The Deadline

THE DEADLINE
By Jason Fury
(Honcho.Feb.1982)

My city editor was an ugly sonofabitch.

Yet, to hear some of the reporters giggle and drool over him you would've thought he was Gable, Bogart, Redford and Travolta all rolled up into one humpy stud by the name of Chuck King. Not in my book.

"He looks like the Frankenstein Monster," I snorted one afternoon to Mark, a photographer who had begun hanging around my desk a lot in the newsroom of the Sun Times, a small but lively little morning paper on the Carolina coast. Mark, dark, olive-skinned and handsome as all get out, laughed. 

But then he commented, "Yeah, maybe you're right — but try looking at it from a girl's viewpoint."

"What?" I gasped. "Just look at him." I whispered furiously. "What is so attractive about the lout?"

We both studied the figure of our dominator who was at that moment giving our newest edition, sweet little Sally Jane, the "treatment." Blessed with a magnificent set of bazooms, she could not write her way out of a paper sack.

They stood in the corner, with Chuck towering over her; she regarded him with the same fascination a rat might stare back at a cobra. I flicked my eyes over him in complete disgust. You stupid slob!

Chuck stood at a hulking six feet four, slightly stoop shouldered. His thinning black hair was slicked back from his forehead. Days under the sun on the nearby beaches had bronzed him like an Indian; everything except his face which was still an unbecoming pink and pitted with pock marks. But when he became angry, it turned into a terrifying white; his pockmarks became purple. I should know; everything I did seemed to infuriate him. Like most men with bad complexions, his physique was better than average — broad, rugged shoulders and neck, and a narrow waist. But — his mouth was too big. When he grinned, it was like somebody had slashed his face in half, showing all those large, white teeth, and . . .

"Look at his hands and feet," I pointed out eagerly to Mark. "Look at how grotesque they are! Just like Frankenstein's!"

"Yeah," snickered Mark impishly, "but take a look at that big bulge in his crotch. It always looks like old Chuck there's got a big hard on. That's just his cock on soft. I saw it last week when he was taking a leak and it's a fucking thick dick that man's got. I heard when it gets really hard, you can't put your hand around it and —" 

"Oh, stop talking about Frankenstein," I snarled. "He makes me sick. I wish he were dead."

Mark got up and squeezed the back of my neck; I knew he wanted to squeeze more than that but we had to be discreet. Our city editor was notorious for his loathing of "faggots." Mark said "Aw, don't go on like that, Rickie. Chuck's mean with all the cubs. I know he gives you a hard time but he does that with all the new male reporters. In a year, you'll be worshipping the ground he pisses on."

"Ha!" I barked. "That'll be the day, buster. I hope to hell I'll be long gone." Mark winked and I watched his beautifully shaped butt, encased within the tight black pants. I forgot my bitterness against Frankenstein as I thought about Mark. We had been making it together since I came to the Times a half year before. We had gone out on several assignments together — car wrecks, fires, civic club meetings.

We clicked. We became terrific balling buddies. By that, I mean we were a natural in bed; we had a great time. We were lust buddies, though — not lovers. I could tell him anything and he seemed to know everything that was going on. We were getting together that night for supper at my place and —

"Rickie, where's my coffee?" A shadow had fallen over my desk. I looked up and there was the monster glaring down at me as if I were a roach he wanted to step on. "It's past four and you ain't got my coffee yet."

How I hated him then! I stood up and yanked on my coat. "And what do you want in it. Mr. King?"

"You know goddamned well what I want in it!" he hissed.

I acted dumb. "Duh, you want two shots of bourbon and a shot of scotch —" My words stopped short as I saw his face contort into that hated white mask. And I should know better than to say that. I kept forgetting Chuck was a former alcoholic. "Okay, Chuck," I stammered. "I’ll get it." 

I felt his stare and those of the other reporters around us burning holes into my back as I hurried out of the newsroom.

Incredible as it sounds, when I first met Chuck King, I thought he was possibly the most striking man I had ever seen. For, you see. I've got this thing about falling in love with older, editor types. There was Mike, the gruff, bear-like forty-sevenish editor of the paper in the town where I went to college. He gave me a part time job. He growled a lot and called me a "dumb-assed little whippersnapper" but after a month or two, he taught me there was more to newspaper work than pushing a pencil on a pad. There was a lot of pushing and heaving around in bed. He became a father/lover and he taught me everything he knew — from inside the newsroom to inside the bedroom. Then, too, there was Alan, the 45 year old English professor who supervised the student newspaper where I also worked. Tall, slender, sensuous, he proved a passionate teacher and he filled in the gaps that Mike missed. Both men knew they were sharing me and we all laughed about it. There was nothing heavy. In fact, several times, we had threesomes. My ardent mentors, in fact, arranged an interview for me with the publisher of the Sun-Times and gave me glowing references. I was hired. And I was determined to be the Carolina answer to Woodward and Bernstein. By God — I had talent, drive, courage . . . but I wasn't so sure of myself after my first meeting with Chuck King. To my tap tap on his office door, he barked: "Come in." He sat hunched over a stack of papers in his office.

