The Comic Shop.  Closed and dark except for faintly lit second-floor windows.  The former Lightwave Office had become Red Cape Central – its remaining file cabinet and two desks a bookkeeping oasis surrounded by metal shelves of stock and old files.

Legal forms, notes and paper coffee cups littered Justin’s painted desk where Michael and Justin sat across from each other and perused steno pads of scribbled notes - Michael hunching tense in thought, Justin leaning back with feet propped on the desk edge.

Justin watched Michael’s brooding eyes aimed at his pad but too static to be reading anything.  “Maybe we should do what Ben and Brian suggested and get an attorney.”

“At four hundred dollars an hour?  Look how much time we’re putting into this.”  Michael slapped his pad on the desk.  “I say we go ahead with the changes.”

“What?”  Justin ignited, snapped forward, “What do you want, Michael?  Will And Rage?” slapped HIS pad on the desk, “Queer Eye For The Gay Hero?  That’s not RAGE.”

“I want this movie to get MADE!” Michael erupted, surprising Justin and himself.  Troubled by his outburst and seeing Justin’s open-mouthed shock, he quickly toned down.  “It’s not like we’re the only film out there.  If we fool around -”

“I’m not fooling around,” Justin recovered, leaned back and crossed his arms.

Michael clenched his hands in his lap.  “No.  What I’m saying is, they’re interested NOW, and we should get started NOW, before they lose interest and go on to other things.  Maybe forget about us altogether.”

“Brett won’t let that happen.”

“Is Brett putting up the money?”

“But they already started production.  I saw the mock-ups myself.”

“And I’ve been to enough Comic Cons to know when a buyer’s in or not.  What I saw at that meeting told me Fenderman’s antsy.  If we can’t stay under an R rating, it’s no big deal for him to just cut his losses and run.”

Justin exhaled, rubbed both hands over his face and leaned forward.  “Okay.”  Can’t discount Michael’s business experience.  “The big stumbling block is the sex.”  Justin cleared his throat, grabbed his notepad.  “Let’s go back over the options.”  Somewhere between all-out-fucking and a bed-in-the-background, there has to be a way to keep the true essence of Rage.

“Okay.”  Michael lifted his notepad, grabbed a sip of coffee and soured at its cold temp.  We can’t blow this chance.

Later in the Loft living room, Brian sat on a floor cushion propped against the wall across from the playing TV, jean-clad legs stretched long and bare feet crossed, food magazines stacked in his lap as he watched the News.  He heard the Loft door and waited until Justin shuffled into view, face long and silent.  Didn’t look good.  “So how WAS it?”

“Okay,” Justin shrugged, dropped his bag at Brian’s desk, raised a tiny smile and waved a blank DVD case.  “I picked us up a movie.”

“Which one?”  Obviously not Rage.

“The Great Escape.”  Justin kicked his shoes off, sank down at Brian’s left side and opened the case then noticed the TV.  “I’ll wait until you finish this.”

“It’s just the news.  Put the movie on.”  Brian saw Justin pick at the disc with little interest.  Fuck.  Can’t put my goddamned arm around you.  “You’ll be happy to know that most of the flood clean-up is done.  Now the major-appliance sellers take over.”

Justin shuffled to the DVD player, “Mel, Linz and Debbie’ll be glad they won’t hafta heat water much longer,” started the film and returned with the remote.

Brian shoved the magazines to his left and patted the spot on his right.  Justin edged another smile before settling into Brian’s hold and nestling against his shoulder.  “Which one’s Steve McQueen?”

“I’ll let you know,” Brian blew into Justin’s hair, kissed his temple but got little more response than a slight move and slow blink.  “He’ll be the crafty bad-ass who’s only out for himself.  But he has moments of redemption.”

Justin’s smile warmed.  “Sounds exactly like your kind of movie.”

Brian eyed Justin’s fingers tracing the buttons on the remote. “You want to tell me about yours?  Or should I keep guessing until I get it right?”

Justin sighed, slid down until his head rested on Brian’s thigh, one hand rubbing it more in disquieted gesture than for intimacy.  “We couldn’t reach agreement on the main concept.  But…we’re still talking.”

