Dance of the Warriors

Dance of the Warriors by Kevin Esser † † † Kevin Esser's Dance of the Warriors is totally hot, it kicks ass, and should be treasured as one of the very few members of that gorgeous hybrid set of radical porno queer SF novels, an exclusive genre presided over by Uncle Bill Burroughs & including Sam Delaney & myself... and that's about it. All right! VAG POWER! - Hakim Bey, author of Crowstone I suspect this book will become the man - boy love statement and a sort of rallying cry to the masses. I've certainly been feeling the urge to scrawl 'VAG POWER!' on every wall I see. - Camilla Copyright 1988 by The Acolyte Press First Edition published in March, 1988 in The Netherlands All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio or television review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. The Acolyte Press P. O. Box I273I 1100 AS Amsterdam - ZO The Netherlands CIP - GEGEVENS KONINKLUKE BIBLIOTHEEK, DEN HAAG Esser, Kevin Dance of the Warriors / Kevin Esser. - Amsterdam: Acolyte Press ISBN 90 - 6971 - 010 - 2 UDC 82 - 31 Trefw.: romans; oorspronkelijk - Engels. DANCE OF THE WARRIORS by Kevin Esser ebook by the Ghost Book One One Summer was dying. A few leaves were falling from the oak trees in the front yard, fluttering dry and brown to the grass. Teddy sat watching them from the porch, his chin resting on both fists. It was hot for September, sunny and humid. A weak breeze ruffled Teddy's hair. He wrinkled his nose at the sharp stench blowing from the nearby fields. Two weeks of heavy rain had turned them into swampland. Lettuce and cabbage and cauliflower lay rotting and stinking in the mud, impossible to harvest. All spring and summer, the Mexican migrant workers had labored in the fields, tending the crops - but now those crops were a foul mess, cooking in the sun. “They smell wormy,” Teddy whispered to himself. He glanced up as a door banged from across the gravel road. It was the new man, the stranger who had recently moved into the rundown old house that everyone called “the shack” because of its cracked shingles and broken shutters and sagging, lopsided porch. Teddy had noticed him once or twice, but there was nothing special about him. Not tall, not fat, not ugly. Just average. His brown hair and beard were streaked with gray. He wore a pair of wire - rimmed glasses that flashed sunlight now as he lifted his head. Teddy looked away quickly, somehow embarrassed, not sure why. The man stared across the road for another moment, then checked his empty mailbox and walked back into the house. Another leaf wafted to the ground. In a few weeks, it would be - time to rake them up. Teddy smiled at the thought. The work was a pain, but it brought him good money around the neighborhood. Sometimes, though, even making and saving money seemed pointless. The new war made everything seem pale and unimportant. The whole world was going to be blown apart. His teachers insisted that photon and plasma weapons would never be used, but Teddy didn't believe them. The smell of death was everywhere. He wandered around to the back of the house and went inside, his canvas bookbag dangling from his right hand, bumping across the floor. Old food was on the kitchen table - scraps of cheese and lunchmeat, an open jar of instant coffee, half-eaten sandwiches, an empty can of Chef Boyardee spaghetti. The sink was piled with greasy dishes, cups, crusty silverware, pans, pots, cracked Tupperware, all soaking in cold, dirty water. Teddy surveyed the mess. Same as ever. He went into the living room. His mother was on the couch, a glass of vodka in her hand. She glanced at Teddy as he walked past, on his way to the bedroom. “How was school?” She sounded almost interested. “Oh, fine,” he said, smiling briefly, pausing outside the door to his room. “Nothing special, really. It was fine.” “Good,” she nodded, her eyes drifting back to the vid screen. Another group of fag-crims had been rounded up and were being shipped to the Correctional Camps in Utah. They shuffled to the prison van in their gray robes, their foreheads branded with the mark of the serpent. Teddy watched them until a commercial for dog food flashed onto the screen, then turned away slowly and went into his room. From his window he could see across the back yard to Sandburg Creek, and across that to the muddy patchwork of fields simmering beneath the evening sun. Away in the distance, near the railroad tracks that bordered the far