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Nocomus Columbus' Street Lit Whips Up Mini-Mystery!

Immobilized by fear and rope.   Wrist bound to wrist, foot bound to foot, sweating like a pig, even though the room’s not the least bit balmy.   Cool and dry like a fall evening in southern Arizona.   Sweat rolls down the forehead forming into beads before drip, drip, dripping to the floor.   Coalescing into a coagulation of dirt and sodium and chloride and water and whatever else perspiration is made up of.   Miniscule puddles.   Tiny transitory ecosystems.   Little salty souls, lightly corrupted, slightly corrupted, both foul and sweet, waiting for their ascent into the heavens, ready at any moment to be reunited with their creator.   Normally he sweats like this when sitting in the sauna after a gun-blasting work-out.   There was no workout today though, just the darkness.  
His mouth is stuffed full of Subway sandwich wrapping paper, sealed shut by duct tape.   He can tell it’s from Subway because he’s eaten there a million times plus one.   Many years ago while fantasizing about right-wing news channel anchor-women, a commercial came on the television.   Normally he never paid much attention to the commercials during his long and arduous Vulpes news masturbation sessions, but something was different this day. With a sense of fury he quickly pulled the Tommy Lee Jones action figure out of his ass, leaned forward, and turned up the volume on his television set.   The commercial discussed how some obese nerd similar to himself in many ways, lost a bunch of weight by eating Subway sandwiches three goddamn times a day.   He decided right then and there that he was tired of masturbating.   He made an oath to himself and Subway, and his shit-stained Tommy Lee Jones action figurine that he would consume their product no less than three times a day...
Fat Boy’s captor stands motionless at the far end of the room.   A silhouette shrouded in shadow.   Fat Boy knows he’s being watched.   He can feel it.   It causes him to wet himself, just like he did at night when he was an adolescent.   His father was an angry man to say the least.   He would wake Fat Boy up in the early morning hours sometimes by using a police taser on his sleeping body.   The taser always made him wet himself.   It was a horrible feeling...
The subjugator walks over to another part of the room.     Fat Boy hears the individual clanging around.     Music starts playing.   He recognizes the guitar riff.   The track is called “Rumble”.   “Rumble” was released in 1958 by Link Wray & His Ray Men.   Purely an instrumental track. According to grandmother’s Encyclopedia Britannica, “Rumble utilized largely unexplored techniques like distortion and feedback.”   The song was banned from radio play shortly after its release.   America is such a strange fucking place.

3:53 a.m.
By Nocomos Columbus

With the raw language of urban fiction, 3:53 explores the intense self-analysis of teens testing their limits on drugs, sexuality, friendship, bullying, abuse, love... and murder... Using a series of short scenes, thoughts, essays, the author takes readers directly into the intimacy of four acquaintances, one of whom is a psychopath...

Corey had been called Fat Boy for so long that most people didn't even know his name, even after he had visited Subway 3 times a day, like the guy on TV and was now not overweight... Abused by his father, as each morning he used a police taser to get him out of bed, Fat boy enjoyed payback by going after anybody he viewed as weaker than he was now.

Becky had a hard life with her mother, mainly since everybody in town knew she was a doper and would do anything to get it! Fortunately, they lived in the same trailer park with Sam and his Dad and Sam was her best friend. She spent most nights with him in his trailer since his Dad was on the road most of the time. They'd watch TV, talk, and sometimes fuck...

Becky’s mom was a tweeker.   She lived in the same trailer park as Sam and his father.   Her mother’s only cared about one thing: dope.  The townies all knew about Becky’s mother, and gave Becky plenty of shit about her.   They nicknamed her Rhonda Glassburner.   If you need your dick sucked, find Rhonda, and boy was she good at it.   Rhonda loved dope.   She was a dope fiend.   Rhonda would steal to get dope, suck dick to get dope. She even tried to pimp Becky out one time in order to get her hands on some dope.   Becky didn’t know shit about her father.   She had a couple pictures, but that was it.   Her mom didn’t talk about him very much either.   She asked her mom about him once.  Rhonda said he was dead.   Killed himself  when Becky was a toddler.   Motherfucker went crazy.   Started seeing shit that wasn’t there, hearing shit that wasn’t said, believing in things that didn’t exist.  After that Becky stopped asking Rhonda about her father.

Sam had recognized his being gay, wanting another whose beauty blinded him, but not knowing how to approach him, he finds writing a screenplay between two men a release of his hidden desires.{This screenplay is set off as a story within the story} It is scary to risk being called a fag by school mates, while girls may be looking for more than he can provide...

But one day when he got home from school, he realizes he accidentally left that screenplay in homeroom! Fat Boy knew he had a gold mine when he found and read it....

And when he came upon the writer and his idol one day in the woods, he started reading the play out-loud... But before that Sam and Dylan had been groovin' with the pot and sharing more with each fact, Dylan admitted he was having problems with stress, with his parents, football, and feeling like he was pretending to be somebody else other than he was...

Dylan the fucking meathead.   
Popular.  Left-tackle on the 
football team.   He was big and smelled musky, 

like someone trying to cover up vinegar  with cologne. 
Dylan always gave Sam a hard time, especially
 when Corey wasn’t there to be the target of the
 bullying.   Dylan liked to talk about his late-night
 transgressions with some of the school’s females.
   This perplexed Sam.   Everyone knew who Dylan
 had fucked the day after he fucked them. Yet girls
 continued to allow him to deflower them.   
Maybe he has a huge dick or something.   
He was tall, at least six-foot two, and had a thick build.
   Dylan wore shirts that were too tight, which showcased
 his large nipples, like he was proud of them or something. 
  His hair was short, close-cropped, and always looked wet. 
  Sam couldn’t tell if that was caused by applying
 water and lots of hair gel or just natural unwashed
 greasiness.   Either way, Sam didn’t care.   
He still thought Dylan was beautiful.
Caught in a life, living on the streets, finding wherever they could get it results in lies, secrets, stolen moments and a world of pain...

One of them couldn't take what was happening. And when the time was right, death came to one of the four...and then another...

And then there was none...

This is short but so intense that you may get lost and not know how to put the pieces together. Don't forget the Screen Play is a separate part, which is hard to deal with in Kindle, so check the contents. This is not for everybody.

But if you can deal with the street language of today, please try this urban fiction. The writing is excellent. The story mimics what you read in the newspaper, not ever knowing, though, what actually happens to the victims. Be prepared. The language is indeed raw. The results obsessive, real, and illustrative of what some of our youth live in on a daily basis...If we don't like them telling the facts as they see them... Tough! This is the street lit genre and they have just as much right to the freedom of speech as anybody else. Even if some don't like it! It should be judged based upon the definition of urban fiction...

But be sure to read the pain behind these stories as well. Because it is there, waiting for you to read... and say that you understand...

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