“That’s a good sign.”  Though not a good sound.  Brian slowly stroked Justin’s shoulder, down his side and back like he was trying to sweep off the strain.  Touched Justin’s hair and brushed it from his temple.  Checked the movie,  “That’s him,” and felt a jiggle from Justin’s quiet chuckle.

“Babies don’t look like that.”

“How many have you seen?”

“Enough.” Justin darkened, bit his lip and saw an unfocused screen through half-closed eyes.  “Brian?”

“Hm?”

“If I ask you for a favor, I want you to know that I don’t expect you to do it.”

Brian stopped movement for a fraction, continued his slow strokes.  You certainly know how to get my attention.  “What?”

Shit.  If I told him to roll over for me just to prove a point, I can ask him for this.  Justin shut his eyes to format the request, opened them again.  “Can you stop by Red Cape tomorrow at noon…and take Michael to lunch?”

Warning.  Warning.  “Why?”

“We have a conference call with Brett and that producer, Fenderman.  Brett doesn’t think Michael’s helping the deal.”

All movement stopped.  Fuck.  “What do YOU think?”

“After tonight?  I think he’s right.  But Michael and I are still partners.  We still have to work together.  I don’t want to have to cut him down on a conference call.  I know what I’m asking.  And you don’t have to answer.  It’s not your deal.”

Brian froze, mind racing through analysis.  Fucking exploit our friendship?  But the tone.  Hesitant and desperate.  It’s YOUR deal!  But…you never ask me for much.  The alternative.  They’ll work it out.  Or CAN they.  Mikey’s already in a funk.  And this is Justin’s chance.  Involvement risk level, high.  Don’t know Brett Keller, don’t know this fucking producer.  Net gain for all parties?  Can’t see it.  Can’t fucking see it.  But sometimes…all there is to go on is a purpose and an instant feeling.  A feeling DID click.  But for you, I’ll give it time to change.  “I’ll have to think it over.”

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Not telling me to go fuck myself.”

Brian curved his hand under Justin’s head to coax some lift, bent low and kissed Justin’s hair.  “Fucking you is something I prefer to do personally.”  Though I don’t see it happening tonight.  Brian lowered Justin’s head, but it lifted away when Justin rolled onto his stomach, propped himself on folded arms and pressed light kisses on Brian’s thigh.  Shifted forward and moved the assault to Brian’s crotch.

Brian drew a sharp breath through clenched teeth.  “Is this a bribe?”

“It’s me doing what I want.”

Justin slowly unzipped Brian’s jeans like he was uncovering fragile treasure.  Watched the length of cock throb, darken and thicken.

Eyes closed, mouth open and hot breath hissing, Brian concentrated on velvety tongue swirling over his cockhead.  Warm mouth sucking him into a snug, caressing tunnel.  Brian gripped the back of Justin’s neck, signaled to up the tempo.  Take it.  Take it.  Take it.  Want it quick.  Because I want something more.  Been ready since you left.  Brian wet his lips, saliva flowing.  So that when he came, it was fierce and more driven by desire than pleasure.

Justin ran his tongue over swollen lips as he smiled at Brian’s afterglow - closed eyes, placid smile, little bit of sweat.  And I did it.

Brian cracked his eyes open, pulse still hitting.  “Now it’s MY turn.  Coffee table.  On your back.”  He watched Justin stand.  Cherry smile, twinkling eyes staying on him even as his body turned away - jeans coming loose and drifting down the sway of ass with each leisured step.  Thumb hooking briefs and pulling down for just a glimpse of crack. Fucking little tramp.

Justin thought he’d give Brian time to get up, stretch and work out kinks.  But Justin had barely gotten seated on the cold glass when Brian dropped beside him.  On his knees, going at Justin’s neck and pushing him down.  Yanking off jeans, flying his briefs overhead, lips back on his neck.  “jesus, Brian.  You’ll crack the glass!” he laughed, hands running through Brian’s hair.  All the while repeating to himself:  Watch the shoulder.  Watch the shoulder.

