Twelve rows of four bucket-seats on the left and right side of each car. A moment later the subterranean magnetic-propulsion monorail fired. It can travel up to four-thousand miles-per-hour. Spike was pressed into his seat, briefly revealing his dark-green eyes from under his straight black hair, which usually veiled his face. His grisly reveries of murder continued on uninterrupted. Spike works as a day laborer excavator for Halliburton, ten hours a day, six days a week, in a waste dump in the middle of nowhere. Due to lack of petroleum, the buried plastics need to be recycled. Corn oil can only do so much. Today was one year continuous employment. Never once was he late. Never once did he not show up. Yet, while everyone else under his supervisor had been trained and promoted to using industrial-exoskeletons within six months, he was still doing the shittiest most grueling work. The only plus to the backbreaking manual labor was the ripped physique he had acquired over the past. He bent slightly at the waist, pushing it out. I heard a noise that sounded like a zip being undone and then he was lowering his jeans, pushing them down over his ass. Red Calvin Klein waistband. White Calvin Klein boxers. I gulped, wondering if I might actually throw up. “So?” “Hnn?” Okay, it wasn't the cleverest response, but it was the only one that my brain could provide. If this wasn't Huey. If this was anyone else but Huey … He turned again, facing me. I'd seen his undies before. I'd seen him in his undies. I'd never seen him hard in his undies before. I gulped. My eyes were riveted to the thick-looking tent. I could make out the head, the ridge, the shaft and his balls. All of it. “So, do you think I'm hot?” I did the only thing I could do. I nodded. “Yes. I think you're fucking amazing.” “Do you … Do you want to?” My gaze left his cock and met his blues. I closed my eyes, shook my head. “Huey, you're drunk. You don't … You've never ...” “Does it look like I don't want you.
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