"Hi, I'm Rickie Donovan." He said nothing, still not looking up. Then he raised his head. I nearly gasped. Jesus, he was one tough looking hunk. His face was square, etched with lines around the mouth, and flushed, as I have mentioned, by his bad complexion. But what caught my attention was that one, cold, blue eye studying me. The other was covered by a black patch. Oh, this is too much, I thought. Wait until I write Mike and Alan. While he coolly informed me what my duties would be — a lot of desk work, covering the police beat, doing about everything — I noticed how his eye swept me up and down. In fact, I wondered if I had not imagined it but it seemed as if his eye had widened slightly — in surprise — when he first saw me. 

I knew I looked good. At five feet six, with hair so blonde it's almost white, light green eyes, a trim build with a spectacular pair of buns. I am merely reiterating my qualities as pointed out to me by Bruce and Alan and a number of football players. And my green tweed suit enhanced the striking color of my eyes. He took me around the newsroom, introducing me to the dozen or more reporters and showed me to my desk in the corner. At one point, I had brushed against him — he was like a furnace. It was as if a bolt of electricity had shot through me. I looked up at his face once during the tour and his cold chip of blue eye was studying me curiously. That first day, he brought several assignments for me to do. Once, he lingered close beside me. I glanced up and saw that formidable bulge in his crotch almost touching my nose. Barely able to repress a desire to rip his pants down and eat him right there on my desk, I gulped and smiled. He snorted and walked away. It was as if I had unconsciously given him an answer to a question he had silently posed.

The next day he began snarling at me. "Where's those goddamned rewrites you were supposed to have done for me? Go over to Charlie's down the street and get me some coffee and step on it . . . What'dya mean you don't know where the police department is? You're a reporter, ain't cha? Find out for yourself, dammit! You got brains — or do you?"

I had been daydreaming of the day he would hold me and fuck me with that mound in his britches that seemed to never decrease. I would stare at it hypnotized as it bobbed and jiggled around the newsroom. You could see the clear outline of a real bull dick. Chuck often scratched it absently to the delight of the girls and the envy of the young men. Eagerly, I listened to all the gossip about my new boss. He was a notorious cocks-man. No woman was safe from his prick which was reputed to be a monster when it was really hard. Chuck was supposed to have missed very few women within the newsroom and outside it. The only type of female he wasn't interested in were those in nursing homes. He flirted with our female reporters shamelessly. They ate it up. He was pals and buddies to the male members — everybody, that is, except me. At first, I thought his loud abuse was just his way of initiating a young cub into the tough ranks of the newspaper world. But after two weeks of his constant harping and yelling and insults, I realized with a shock that he just plain didn't like me. He was trying to drive me out. It was then that I became determined to stick it out there until I had enough money saved to find something else. My realization, too, tore away the dreamy veil I had cast over him and revealed instead the monster he was. There were times, though, when he would be maddeningly nice.

Since I was the lowest man on the totem pole Chuck made me work the midnight shift. This is when, as we say in journalistic lingo, you "put the paper to bed." It was only him and me at that hour in the newsroom. We worked silently — I, getting the weather, checking the police. And together, we scanned over the paper fresh from the composing room to check it for errors. At first, I had said "Good night," when it was time to leave. He showed me his "nice" side one such night after I had been there for two months. It was dead as far as news. We were waiting for the papers. I was sitting across from him at the large city desk. I hated it. I pretended to read a mystery while he sat with his back to me, staring at the floor, drumming his fingers on the countertop. Suddenly, he swivelled around and looked at me.

"You don't like me much, do you. Rickie?" he asked quietly. I looked at him. His face was troubled.

I so detested him by then that I hardly cared what I said to him. "Why, you're so pleasant, Mr. King, and been so nice to me, I don't know where you got that idea." My voice dripped sarcasm and he caught it. He seemed to be genuinely startled by my response. His eye widened in that curious way whenever he was surprised.

"Aw, man," he said, "don't take the way I act so hard. I ride you because I think you got talent. I just want to draw it out."