Brian layered a trio of kisses on Justin’s lips then moved off, spread Justin’s knees and knelt between them.  Curled his arm under Justin’s leg, hugged tight and lowered his lips to firm dick flushed and twitching.  Sweet musk…taste.  Sweet.  Always knew you were sweet.  Brian felt the soft flesh of Justin’s thigh mold around his fingers.  Heard the little grunts and moans as he worked his tongue and lips for mutual reward.  Never just a blowjob.  With you, it’s never just a job.

Later, in bed on their sides and facing each other, foreheads touching, Justin traced the line of Brian’s jaw.  “Looked like a good movie.  What we saw of it.”

“It was supposedly based on a true story.”

“Real people?”

“I guess they wanted their story told.”  Brian rolled his lips in, didn’t want to revive what passion managed to melt away.  But Justin deserved an answer.  “I think you and Mikey…should handle the deal together.”

Justin slid his hand down and stopped it on Brian’s chest, small nod meshing their hair.  Disappointed, but “I understand.  It’s okay.”

Brian nosed Justin’s forehead, hinting for a kiss.  Met his rising eyes, tasted his lips.  Then rolled to his back and pulled his arm from under Justin’s pillow.

Justin raised the covers so his own moves wouldn’t pull them off Brian.  He settled in, trying not to think about tomorrow.  So he pictured McQueen.  And Brando.  And Dean.  And wondered if a kid with a father like Jack Kinney sought his model through film.  Or if he always was McQueen…and Brando…and Dean…and just needed to SEE who he was.

Brian closed his eyes.  Tomorrow, Exotic Epicurean – just number one in line.  A ragged staff.  Justin, Michael and Rage.  Steve McQueen seated on the floor against a gray concrete wall, gray light.  Locked in the Cooler again, planning his chance to break free.

Brian’s Kinnetik office.  Gray in dawn light.  Nobody there but Brian, leaning against the wall and psyching himself to start.  He finally flicked on the light, sat at his desk and fired up his computer.  Eyed the Epicurean folder on his desk, tapped fingertips on it then swiveled decisively to his keyboard.  Accessed his search engine and typed in: Brett Keller.  Scrolled to Biography and entered.

Footsteps in the outer hall.  Brian froze.  Listened.  Panned slowly and breathed out when he saw Ted’s cautious face lean and peer through the glass door.

Relieved, Ted pushed the door open and walked in.  “Brian.  Thank god it’s you.  I thought it was a burglar.”

“And if I had a gun, you’d be shot by now.  Why are you here two hours early instead of fifteen minutes late like most of the staff?”

“I thought I’d get a head start so…” his eyes wandered, voice collapsed,  “I could ask you if I could take off early.”

“One word.  Monday.”

“But -”

“I know.  You like details.” Brian snatched a sheet of scribbled notes and faced it toward Ted.  “Monday…six call-offs including three from the Art Department…and a one o’clock deadline for Epicurean which depends largely on the Art Department we don’t have.  I’ll be tap-dancing all day, Theodore.  I can do it without one hand.  But I can’t do it without the Office Manager.”  Then Brian looked off with uncharacteristic indecision.  “And I may need you to cover the operation for an hour around lunch.”

“Yes, Sir.” Ted retreated.

Brian lifted and held out the Epicurean folder.  “As long as you’re here, take this to the Art Department as soon as…IF anyone shows up.”

Ted opened it to a color sketch of a goldfish with: Passé, Blasé.  And over the infamous cockroach, “Cock Is In?” Ted’s face twisted.

“Would you prefer Eat Cock Instead?  It’s aimed at the college crowd.”

Ted flipped to the next page.  “This is better.”  Unique, Daring, Memorable.  Lead the Ultimate Dining Adventure.  Picture of the hefty bug in a magazine cut-out collage of caviar, sushi, edible flowers, delicate Asian look on marine blue plates.  “Doesn’t exactly make my mouth water, but -”

“Does unemployment?”

“I’m right on it.”  Ted spun to the door, grimaced a decision and turned back.  “I’m sure I can finish my work by two.” Ted hesitated under Brian’s direct stare.  “Two-thirty?  Look.  I promised a couple of my Mother’s friends -”

“Is it short story?”

