JURY DUTY free porn video

JURY DUTY

It came lurking among bills, pre-approved credit card applications with a
"low, low" interest rate that would quadruple after six months and
mountains of junk mail asking for contributions to help save the
forests. It was that most dreaded demon of democracy: the summons to jury
duty.

For the benefit of those who qualify but have never gotten one, be assured
that somewhere out in the vast bureaucratic sea is a pink and white shark
with your name etched on its perforated edged, razor sharp teeth. Perhaps
it's headed toward you at this very moment: circling" watching" waiting for
the most inconvenient time to strike.

There are ways to repel these creatures, though hitting them on the nose
when they venture too close isn't one of them. They involve an indictment,
giving up your citizenship or having a job crucial to the public's well
being. Only in rare cases will being related to someone of importance or
being married to a cop get you out of service.

A note of warning; never try to mix and match. A guy tried getting himself
arrested by fucking his cousin, a CHP Officer, on the counter of the
Starbucks where he worked part time on Wednesday and Friday. The judge, a
staunch Mormon, ruled that providing a caffeine rush to the masses didn't
count as crucial to the public's well being. The case was dismissed and he
was chosen to serve on a jury. To this day, he breaks out in a sweat each
time someone says: "If the glove don't fit you must acquit."

As a good citizen with no prior arrests, Tom dutifully filled out the lower
half, detached it at the dotted line and sent it back with a ten dollar
bill stapled over his name. The bill must have fallen off because within a
month he was being ordered to appear at an address on Temple Street at the
ungodly hour of 7:45.

Tuesday morning he tied the order to a piece of top round steak and threw
it into his supervisor's cage. To say he was not pleased would go down in
record books as the premiere understatement of the second quarter ending
June 30th.

"Cheer up," he said holding him at bay with an executive swivel
chair. "It'll probably be some jerk who ran a red light while talking to
his shrink on a cellular phone. By the end of the day I'll be back at work,
my obligation will have been met and the defendant will be back on the
street with a whole new set of rejection issues."

He grumbled something in Armenian that didn't sound like it translated to
"Live long and prosper" and went back to moving papers from stack "A" into
stack "C" while bypassing stack 'B'. He was not convinced.

The big day arrived with an overcast sky and a promise of long hours
staring out an eleventh floor window. Since, like everyone else in
Hollywood, what he really wanted to do was write he'd printed out several
chapters of his book with the intention of proofing them during the long
hours of sitting around being civic minded.

He donned his three piece suit, a practice that began and ended the same
day, and left the house a full ninety minutes early. What was he thinking?

It occurred to him that the court system might want to reconsider usage of
the words "convenient" and "nearby" in their description of juror
parking. A half a mile, straight down, beneath the streets of Los Angeles,
in what people swore would someday be the Disney Hall parking garage,
hardly counted as nearby and may, in fact, have constituted false and
misleading advertising.

Tom left his precious truck in the capable hands of two parking attendants
named Hades and Persephone and started off for the Criminal Courts
Building. It was on that trek that he first saw Officer Velasquez.

They were standing at opposite corners at the intersection of Temple and
Broadway. He was heading north toward the Hahn Building. Tom was going
south but would much rather have been going north: right behind him.

He prided himself on being observant, and what he observed at that moment
was flat out the hottest man to ever strap on a 357 Magnum. He was
perfection in blue. Everything about him: from the way he stood, shoulders
squared and head held high to the fit of his dark blue uniform put to rest
the image of the cop on a perpetual jelly doughnut rush.

The light changed and Tom shifted his attention to fine detail mode. Unless
he was willing to tackle him and run the risk of an assault charge, he'd
have maybe fifteen seconds to take inventory before he passed from
view. Beep. Scanners on. Name: Velasquez (see name tag). Height: 6"2"
Weight: 195 Race: Hispanic. Build: muscular. Pecs: huge. Arms: see
massive. Legs: powerful. Hair: buzz cut, hidden under hat: dark stubble
indicates black. Eyes: mirrored, hidden by glasses. Probability of being
brown: 95%. Facial features: strong jaw. Indications of broken nose,
probably not recent. Moustache: neatly trimmed. Other: tattoo on right
and left forearms. Equipment: unknown. Underwear: unknown. Probability
of underwear being jockstrap: 35%. Butt: unknown: damned bus. [Enter]
Data is incomplete. Save? Yes: [enter] Saving: please wait.

Officer Velasquez disappeared behind a herd of stampeding Secretaries
before Tom could safely turn around and amend the file to include his
butt. All he could do was replay what he'd already committed to memory. The
rest he could fill in as the fantasy dictated. He shifted his knapsack to
the other shoulder and started for the entrance.

In spite of the metal detector with an intense dislike for his steel toe
boots, the Criminal Courts building was a revelation for someone with a
thing for uniforms. There was a uniform everywhere he turned, running
singularly and in groups, free as the wind just as nature intended.

While not all were filled as spectacularly as that of Officer Velasquez,
the sight of a patrolman striding across the polished terrazzo floor with
the morning sun reflecting off his helmet was one Tom had come to
appreciate on many levels. Mostly it made him hard just to think of what
was hidden beneath all that gabardine and leather. He was looking forward
to having hours and hours of sitting around watching them.

The "hours and hours" turned into exactly 93 minutes. That's how long it
took from the time he walked into the assembly room to the time his name
was called for a panel.

It was on the second day of jury selection that he was seated as one of two
alternates. Number six juror was excused on the third day and Tom was
picked as his replacement. His fate was sealed.

