B-2

GAY PEOPLE'S CHRONICLE MARCH 11, 1994

WHIRL

'Yes, he did drown,' the officer replies, "In the shower."

Welcome to WHIRL, a new gay and lesbian weekly serial. Each issue, David Moor will spin tales around his lesbian and gay characters, including up-to-the-minute social and political commentary, at an exciting whirlwind pace. Moor is founder and director of YAWA Worldwide, a literary association with an international pool; a member of the National Endowment for the Arts' Young Writers Program; and a columnist for Michael's Magazine in Washington, D.C.

by David Moor

"the beginning"

THOMAS' MOTHER'S BODY sits fixed to the seat of the police squad car. Mrs. Murray's mind, however, spirals downward, down into deep depression. So deep, she doesn't know she's there. She's somewhere else. The afternoon is typical West Coast summer. As the squad car rolls to rest before a stop sign, crowds of anxious children (headed somewhere cool) race before it. This sight reminds Mrs. Murray of Thomas and his best friend Marcus when they were young. The squad car turns slowly into the parking garage beneath the naval hospital. The darkness ahead hungrily consumes her.

"ARE YOU SURE you want to go through with this, Mrs. Murray?" whispers the morgue attendant, "It's still not too late..."

She silences him with a wave and he slides out the morgue drawer, revealing an almost unrecognizable corpse mangled beyond reason.

"Ooops! Wrong drawer. I am too sorry," he says blushing furiously, "Motorcyclebus collision. Should've worn a helmet," he explains closing the drawer.

Mrs. Murray feels sick.

"That's sixty-six. Your son's in sixtyeight," he says. In one swift motion the attendant whips open the other drawer and there lies the body of a young man appearing to be asleep.

"Oh," she mouthes, but no sound is heard. The attendant steps back. "Thomas,” she manages, “my baby." Her legs go out from under her.

BACK EAST, THIS early morning a young artist watches the sun rise over an urban jungle. Marcus Street stands nude, in the rec-room of a lush downtown penthouse, overlooking the city through ceiling-high windows. From this vantage point, the city looks so majestic, he thinks. But he knows from experience the cruel tricks and vicious traps which lurk there, down there, waiting to spring on unsuspecting "game." He escaped, but he pays a price.

Marcus lies back on his weight bench— one of the few possessions he brought when he moved in with Frederich-and begins overhead presses. Thought of possibly having to return to that harsh netherworld worries him. He watches the swollen muscles

Dykes To Watch Out For

cold snap

181

MO, IT'S BELOW ZERO! WHAT ARE YOU DOING OUT TONIGHT WITH A BAD BACK?!

MEANWHILE, IT'S EVEN CHILLJER ACROSS TOWN

MALIKA, I'M SORRY! I KNOW YOU

CAN'T AFFORD TO GO, AND I KNOW

IT MEANS WE WON'T SEE EACH

OTHER TILL APRIL. BUT...

on his smooth chocolate arms expand and contract. Concentration is difficult; this will not be a good workout. After several sets, Marcus' arms shudder with fatigue. Frederich, having approached Marcus from behind, stops the weight over Marcus' head.

"Give us a kiss," Frederich coos. "Are you crazy? It's gonna drop on my head!" Marcus strains looking up at Frederich's chalky, grinning face.

"You've never had a problem keeping it up before. Come on, baby. One more push."

Marcus helplessly watches the heavy bar descend towards his forehead. Frederich gives Marcus a deep, probing kiss before releasing the weight to the floor. Marcus jumps up from the bench, body on fire, glaring at Frederich ferociously.

"Just to remind you. You're mine. Every bit as much as Sampson is," Frederich says pointing to the white lasa apso asleep in the

corner.

AS THE GUNMAN approaches, Marsha muses that he looks an awful lot like her brother, but Marcus, she thinks, is better looking. Marsha senses Tammy's body tense up beside her as a hefty gunman squeezes into their booth at The Lost Boys Tavern. Beneath the table, Marsha squeezes Tammy's hand a little harder for support.