Ted nodded to the side, eyes darting off then back.  “When I went through my Twelve-Step amends, I took one person for granted who should’ve been first.  I can’t just tell my Mother I’m sorry.  It won’t bring back the respect she lost from her friends because of things…I did.  She never asks me for much, and I have a chance to do something special for her.  So…that’s about it.”

Hard to argue against Do-Don’t-Say.  And he flashed back to Mrs. Schmidt at the hospital, there for her son without laying guilt or judging him. “Two-thirty.  Not a minute earlier.”

“Thank you, Brian, thank -”

“Don’t you have work to do?”

Ted did a tongue-click, pointed a You-Da-MAN finger and strolled out with folder in hand.  In his realm of fragile ego, a success high always countered the pain of submissive inferiority.  As the glass door shut behind him, he smiled to himself - Ted Schmidt, you’re on a roll.  Next stop…Our Lady of Supreme Doubt.

Brian turned back to his computer screen, stared at Keller.  What’s your gain?

On Red Cape’s desk computer monitor, a picture of Brett Keller surrounded by print.

Justin, dressed school casual in the gray light of the closed store, scrolled down a page, heard jingling at the door, looked up and saw Michael flipping through keys. “It’s open!”

Michael hurried in and slid his portfolio on the counter beside Justin’s bag.  “You’re early.”

“One of my classes cancelled.”  Then he wrinkled his nose.  “Is that gasoline?”

“Paint thinner,” Michael sniffed his hand.  “I was resealing Mom’s basement walls.  At least they’re block.  Mel and…their house had drywall.  Ben’s got a crew ripping them out but it won’t be cheap to replace.”  He centered the phone on the desk.

“Yeah, I was there.  It’s a real mess.  Want me to get the light?”

“No, that’s good enough,” Michael pointed to the computer monitor.  “I don’t want people thinking we’re open when we’re not.” He touched the speaker key on the phone and adjusted volume on the dial tone, mumbled, “Feels like I’m on a job interview,” took a breath and let it out.  “Ready?”

Justin calmly checked his wristwatch. “We have a few minutes yet, but I’d rather be early.”

Michael hit an autodial button, nervously sniffed his hand again, counted three rings.

A woman answered, “Fenderman Productions.”

Before Michael could answer, Justin leaned toward the speaker, confident and direct.  “Hi.  Justin Taylor and Michael Novotny with Red Cape Comics?  We have a conference call scheduled with Mr. Fenderman and Brett Keller.”

“Just a moment, please.”

Justin eyed Michael who smiled back.  So far so good.

Brett’s voice chimed, “Justin.  Michael.  We were just going over a couple of details.”

Fenderman cut in, “I was thinking, maybe Rage should be more into crime-busting, people-saving.  Lotta room for C G effects there.  And maybe more righteous.  Not so callous.”

Justin quickly answered, “We discussed this already, and part of Rage’s aura is his different approach to what being a hero IS.”

Michael agreed.  “He’s not like other heroes.  And if you look at some of what’s out there in the comic world, take WANTED.  It’s about the Son of a SuperVillain, and that movie’s already in the works.  I’ve got advance orders for Kabuki and WE3 – that’s a dog, cat and rabbit who’re cyborg assassins.  Rage is even more unique.  He already has a devoted fanship, and we’d like him to stay the way he is.”

Justin beamed at Michael.  His knowledge, his strong defense.  Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as he thought.

Fenderman’s voice flattened.  “It’s not his attitude toward evil and crime…it’s his attitude toward sex. Even if we leave just the DIALOGUE in, we’ll be lucky to get an R.”

Michael started, “Well, there may be -”

Brett clipped,  “The way I understand it, Rage is motivated by his sexuality, right?  So the sex scenes have to be reasonably explicit to make his motivation credible, right Justin?”

“Absolutely, and that’s one characteristic of Rage that we really can’t compromise,” Justin leaned even closer, saw Michael’s eyes widen.  “Sexuality is a very important part of being gay, and as a gay Superhero, we need Rage to emulate that.”

