Page 68 of The Trailer Park Twink
“Enough! That’s e–fuckin’–nough. I ain’t letting y’all tear each other to shreds on the first day of the rest of me and Aussie’s life together. I’m already opening my new home to everyone, just so the Core Four doesn’t have to break up, you’d think I could at least get five minutes of uninterrupted peace without you three biting each other’s heads off. Just fuckin’ apologize and move on already.”
Johnny reluctantly looks over at Ezra. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to be sorry for, but I’m sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry in the slightest, but then, neither did we when it was our turn. It must be good enough for Daddy, because he turns his attention back to the country road and continues driving. We ride in silence for the next ten minutes until Daddy pulls up to Pathfinders Lake.
When I see the job the boys have done, my heart slams in my chest. It probably breaks every rule instilled by the HOA, but my God... it is glorious.
After our performance at Pretty Boy Prison, we returned home to find Mom already gone, having abandoned the trailer house with a note stating she was running away to join a commune. Apparently, the group calls themself The Temple of the Rising Snowfall. Stupidest fucking cult name ever. Via Google, I learned there are sixty-three members, and they all worship a giant rock of crystal meth that’s bigger than a human head. Together, they do tweakerly things like search thecarpet for stray shards of meth they can superglue to the table holding up the methball like the world’s worst mosaic. They rewire electrical outlets that don’t need to be rewired—often shocking themselves in the process. Yes, they do many things, but one thing they don’t do is ingest methamphetamine. If the cult member testimonials are any indication, it’s a recovery program of sorts. They worship meth so they won’t do meth.
What-the-fuck-ever.
Mom’s on her own journey once again, and whether that leads to sobriety or a Jim-Jones-style exit from this world is in the hands of fate.
Regardless of reasoning, when she left, she left the trailer house to us, claiming she didn’t need earthly possessions, and she only wanted someone she referred to as “Daddy Dom.” I’m assuming she’s talking about Dominic Dominguez, the man in charge of their silly little temple. I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s a doomsday cult, and I’m one-hundred percent sure I don’t really care.
The first thing we noticed when we arrived was a large time bomb strapped to the front door. She may have thought it was a time bomb, but she must’ve been high as fuck when she did it, because the bomb in question was simply an old toaster with a stopwatch glued in the center. Still, Daddy was scared of removing it, so he called the police who, in turn, called in the bomb squad. When they arrived, theofficer-daddies stared at us like we were stupid, snatched the toaster off the door, and tossed it into the trailer park’s dumpster, threatening us with legal action if we ever bother them again. In return, I told them to get a real job. They didn’t seem to care for that.
The festivities didn’t end there, because an hour later, Bubba got a call from the other guy who works at their shop—Queerbait, apparently—who broke the bad news. Bubba wept as he was told Mom burned the machine shop to the ground on her way out of town, pausing long enough to open a tube of Morton salt and spread it in a circle around the building as it burned. Thankfully, Daddy and Bubba came up with a plan. Whether it’s a good plan or a bad plan is yet to be seen, but they seem optimistic about the prospect of using the insurance money to build anew, starting from scratch. Clint said he didn’t have anything better to do, so he asked to tag along.
“I want you all to behave yourselves,” Daddy warns. “I swear to God, if we get out of this truck and you boys start swingin’ on each other, I’ll be busting some asses.”
Ezzy gasps as he looks out the window, and his knees are shaking so hard, they’re knocking against mine, which... ouch.
“Bubba,” he whispers, his eyes widening with something that looks a lot like hope in his eyes.
Daddy turns off the engine and hops out, walking around the truck and opening the back door, helping Ezra to the ground. The moment his feet touch down, he rushes toward the cabin as Johnny shouts, “Oh, no you don’t!” Johnny tries to open the door on his side, but it’s child locked. He jerks the handle frantically before turning and lunging our way like a rabid dog. Seeming panicked, he climbs over me and past Daddy, falling out of the truck and landing on his knees. “Son of a—” He stands and runs toward the house as fast as he can, shouting, “Bubba!” at the top of his lungs.
I wish the three of them would just shut up and fuck already.