"Oh, I see," I sneered. "Well, let me tell you something, buster. When I become a newspaper editor somewhere, I'm going to try different methods — and I think I'll get the same results." It was as if I had slapped him but he said nothing. He shrugged and turned his back to me again. He sighed. It was a sad sound, but I had no pity for him. I wanted out of there. But I was finding it almost impossible to save anything on the pitifully small salary I made. And the next day, he was back to his usual obnoxious behaviour . . . "where's my coffee? . . . why didn't you get that fatality last night, dammit? Channel 2 had it this morning . . . yeah, you fucked up, goddammit! . . ."

There were times, though, when he really puzzled me and I felt my hostility toward him waver. I was turning the corner, one night, in the hallway when I bumped hard into him. He grabbed me to keep me from falling. I was suddenly aware again of how hot his skin was, how strong those oversized hands felt, the warmth of his breath against my face . . . scented with cigarette and something stronger. I had heard about his drinking problem. He was supposed to be on the wagon but it sure as hell smelt like he had been sneaking a few shots. Swiftly, he dropped his hands and he left me — as if he were frightened of being alone with me.

Another time, he had brought back a complicated rewrite to my desk. He wanted bits and pieces from a file summarized into a glowing death notice of a prominent politician. He bent over me, his mouth was right next to my ear. "Now, after you've come to the second paragraph, insert this part here." Painfully, I was aware of him, the way his chest touched my back, his big, overgrown hand nearly touching mine. As if aware of his close proximity, he abruptly stood up and walked away. Was I seeing things or had that large mound in his crotch grown even bigger?

Now, I felt carefree. It was quitting time. I was getting off early that afternoon. Mark would be over that night and after we had eaten supper, we would start eating . . . I was alarmed to see Chuck rushing toward me.

"Rickie," he said, "I'm in a jam. Bill can't work the desk with me tonight — sick or something. Would you do it for me?"

He was actually half smiling in apology, a sight so rare that I nearly caved in. No, don't let that charm of his soften you up. "I'm sorry," I said firmly. "But I've got some other plans." His face became long and sad. 

"I'm in a jam, baby," he said softly. "Really. You do a good job. I know I can depend on you."

He came closer and put his hands on my arms; that strange jolt flew through me and he looked down at my mouth. "Please," he whispered. "I'll give you a day off this week."

Oh, hell, I thought. He was too much. I knew I had fallen victim to that notorious charm of his. He didn't even seem so ugly, despite that black patch over his left eye which made him resemble a pirate.

"Okay," I sighed. "Let me make a telephone call."

He flashed me his famous smile; it changed his whole rough face, making it glow like that of a small boy who's gotten what he wanted. "Good," he said. "I knew I could count on you."

Mark was disappointed. I was, too, but not as much as I thought. Since Chuck was actually treating me as a human being I wanted to see how far he would take it.

On our small morning daily, the newsroom is usually deserted by seven or eight, except for the night shift. So it was me and Chuck again, working swiftly, getting our copy down to the composing room. Before we knew it, it was midnight. We had spoken only a few words and these were in regards to stories. I stood up and yawned. "Where you parked?" Chuck asked, pulling on his trench coat. "Behind the building? Good, I'm out there, too. I'll walk you out."

I found myself warming to him rapidly as we left the building; but when I got to my car, I found a flat tire. "Don't worry," Chuck said. "I'll drive you home."

In his late model Ford. I felt safe and even . . . content. But I noticed he took a pint bottle of bourbon out of the glove compartment. He offered me none, and by the time we reached my place on the beach, the bottle was empty. I invited him in and he accepted.

Trembling strangely, I was nervous being alone with him in my little place. "Don't turn on the lights," he smiled. "I'll just light this candle here." After he lit it, we sat down on the sofa. I could feel his body heat; we said nothing but suddenly he moved closer and put his arm behind my head.

"Rickie . . . you know, eh . . ." His words were slurred; his eye was glazed and the smell of strong liquor on his breath made me move away slightly but still I was trembling because he was so close his thigh was pressing against mine. That long shape inside his pants was growing into a formidable rise. "Rickie," he whispered again, "I've wanted to do something ever since I saw you and . . ."

He kissed me, deep, warm and long.

Many men have kissed me but none before had caused me to become dizzy, to "melt" like Chuck did. Somehow, he had our clothes off and still on the sofa, he raised my legs and began to dig in. "Jesus," I gasped. "Easy, Chuck, you're so large . . ."