".38's best I can do this quick," the gunman drawls, "Good shape, though. Only fifty bones. Take it or leave it." He pushes an old garbage bag across the table, the content of which is for Marsha's inspection. The gunman does all this with a matter-of-factness which frightens her.

THE TWO WOMEN sit in a parked car outside The Lost Boys Tavern with their newly purchased piece.

"I am calm, Marsha! But, do you really think a few crank calls warranted buying that gun?"

"Tammy, those are no ordinary crank calls. I know they have something to do with this story I'm working on."

"Someone thinks you're getting too close to something?"

"Yeah, and we're not going to be sitting ducks just because the police won't protect us," Marsha says turning the ignition which triggers a violent burst of smoke, fumes, and fire against the couple's grimacing faces. Tammy loses consciousness, while Marsha fights the flames licking at them. One thought flashes through Marsha's mind: Tammy!

I COULDN'T STAND LYING IN BED

THANK GOD!

ANYMORE, SO I WENT TO WORK/WORK I CAN DO WITH

TO DAY. JEZANNA ASKED ME TO

BRING YOU THESE LEDGERS

FROM THE BOOKSTORE.

GINGER, MY ROOM IS FREEZING! CAN I BORROW YOUR SPACE HEATER? OH, AND ALSO YOUR "COMPLETE HISTORY OF FUNK C.D.'S?

TAX STUFF

MY BRAIN INSTEAD OF MY BREASTS.

THANKS.

HI,MO!

PULL UP A CHAIR FOR SOME STRAINED BEETS AND RICE.

AH AH AH

OF COURSE I STILL LOVE YOU! BUT THERE ARE OTHER THINGS IN MY LIFE BESIDES THIS RELATIONSHIP!

"hide and seek"

HEAT BLINDS MARSHA, searing her eyes. Only moments before, she had started her car triggering the pre-set explosion of fire and fumes now licking at Marsha and her unconscious friend Tammy. Sharp pain stabs at Marsha's face. Bitter smoke gags her throat. She gropes across the seat and tugs at Tammy's lifeless body. Bound by the seatbelt, Tammy's body is a stubborn weight. Marsha fumbles with the seatbelt for an eternity before it releases and she and Tammy fall out of the car, onto the pavement, and into the kind, cool night air.

Marsha hurriedly performs CPR, frantically searching Tammy's face for any signs of life. There is no response.

"Somebody, help! Help us!" Marsha screams to an empty street. A tinted-window white Probe observes from the street's opposite end.

Marsha continues the resuscitation, splashing curb water on Tammy's face, in her eyes, anything to revive her. Tammy awakens with a “hack,” expelling inhaled smoke. Streams of joy pour from Marsha's eyes. The two embrace.

Down the street, the white Probe's engine roars, lights glare. It rolls slowly, so slowly, towards Marsha and Tammy, then stops. Marsha stares. Only the dim glow of a cigarette is visible within its tinted windows. Marsha and Tammy lie frozen on the deserted West Coast street. The white Probe creeps away past their now-blazing car.

"I quit! You win! Just leave us alone!" Marsha, still clutching Tammy, screams after the mysterious white car, “Leave us alone!"

MID-CITY RUSH-HOUR TRAFFIC in New York! Austrian-born millionaire entrepreneur Frederich Munch returns home from business in his luxurious white "stretch."

"I don't give a damn what the EPA is threatening, Waynewright," Munch cooly announces in his thick Balkan accent over a phone, “Take care of him. Donate a gift to their pension fund. I refuse to be screwed over by another toxic scandal."

Hanging up, Munch looks out of his cool, tinted environment at a young street hustler in Times Square relieving himself on a sleeping homeless person. The homeless person sniffs quizzically.

"Trash," Munch scoffs bitterly to himself," This country needs regulations on human waste." Thoughts of contempt for mankind are interrupted by an incoming West Coast fax of company memos. At the top of the list: “Chinese Connection resolved."

An evil smirk cracks into his rigid face.

"MARCUS," MUNCH CALLS stepping off of his private elevator and into his fiftieth

HELLO, RAFFI! HEY! LOOKS LIKE YOU'RE GROWING A LITTLE FANG!

