This is the continued story of Simon’s Journal.
Before you begin this third volume in this series,
I would highly recommend that you read the first and second volumes
as each picks up were the previous left off.

ADMONITION:

The following narrative is nearly a complete work of fiction. Some events and characters were pulled from real life but have been changed, enhanced and twisted to comply with my will. Any other similarity to actual individuals living or dead is completely unintentional, but it would be incredible!

WARNING:

The following story contains diaper use, violence, adult language and strong sexual content. If reading a coming of age story about boys wearing diapers and exploring their awakening sexuality doesn’t tickle your pickle, or if pickle tickling is illegal in your area, then I suggest you select something else to read.

Chapter - 8

Pull me from the storm

As we were dragging our tired selves out of the plastic factory I heard someone cursing from back inside, “And as far as I am concerned you are already gone!”

I’m not sure why I stopped and turned; maybe I thought that they were speaking to me. When I turned and looked back through the door I saw Harpo’s fist colliding with Paul’s face and the resulting spray of blood that seemed to hang in the air like little glinting droplets of liquid fire.

“Hey! Leave him alone!” I screamed and started running back toward the furnaces as fast as my legs would carry me, which wasn’t very fast at all. By the time I reached Paul, he was already dead.

Harpo stood over Paul’s motionless body and it wasn’t until I looked up at Harpo and saw the look of alarm on his face that I realized I wasn’t the only one that had tried to come to Paul’s aid.

I turned my head to the side and witnessed every boy that had been in the factory that day standing behind me. Their attentions seemed to be equally divided between Paul’s bloody body and Harpo.

With diminished power behind his words Harpo tried to regain control and authority. “I’m gonna give you worthless bed pissers just two seconds!”

A trickle of urine began to run down the inside of my left leg as he stepped over Paul and was within reach of me. “Or maybe yah want to end up like ‘im?”

Off to our right came the most terrifyingly demonic sound. It was as if Hell had just opened up and something feral and enraged had emerged; I knew what it was immediately.

The sound was so loud that Harpo jumped backward tripping over Paul’s body and fell on his butt with a bone jarring thud. A streak of fur shout out from the shadows and launched itself at Harpo. He screamed in agony as Vera sank her claws into his back as he was attempting to get up.

Vera seemed to move so fast that Harpo couldn’t stop her from ripping through his shirt and slicing open his arms, back, neck and face. And as quickly as she had appeared, she vanished again, leaving Harpo gasping in pain and looking around frantically for her.

His eyes landing on me but they didn’t seem human; they were cold and dark like sharks eyes. Harpo put a hand on the floor to steady himself as he attempted to stand again. Without breaking eye contact with me he lifted his body back to an erect posture and his lips began to curve up in a deadly smile.

Behind Harpo I saw Vera crouching, preparing to pounce again. I remember considering how mangy and unfavorable she seemed in that split second before she once again attacked.

Harpo howled with pain as Vera tore at his calf muscle. Loosing his balance he staggered backward, fell against one of the furnaces and collapsed to the ground leaving much of his flesh sizzling and smoking on the side of the furnace.

When it was apparent that Harpo wasn’t getting up again one of the boys, whom I didn’t know, stepped past me and walked up to Harpo who was face down, motionless on the floor. The boy looked at Paul’s blood covered face and then spat on the back of Harpo’s head.

I watched as each boy did the same and when the last boy had spat I turned and started for the door with only one thought in my head, ‘Go get Lowell and get out of here’!

As the Banachelli came into view it became apparent that something was not right. Every window was brightly lit up and there seemed to be some kind of disturbance occurring inside.

The main door swung opened and the light from inside escaped past the recognizable form of Mr. Wriggle standing in the doorway eclipsing much of the light. My feet slowed and then stopped all together. The lack of forward momentum caused an argument to ensue between my brain and my feet.

Looking down at my feet my brain asked impatiently, ‘Why did you stop?’

‘Sorry we’re not going another step!’ my feet replied.

Rather perplexed my brain said, ‘What? Well you have to!’

‘Nope, it’s no use! We’ve decided, not going to move, no way, no how!’ my feet said resolutely.

‘But, but I am the Brain! You have to listen to me!’

My toes curled within my shoes, ‘It’s no use trying too tell us what to do. We are through listening to you!’

“What’s he doing?” someone whispered behind me.

“Shhhh! He’s thinking!” someone else answered.

A hand came to rest on my right shoulder but I didn’t look to see who it belonged too.

“I can’t go in there.” I said speaking more to myself then anyone else.

“Then let’s get out a here b’fore he comes after us,” the voice beside me offered.

“Can’t!” I answered.

We were far enough away still that we could have took off, and I am fairly sure that is what my feet were planning.

“What’s that ol’ fat toad doin?” someone half shouted.

“Looks like he’s dancin’ now don-it?” Someone observed.

It was truly a befuddling sight to witness Mr. Wriggle’s silhouetted form twirling about. Something like that was just so unexpected, so unbelievable that I questioned whether I was actually awake or if I was sleeping and dreaming this ridiculous spectacle.