He chuckled; it was not a pleasant sound, and then I realized he was trying to hurt me. I recoiled and tried to push him away; but he slapped the side of my face. "Goddamn faggot! I'm gonna give you a fucking like you've never had!" I cried out and he slapped a hand over my mouth. Relentlessly, he drilled his cock in, gasping and grunting, his sweat dripping on my face. And suddenly, with a high moan — he came. He fell on top of me. I pushed him away. He slid to the floor. I jumped up and ran to the kitchen where I found a knife. I saw him standing there, swaying in the doorway.

"Holy Christ!" he whispered. "What did I do? Rickie —" He held a hand out toward me. "Listen, man, forgive me, I didn't know what the shit I was doing. I'm sorry, so sorry —"

"Get out of here, motherfucker." He babbled on about how his drinking made him do things he could not control, how his drinking drove his wile away from him, how it cost him his eye in a barroom brawl.

"Get out, Chuck, get out." I said wearily. "I don't want to hear that shit. You wanted to hurt me. You did. Be happy."

He got dressed and without another word, left me. I sat and thought: so, he really got what he wanted tonight then. He fucked his fag reporter. Well, he'll never see me again.

I didn't go to work the next day. The telephone rang several times. I did not answer. Mark came by that afternoon. He said Chuck had driven everybody crazy that day, acting like a wild man yelling, cursing, staying in his office. I told him what happened. To my surprise, Mark wasn't all that upset.

"It sounds crazy," he said, "but I think Chuck was telling the truth. He really does feel sorry about what happened. He's really a decent guy under that tough facade. And you know what? I think he loves you."

"You're nuts!" I laughed bitterly. 

"Maybe," he smiled. "But I think I'm right."

Chuck came by the next day. I thought it was Mark knocking at the door. I started to slam it shut when I saw who it was. He looked like hell. His face was puffy, his eye was blood-shot. He did not look at me.

"Look," he began huskily. "I need to be shot for what I did. All I can say is I'm sorry. I'm a number one asshole. I'm sure you agree with that." 

"Wholeheartedly," I retorted.

"Okay, so we got that out of the way. I just wondered when you're coming back to work."

"Never," I spat. "I'll work as a dog catcher before I ever work for you again."

"Rickie." he said, raising his head to stare at me. Oh, God, I thought, he's working that charm of his . . . I felt something weakening within me. I began to forget his brutality of the night before. "Rickie, just come back tonight. Help me put the paper to bed. If you still want to leave, fine. I'll give you a month's wages. If you want to stay, great. I'll show you I can be a decent guy." I was gathering up my courage to say, "No," when he added his final shot that destroyed my resolve. He said the word, "Please." And no one can make that sound like Chuck King.

The staff, of course, was agog as to what was going on. But since I was working across from Chuck, they could ask no questions. While I took a break for some coffee Mark came by. "I'm curious as to what your decision is going to be," he remarked slyly. 

"What do you know —"

But he was already walking away, snapping his fingers, and as he passed Chuck, I thought they gave each other a secretive wink.

Time passed incredibly fast. Before I knew it, it was midnight. Now stick to your damned decision and leave, I told myself. Chuck had been sitting back in his swivel chair, saying nothing. Now, he watched me sharply as I went back to my desk and began clearing out the drawers.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing'?" he barked, walking toward me.

"I'm clearing out, bub. I've had my fill of being a reporter."

For a moment he said nothing. Then he snarled, "Come on back to my office."

"No. My mind's made up. I'm —" He was incredibly swift. He grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the newsroom and shoved me into his darkened office. He locked the door and came toward me; I backed away into the corner. There was only enough light coming through the window so that I could barely see him.

"Chuck, please — I don't want to have to do something violent."

He chuckled, then he grabbed my arms and jerked me against him. His mouth buried itself on mine, his tongue slid down until I was nearly choking. Finally, after several breathless minutes, he began talking, while all the time unbuttoning his shirt and pants.

"When I first saw you, kid, I wanted to fuck you so bad, I thought my cock was gonna bust out of my pants. But I thought, shit, what're you thinking of, man? That's queer stuff. You only fuck women. And I wanted to hurt you so bad, Rickie, because you turned me on like no woman's ever done. And after I fucked you like that. I hated myself for having to get drunk to do it. And now —"

He had pulled my clothes off now as well, and somehow, in that uncannily expert way of his, he had me laying across his desk top and he lowered himself over me. He pushed the huge head of his prick up into my asshole and slowly, he began inching it in deeper.

"You changed your mind?" he panted, pausing for a moment. "You aren't leaving the paper now, are you?"

"Perhaps I'll stay," I gasped, "If you'll promise to give me a raise." 

"A raise . . .?"

"And make me your star reporter." He began laughing quietly, as he pushed himself in still deeper. "Why you . . . you're learning the ropes." And with that, we put the paper to bed.