under the lights, they must have started to cook because the area smells like a toasted cheese sandwich.
"I knew a guy," Warren continues. "Possibly equally nuts. To make these porns, see, I have to raise money. And one time I was introduced to this rich old gay guy who was interested in financing porn. I spent some weekends at his place. He wanted to pay me to make a snuff video, a real one. He had this cute Asian kid who lived with him who was supposed to be the victim.
"The guy says he'll finance my porns for the rest of my life if I do him this favor and shoot this snuff thing with this Asian kid, him, and a couple of guys I never met who'd do the actual killing. I said no, obviously. No way, of course. But the guy wound up making one anyway, I don't know how. But I know that for sure because, well..." Warren falls back in the scrambled sheets.
"A friend of mine in the industry was passed a copy. He described it to me one night, and I thought, Shit. I had him show me the first couple of minutes, before anything really violent happens, and it's that same Asian kid being tied to a bed, looking very, very upset. I said, `Turn it off.' But part of me thinks, as weird as this sounds, that I blew it.
"I mean, I couldn't even watch the video, so I don't know what I'm imagining, but you know, to have seen that Asian kid being killed in person, if it was going to happen anyway. I mean ... what an unbelievable thing to experience. After that, you'd never be the same person again, I'm positive. Imagine it. Jesus. But that's easy to say now when there's no fucking way."
Pierre's toying with one of his brown curls. "You sound like that Dennis guy," he says. "Or like Dennis's kid brother. Dennis was more, well, not solemn exactly, but centered about it or something. Hmm . . ." The sky's clouding up outside the window. Either that or it's late and the sunset's unusually colorless. "Nice." He hears Warren's clothes open. A dull, irregular pop, pop, pop ...
The yellow wallpaper's fake-elegant in a vaguely uninteresting way. Pierre spaces out studying it. The longer he stares, the more it resembles piss. Yawn. "Get your butt over here," Warren snarls jokingly. He's positioned on the bed, nude, overweight, penis stubby and hard. His hands form what looks like a very small chair. It's poised about a foot or so over his mouth.
As Pierre starts to sit, the chair rises to catch, stop him. "Wait," Warren says. "Have you been tested?" "Yeah, negative." "How's that possible?" Warren mutters. The chair reconfigures and grows slightly wobbly. "I don't know," Pierre says. The chair's about to collapse any second. "Well, okay, I believe you." Pierre's ass
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