You GOT THAT RIGHT.

RAFAEL! BE GOOD AND EAT YOUR BEETS OR YOU'LL GROW UP ALL DECREPIT

LIKE YOUR

AUNT

MO.

HOROSCOPE

GA.

SPECIAL PULLOUT

IRAN KONTRA RECORD LOW

SUPERBOUL SECTION LOTTERY WWNERS

REPORT SHOWS TEMPER

REMAN

COVERUP

SALE

OH, DON'T GNE ME THAT NOBLE ACTIVIST RAP. YOU'RE GOING TO THE NATIONAL BLACK GAY AND LESBIAN CONFERENCE INSTEAD OF COMING OUT HERE BECAUSE YOU'RE SCARED OF GETTING CLOSE TO ME!

floor penthouse. He grabs an apple from a bowl, bites into it, and promptly spits it out upon discovering the absence of Marcus' weight bench. In addition, the entire contents of Marcus' room have been vacated, except for Sampson, who sits in its middle wagging his tail enthusiastically at Munch. In a tantrum, he hurls his half-eaten apple at the dog, hitting it above its right eye. Sampson yelps and scurries into the closet. Livid with rage, Munch explodes, "Crazy!"

THE NEXT MORNING, Marcus awakens in the bedroom of his friend Thomas. Marcus remembers how just last night when he had arrived in L.A. from New York expecting to see his childhood friend, he was told by Mrs. Murray about Thomas' death.

Seems like a dream. His eyes, nearly swollen shut from crying, testify to its reality. Marcus wishes his family could comfort him, but he has not been welcome there since he was kicked out as a teen. He remembers the hard times on and off the booze, drugs, and "stuff" (before Mizz ChaCha rescued him). He remembers when he was alone...

A knock at the front door.

THE TWO POLICE officers sit on the couch in the Murray living room with Marcus and Mrs. Murray on either side.

"Murdered?" echoes Mrs. Murray, "Thomas got along fine with everybody. His fellow sailors admired him."

"I thought Thomas drowned," Marcus asks.

"Yes, he did drown," the officer replies, "In the shower."

The officer pauses for a moment. "Mrs. Murray, were you aware that your son was a homosexual?" asks the officer. "No. Not Thomas,” Mrs. Murray denies, stunned, "He has a wife. Expecting a baby."

Marcus jumps up to retreat from his sudden surge of emotions. He opens the front door and there stands Frederich Munch with his gargantuan Fijian chauffeur, Yummy.

"Come on, Marcus," Munch announces, "Playtime is over. It's time to return." "I'm not taking your crap any longer, Fred. How'd you find me?”

"What can I say? I'm a popular guy. I have lots of friends. You know that." "It's over. Get the hell out of here." "Over? I own you," Munch leans closer, enunciating, "I own you. Must I use a freaking bullet to make that clear?" Munch motions to Yummy who reaches into a suit pocket for something concealed. "Now," Munch smiles to Marcus, "What shall you do?"

To be continued...

OOF! YOU SOUND LIKE MY CHIROPRACTOR. SHE SAYS I NEED TO EXERCISE. LIKE, I'M SURE I'M GONNA PUT ON SOME KIND OF SPANDEX THONG AND

START PUMPING LEAD.

MALIKA, THAT IS So... So

GRANDIOSE! YOU'RE NOT THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE! I'M GOING BECAUSE IT'S IMPORTANT.

BOOM

IRON. WHY DON'T YOU JOIN THE Y? IT'S QUITE A BABE SCENE,FROM WHAT I HEAR.

GREAT

IDEA. HUH?

EH!

YEAH, IF YOU LIKE THAT VIGOROUS, OVERACHIEVING TYPE. HARRIET'S GIRLFRIEND IS PROBABLY A CHARTER MEMBER.

C'MON AND MOVE! C'MON AND GROOOOOVE!

ZIP!

HEY!

YEAH.

MY FINGERS

TURN THAT

ARE THANED

DOWN

OUT ALREADY.