Fenderman continued, “I realize that according to contract, we’re obligated to represent Rage within guidelines set by the creators.  But I had hoped that after our meeting, you’d see my position and be willing to modify your ideas.  I mean, I’m not in the adult movie business here.”

Michael didn’t like the dry tone.  “We DID discuss -”

“The point is,” Justin cut him off, saw Michael’s eyes narrow and felt the tension, “That the sex be, like Brett said, REASONABLY explicit.  I think you should give our original concept a chance and LOOK at it before suggesting any changes.  Don’t you think that’s fair?”  He could almost hear Fenderman thinking, see Brett smiling.

Fenderman breathed, “Gay is ONE thing.  It’s already risky.”

Michael again tried, “We can -”

“ANY picture carries risk,” Justin argued.

“It’s the risk LEVEL,” Fenderman countered.  “I’m willing to go out on a limb for a blockbuster, but not an indie.”

Justin countered, “People always want something new and different, and that’s exactly what Rage is.”

Brett broke in, “Justin’s right.  We should do the film like the Comic.  THEN decide what to edit.  Agreed?  Come on.  It only makes sense.”

“Is that the way you both feel?” Fenderman sounded disappointed.  “Michael?”

“I -”

“That’s right,” Justin plowed in, saw Michael’s hand fist on the desk.

“If that’s the case,” Fenderman resigned, “I’ll keep the green light on for now, but I WILL expect some cooperation if I decide to change direction.  Are we agreed on THAT?”

Justin started, “That’ll depend on -”

“YES, we’re willing to cooperate,” Michael spewed, harsh eyes still on Justin.

“Good.” Fenderman sounded better about it.  “Now if you fellas will excuse me, I have other business waiting.”

Brett concluded, “And I have a Casting Director to call, so thanks, Guys, for your input.  We’ll be in touch.  Gotta go.”

Michael and Justin simultaneously gave Thanks-Bye’s.  Then Michael disengaged the conference button and glared at Justin.  “What the fuck was THAT all about?”

“What?”

“We can’t compromise the sex?  And we BOTH feel that way?”

“He AGREED to it, didn’t he?”

“He’s this close to pulling the plug!” Michael indicated a tiny space between thumb and forefinger.  “We might’ve done better if you’d let ME talk to him.”

Justin hissed a breath.  “We got what we wanted, so what’s the problem.”

“The problem is, Fenderman’s still not sold.”  Michael grabbed the phone, touched autodial.

“What’re you doing.”

“Calling him back.”

Justin grabbed the phone out of his hand and slammed it down.  “You can’t do that.  We already GOT the okay!”

“I think we should tell him to go ahead with what he wants and keep the deal firm.”

“And sell out?  jesus CHRIST, Michael.”

“Don’t jesus-christ ME,” Michael erupted.  “You may be the ARTIST, but I’M the WRITER.”

“What the fuck is THAT supposed to mean?”

“I own the copyright, and anything they want to do with Rage’s story is mostly up to ME.”

“Oh, no.  We’re partners and any court would recognize that.”

“For the BUSINESS, not my stories.”

“They’re MY stories, too.”

Michael grabbed a copy of Rage from under the counter, flipped to the inside cover and slapped it in front of Justin.  “It’s in writing.”

Justin didn’t need to see the Written By Michael Novotny to know it was there.  He kept hard eyes on Michael.  “Fuck you.  If you make that call, fuck you.”  Justin yanked his bag off the counter and stormed to the door.  I don’t believe this.  I don’t FUCKING believe this!  “Don’t FUCK with me,” he seethed and walked out.

Michael watched the door close, anger draining to misery.  He gently lifted the Rage comic, stared numbly at it.  Then he flung it against the wall, leaned on his elbows and buried his face in his hands.  What happened.  What the FUCK just happened.  I…just…want…this movie…to be made.

Michael stares at the phone; Justin smacks the building wall; Brian stands in Kinnetik’s empty Art Department and points out machines to Ted and Cynthia.

Song: “Guanxi (Super 8 Remixes)” by Menno de Jong

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