Daddy lifts me into his arms and places me on his hip. His lips part as they approach, and when we touch, it feels like an explosion in the middle of my chest. He’s kissing me like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do, and I just sit here taking it, matching his tongue’s movement like they’re two practiced dancers. Like it’s what we’ve been preparing for all our lives. Maybe we have. I don’t know if fated mates are a real thing, but if they are, I know for a fact Dallas is mine.
He touches my cheek, soft and sweet, removing his tongue from my mouth until our mouths are barely connected. “I love you, Austin,” he whispers, resting his forehead against mine. “If you’ve changed your mind about the living arrangements, I’ll tell them all the get fucked. I mean, I hope I won’t have to, especially with all the construction they did while we weregone, but if that’s what you want, I’ll do it.” His thumb brushes back and forth against my cheek. “I’ll do anything for you. All you ever have to do is ask.”
I give him a crooked grin and shake my head, because I don’t like the idea of losing my friend, and I know he’d never stay if Bubba left.
Clint and Bubba left Texas two days before we did, saying they wanted to get the massive renovation underway before we got there. They called it a wedding gift, even though we never got married. A gentleman never turns up his nose at an offer of free manual labor, though. Is it a little strange that two men were able to construct a DIY two-story home in two days? Probably, but they’re both blue-collar daddies. Give them a case of beer and a pack of smokes, and they can move mountains.
I’m a little nervous about being the odd-gay-out, if I’m being honest. Aside from Ezzy, everyone that’s going to live here has always had a preference for women. Yes, they’re all probably some shade of queer, but it’s not the same shade as me, and I’m scared I won’t fit in. I don’t care that they’re bisexual, obviously, I just don’t know how to connect with them on that level. What happens if they choose to discuss the art of cunnilingus? I know how to eat a man’s ass like an all-you-can-eat buffet, but if they start discussing their methods of bringing a woman to orgasm via clitoral stimulation,I’m going to have to sit there with my head hung down in shame the same way I had to, back when I was still in school and the boys in gym would talk about their alleged weekend conquests.
Initially, it wasn’t so scary, because I thought I could even the playing field by bringing Brian, Jamie, and Deirdre along. They’re all strictly dickly, just like me, so at least there would be a few people who know the path I’ve walked, because they’ve walked it as well. They refused, telling me no rational person moves clear across the country on a whim. Sucks for them, because we did, and we’re going to make it work. Wehaveto make it work. It’s not that I don’t want to have to hear about their past with women, I just don’t ever want to feel like the odd man out. I guess I won’t have to, because I’ve always got Ezra, but what if he leaves one day? And then what if the guys all get wives, and those wives have children, and I have to be the token guncle to twenty wayward youths?
Dallas turns so we’re both facing our newly remodeled home. “She’s a beaut, ain’t she?”
“A beaut” isn’t necessarily what I’d call it, but that’s mainly because I would never in my life use the word “beaut.” What I would call it, however, is magnificent.
My God, the place is like a modern-day Stonehenge with its impossible structure. The cabin is where it’s always been, obviously, but through the wondrous ways of Bubba and Co.,our old trailer house has been placed on top of it like a DIY second story. Unfortunately, the trailer is twice as long as the cabin, so cement blocks have been precisely placed beneath it, propping it up for support. There are six columns in total, making it look like a really neat hiding spot for when Ezzy and I play midnight hide and seek.
Ahead of us, Ezra clings to one side of Bubba while Johnny takes the other, and the three of them are staring up at the bottom of the trailer.
“Whoa,” Ezzy says.
“God damn,” Johnny says.
“I did it myself,” Bubba says, blushing. “I know it ain’t exactly the eighth world wonder or anything, but does it look presentable, at least?”
“It’s breathtaking,” Ezzy says, and Johnny just smiles and nods in agreement, reaching for Bubba’s hand. “Don’t touch him!” Ezra lifts his hand into the air and delivers a brutal karate chop, making both men cry out in pain. “Fuck! That hurt my hand, dick. What are you, just skin and indestructible bone?” He narrows his eyes and pokes Johnny in the chest. “Stop throwing yourself at him. Do you know how pathetic it makes you look?”
Holding his aching hand, Johnny stares down at Ezra’s hand, now clinging to the tail of Bubba’s shirt, then back into Ezra’s eyes, blinking slowly. “You were saying?”
“Die.”
