Autism Speaks

CW: sexual content

In the middle of the night. A little boy looks out the airport window at the falling snowflakes, parachuting down at a steady pace, which adds to the illusion of a white Christmas; just around the corner, less than 76 hours out, within reach. He watches fast approaching headlights grow brighter before a four vehicle convoy stops on the taxiway. In less than fifteen minutes the locomotives disappear, scrambling in all four directions, unaware of by most. Some might have turned a blind eye.

In those brief moments the child witnessed a well dressed man step out one of the large sports-utility-vehicles into the cold, breathing in the sharp air while admiring the flurries drifting from above, holding a cup of what could only be assumed to have been coffee or possibly hot cocoa or apple cider, before checking his watch. The man seemed too busy to even ignore the seconds slipping away. This was a guy who made a living by understanding: time is money; the gold standard,for which, by which, all others are judged.

The prolific watched subject seemed unstoppable, as he is escorted by armed guards onto a private plane, to carry on with his mission which was still unfolding. Objective one: make time then make money. Or just make money. The noise made by some metal band reverberated inside the boy's skull from the earplug style headphones in his ears, as he observed the aircraft taxiing down the runway before it reached cruising attitude out of sight, daydreaming about owning a huge black bird or a few; maybe just one for flying south for the winter. One he could get on anytime while the less fortunate must be subjected to continue with their normal boarding protocol.

His inquisitive mind picked the man's life apart using questions like: Dose a person like that drink hot chocolate or even apple cider; what brand of watch would someone like him wear, if he even wears one at all, it could have been a computer. Then there were the millions of questions spun from those. The artistic side of his autism had inquiries, and the subject-in-question's answers had been something somewhere between evasive and credible, Tony's understanding was: if you watched long enough you will learn everything you need to know about what you are looking at. It did not matter--- who or what , or even where, or when--- it was, if it was there to be observed; than it was.

The idea of words effecting people's lives to him was some kind of a sick joke without a creative punchline, he believed that people spoke whatever for whatever reason whenever just because of a lack of vocabulary, to him there were never enough words to tell a story. But actions. If you studied one's actions, watch what they do, you can see the truth. He loved his bullying neighbor because of this: the kid would say, "I hate you. I am going to kill you." Tony would smile, and be called a retard for smiling, as he walked away thinking and knowing the truth: If Blake hated him and wanted to kill him why has he not yet, seeing how they have been living across the shurb-line fence from each other for years, " if he hates me why does he only pick on me when others are around." Seems more like a show than anything.

But the gentleman who flew off to inspire his thoughts at that moment didn't look that way. The man without doubt lived a life were his words and actions were no different than the other; if he said it, he spoke it into being, and if he did it--- that is all that needed to be known. He seems to be a fellow of few words. One who was all action. A person with that type of security did what needed to be done, stepped on or over a lot of people on his way to the top, and sure as hell pissed in every bowl of cornflakes or on a million parades.

That night unknown to Tony was the fact he saw no other than Nova Clayton, falling somewhat back into a drearily undreary routine, getting on the jet that was taking him back home to his beloved Texas ranch.

Every once in a while: A killer comes along and fundamentally changes the way people understand fear.....

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The patrician pastoral mountainous vacation community, stamped on the map of the crescent Vermont county of Wingate, known as Wonderland, had been the place where Lindsay Megan spent most of her festive stereotypical holidays as a child; until she became an adult. Usually she now spends them alone, life and work got in the way, until she found the perfect fuck. The guy, she was once again meeting tonight, who just happened to be pulling up while she laid in bed. The room was small, bare, and yet the most used, compared to the rest of the structure's accommodation; and it fits its intended purpose. Sleep and.... Sex.

A man walks in, sits on the loveseat, twisted open a beer. The place was almost consumed in darkness while a nearby just lit fire dances seductively, coming to life, among the shadows that engulf her as she bops just as seductively within the flickering flames. Outside the warm living room a chimney exhales an aromatic smoke, that creeps back in through the screen of the opened window and lingers, that will later be entwining well amidst the smell of sex and the rich scent of burnt marijuana.

Lindsay's lover's eyes immediately went to a little pear-shaped triangles, her Eden of satisfaction, she removes her black lacey thong and smiles, his judgements had not moved from their downward stare. Dancing in his lap, she slowly undresses him, while he finishes the lager. Without hesitation he lifts her up, carries her to the bed, and starts licking the interstice between her hips. Megan runs her hand across his bare back; her heart beats become faster and louder. Her eyes dilated and rolled backwards, the moans that escalated quickly escape her now produced lengthier and noisier, she taste of exact Ecstasy. He stopped, other than an occasional break to nibble on her like a happy rat, only to shoot her veins with a special cocktail; if she argued, if she protested, he would correct her. It was quick and smooth and mildly aggressive--- just like the erotic stimulations.

"Oh, my God," moaned. Then took a deep breath, let it out, and very softly said, "fuck yes." The submissive waited as he flipped her over. Then added, just as softly, "now fuck me."

His size and technic, along with the drugs, made her cum way too frequent. He pounded away for another half an hour, maybe longer, until around two in the morning: when he yanked out. He could never ejaculate inside her. Like always he lets his head drop to her wet and lubed, because of sweat, chest and climaxed between her breast. They had this kind of sex, or some variation of, every night and more often on the weekends--- when he was in town.

Her bloodstream, being overran by adrenaline and other chemicals racing towards her heart, caused a ghostly white pigmentation to her otherwise olive complexion as she laid there weak from it all. The sex, drugs, and bondage.

He lit a cigarette and set at the foot of the bed. Eyes fixed as he watches the woman, who believed he loved her, fight the duc-tape that is holds her to the bed. Her covers her in gasoline, walks out to the adjacent room, drops the cigarette and sets the house on fire.

***************************

Every once in awhile: A victim comes along and fundamentally changes the way ....

In a few days it will mark sixteen years, since the early morning hours, when his sister was covered in jet fuel before slowly being burnt alive. He spent that night in a lonely airport waiting for her to show up: Christmas hasn't been the same since... And never will be. Santa never came and the guy he saw leave on the metal glider never left. And Tony never stepped out of that night. Off the runway, Or out of the cold, away from the lifeless body that covered the White with Evan's Blue.

It took him only a few years, a hell of a lot less than 99.99 percent of everyone else who choose the same line of work, to make special agent with the department of the Federal Bureau of Investigation's National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime: an unit that uses behavioral analysts to assist in criminal investigations. 

SA. Megan lived fifteen years recalling every detail of the Texas Governor and that night finding himself in someone else's atrocious story. The ashes were only noticable because of the snow they laid against. Lindsay melted with the mattress: DNA results gave confirmation of the difference between her and the fabrics of the California King.

Nova Clayton thought he would not have it come back to him. Having money to purchase synthetic types of aviation fuel was his downward spiral.

Every once in awhile: a second comes along and fundamentally changes the way....

Autism Speaks

(. This story because of time restrictions is currently unfinished.... Thank you for your understanding.... .)