There was a large flash of orange light from above Mr. Wriggle and we had just enough time to wonder what had caused it before we heard the loud crack of a gun being fired into the air.

Everyone scattered in all directions except toward Mr. Wriggle. That is everyone, except for myself and the one that was standing beside me with his hand still resting on my shoulder.

“Stark raving mad that one!” the boy said and I glanced over and seen that it was the same boy that had given Micky the little brown bag of sugar.

He smiled at me and I smiled back.

“Poppy,” he said.

“W-what?” I asked.

He repeated it with more gusto, “Poppy!”

I didn’t know if he was suddenly speaking another language or what.

“W-what’s th-that m-mean?” I asked a bit rudely.

“Don’t mean nut’n; it’s my name.” He said really grinning now.

“Oh, uh... O-OK sure, P-p-poppy.” I acknowledged.

“They call you Ron right?” he asked.

I looked down at my shoes hoping that my feet might give up their strike and get back to work. That’s when I noticed that the front of my pants were soaked. I looked over at Poppy’s pants and they too were wet, and much more so then my own. When I lifted my eyes back up to his I saw that he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking toward the Banachelli.

“Where’d he go?” Poppy asked.

Mr. Wriggle was no longer standing in the doorway but the door was still open and the light was still spilling out.

“Simon” I said into the evening air.

“That y’r real name?” Poppy asked as he gave my shoulder a squeeze.

I took in a deep breath and as I let it out I said, “It’s my only name!” and I took off running for the open door with determination fueling a growing fire within me.

Several of the other boys had once again taken to following me, but not all. I would guess that more then half of the boys had taken the opportunity to get away and I couldn’t blame them.

To them I am sure that my strides looked less like a runner and more like a lame mutant struggling against ever increasing gravity.

With approximately twenty-five feet before I reached the open door my right leg bucked under the strain and my knee hit the hard pavement leaving a streak of skin and blood. Someone must have been right on my heals because when I stumbled I felt someone kick the sole of my left shoe. An instant later their body crumpled on top of me.

“Aaaah, get off!” I cried out!

My cry was followed by a loud popping sound and someone screamed, “He’s shooting at us!”

“No look at his arm!” one of the boys shouted.

Despite the plastic armor that encased my upper torso it felt as though I was having every molecule of air forced from my lungs.

When you can’t breath seconds seem like minutes and minutes seem like eternity. In reality Poppy was only laying on top of me for a couple of seconds before he slid off me and onto his back.

Air rushed back in and I pushed myself up so that I was kneeling on my undamaged knee. I noticed Poppy’s elbow was bent in the wrong direction.

I was about to scream for help when someone took hold of my ear and pulled me to my feet; it was Mr. Wriggle. “Gotcha you lithle sheet!” he spit as he spoke. He was drunk and the front of his clothes were covered in vomit.

Clutching my ear he pulled me close so that our noses were touching and he belched in my face. How I managed to keep from blowing chucks is beyond me.

“Listen here you lithle sheet!” he spat.

“Did ya just call ‘im a sheet?” one of the boys asked.

The question surprised us both. Mr. Wriggle attempted to refocus his vision, “What?”

The same boy chuckled, “Ya just called ‘im a sheet!”

Mr. Wriggle looked at me, then the boy, then back to me again, “You, you, you know what? I think he’s right!” he said exploding with laugher.

“He’s stinking drunk!” another boy remarked.

Releasing my ear and taking hold of the back of my head he put his mouth against my ear, “You got some very intel... intele... uh... smart friends,” and proceeded to vomit down my neck and back before passing out.

Thinking fast one of the boys had taken hold of my arm and pulled me to one side just as Mr. Wriggle fell face down on the pavement with a squish.

“Thanks for that!” I said to the boy who was still holding my arm.

He grinned and gave me a salute, “Anytime!”

I was shocked to find Poppy standing up and looking almost normal, well as normal as a Banachelli boy could look anyway. His arm was hanging limply to his side and his face was white as a new baby diaper.

It was hard not push the aromatic bouquet of liquored and vomit out of my mind as I asked, “You alright Poppy?”

With glassy eyes he looked up, shook his head softly and said, “Think I broke my arm.”

The boy who had saved me from being flattened like a pancake asked, “Do it hurt?”

Poppy looked down at his arm and screwed up his face like he was thinking really hard, “Kind a tingly.”

From behind us there was a crash that drew our attention away from Mr. Wriggle and the continuing commotion inside the Banachelli. There was another crash, and another; like glass being smashed.

From a rust colored brick building a girl came running out wearing a stain covered pink nightgown. At first she looked like she might only be six or seven years old as she ran towards us crying and looking terrified. When she got close enough I realized that I had seen her before. She was the same girl I had come to the aid of when to bullies were trying to take her broom from her.

Chapter 9

** As always, your thoughts matter to me very, very much, so please send any comments, questions, suggestions, or criticism to me at: [email protected] **