edge of the fields, he could just see the trailers of the migrant workers, a shabby jungle of wood and tin. He knew one of the boys from over there, a fifteen-year-old kid named Cisco Zepeda who sometimes sat in the vegetable stand up the road. They had gotten to know each other during the summer. They weren't exactly friends, but they liked each other well enough to hang out together and talk about the war. The prospect of joining the military excited Cisco. “I wanna be a Red Beret,” he always said. “Or maybe a Christian Guard. They're chill, man, absolutely the best.” Teddy wanted no part of it. He was only thirteen, still five years away from being drafted, but the war was closing in, getting nearer. All the boys over eighteen had already disappeared from the neighborhood. Now there was talk of lowering the draft age to sixteen. And it would happen soon enough, Teddy was sure of that. He turned away from the window and kicked off his shoes. They were black and tight and uncomfortable. Teddy hated them. He hated his whole school uniform. Blue and white. ”The colors of our Blessed Virgin,” the teachers often reminded the class. “Chastity, purity, sinless perfection.” Baby- blue shirt, baby-blue pants, blue-and-white clip-on tie: the uniform of St. Mary's Academy for Boys. It was a sweet relief to take it off every evening. Teddy draped the shirt and pants and tie across the back of a chair. He glanced at himself in the big mirror above the dresser, a slender boy wearing white underpants and black socks. His blond hair was brushed back long and curly behind his ears. He ran one finger back and forth between his nipples, wishing that he had some hair on his chest. He flexed his biceps, grimaced at his reflection, did a flurry of rapid karate punches. Cisco also liked karate. Teddy wandered to the window and gazed across the flooded fields toward the distant cluster of trailers. The boys had agreed, weeks before, to practice together, to help each other with their karate moves. Teddy had forgotten about it until now. He decided to visit Cisco in the morning. Saturday. No school. Nothing else to do anyway. His mother called him for supper. Teddy mumbled, “Yeah, OK, I'm coming,” and headed for the kitchen. There was a pan of soup on the table. Most of the other debris had been cleared away. His mother glanced at him as he pulled out a chair and sat down. “You shouldn't run around without any clothes,” she said. “It's not very nice.” “I've got clothes,” Teddy said. He snapped the elastic waistband on his briefs. “It's too hot for other stuff, anyway.” “You're too old. It's sort of... it's not nice,” his mother said again. She sat across the table and watched as Teddy poured the soup into his bowl. Chicken broth and noodles splashed steaming from the pan. “How was school today?” Teddy looked up. “Fine,” he said. His mother's eyes were bloodshot and droopy. He was no longer surprised by her memory lapses or her constantly repeated questions. “School was fine, Mom.” She nodded, smoothed back her hair with a heavy, awkward hand. “I can make you a sandwich,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “A sandwich might be nice.” “No, Mom, that's OK.” “A sandwich... “Her voice faded into silence. She stood up and walked toward the living room. “I'll just watch the vid,” she said. “Just watch a little vid for a while.” “You're not going to eat anything?” “Had some already, hon.” She was lying, of course. Teddy knew she was going into the living room for another drink. She didn't like to drink in front of him. Doing it in private made it seem less serious, less of a problem. Discretion. Propriety. Something like that. Teddy finished his soup. He pushed back his chair, scraping it noisily across the linoleum, and crossed to the back door. The swampy fields were glowing rose and orange in the twilight. They looked almost pretty now. Six geese flew slowly above, black against the sun. Teddy could hear their honking, lonesome in the distance. He leaned his cheek against the cool screen. The mesh smelled dusty and metallic. He hoped that Cisco would be home tomorrow. His eagerness surprised him. Seeing Cisco suddenly seemed important. Special. Maybe even exciting. Two Richard checked his mailbox, glanced once more across the road, then went back into the house. He lit a Camel. His hand was trembling. The sight of the boy had been like a kick in the stomach.

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