Gone were the best laid plans that would turn a tedious duty into an
experience he could draw upon when his book made the Times Best Sellers
list and he was making the rounds of the talk shows.

"Ya see, Mister Leno," he'd have said with a touch of irony in his
voice. "Chapters one through fifteen were finished while I was doing my
civic duty."

Real life had reared its ugly head and it was time to take things
seriously. Two guys, each young enough to be his younger brothers, were on
trial for murder. They were gang members accused of "doming" a fellow
gangsta by the name of Little Happy Face. They'd mistakenly thought him
guilty of snitching on yet another member.

It was on the third depressing day of testimony, after the lunch break,
that the jurors were called from the jury room and things got really
interesting. Tom had made a point of never looking directly at the
spectators, but something at the far end of the first row of the right side
caught his eye as he perused his notes. It was the unmistakable glint of a
metal shield: the shield of none other than Officer Velasquez.

He was chatting with the Bailiff and a plain clothes officer who would look
like a cop no matter what he was wearing. All three were amazing, each in
his own way, but it was Velasquez that held Tom's attention. While he
talked, his eyes swept over the courtroom until he got to the jury
box. Then, starting at the far end, he studied each juror until he got to
Tom. His expression remained impassive and unchanged but there was
something about the way he looked at him.

Tom returned his steady gaze until the spell was broken by his responding
to something the Bailiff said and averting his eyes. Either he'd seen
something that bothered him or there was a really interesting stain on the
carpet that commanded his attention. In either case, he didn't look up
until the court was called back in session and testimony resumed.

"The prosecution calls Officer Anthony Velasquez to the stand."

Judging from the reaction of the spectators, his was a familiar name. A
hush fell on the courtroom as he got up from his seat. Whether the
familiarity came from fear or respect remained to be seen.

Unlike most of the witnesses he sat ramrod straight and didn't play to the
jury. His responses were matter of fact and directed at the Attorney asking
the questions. He'd arrested the first witness for the prosecution, and was
there to recount the details of how Baby J had volunteered the
incriminating evidence.

Yes he was aware that Baby J had clamed up tighter than Jerry Falwell's
butt at a Gay Pride parade (not his exact words) but insisted the reasons
for his sudden amnesia were more sinister than those suggested by the
defense.

It was a good showing made better by his confidence and commanding
presence. His voice was clear and strong and hinted at an upbringing on
what some considered to be the wrong side of the tracks. The defense made a
half-hearted stab at undermining his credibility, but gave up after a few
lame questions regarding his background.

Tom took copious notes during the ten minutes that Officer Velasquez was on
the stand. Not only did he note what was said but also how he said it. He
noted the reactions of the defendants, their Attorneys and even the judge
as Velasquez fielded the questions with aplomb.

It would all come in handy later on when they began to pour over the
testimony. Only one notation was made that in no way involved the
case. That one came as he was leaving the stand and was walking past the
jury box.

Revise data entry. [Enter] Eyes: green. [Enter] Overwrite existing data?
Yes. [Enter] Updating information; Please wait.

"Green eyes, huh?" Tom thought to himself. So much for the laws of
probability.

While all of this drama was going on, Tom was spending a good part of his
lunch breaks staring at the old Hall of Justice across the street. You've
probably seen it from the Hollywood freeway or in Dragnet episodes from the
fifties.

It's one of those enormous buildings they used to erect to remind people of
their lowly place in society. In the eyes of those who get paid to make
such decisions, it had outlived its usefulness and was closed after the
earthquake of 94.

The only thing preventing it from being pulled down was the expense of
demolition. Perhaps somebody highly placed had a secret hope that somewhere
on the street was a vagrant packing a couple of thousand pounds of
explosives, an itchy trigger finger and a grudge against the system.

Sometimes Tom would walk around it trying to imagine what it looked like
before it was incarcerated behind chain link fences and plywood. It looked
so forlorn: like an old Civil Servant put out to pasture with nothing to do
after years of service.

It was during those times, while staring at the blank windows and wondering
what lay behind the dirty glass, that Tom started seeing Velasquez on a
semi-regular basis. On two occasions he was walking toward City Hall with
two other LAPD Officers.

Another time he was deep in conversation with a CHP Officer as they stood
outside the cafeteria. Once he was even alone and crossing Temple Street
against the light but it never once occurred to Tom to attempt a
conversation. With the nature of the trial being what it was, there were
rules about jurors and witnesses, past or future, not being allowed to
speak. He wasn't about to jeopardize the trial by allowing his libido to
run amok.

In a perverse sort of way it helped when Tom realized that Velasquez
probably didn't know that he was alive and that it would no doubt stay that
way. Of course nobody said he couldn't think about it at night when he was
alone in the darkness with just his right hand for company.

It was always the same. Tom would climb into bed, mentally, physically and
emotionally exhausted, and Velasquez would be waiting for him under the
sheets. The instant he closed his eyes he'd see him in his uniform and
things began to happen.

It didn't seem to matter what his intentions had been or how much he needed
to sleep. He'd roll over on his stomach and the scene in the courtroom
where he walked past the jury box and he got a close up view of his butt
would replay itself. Suddenly that same butt would be under him. A voice
would be begging him to fill his hole and he'd be humping the pillow and
jacking himself off to a messy but satisfying climax.

As it turned out, the trial phase took less time than the
deliberations. For six days the jurors showed up at the same time to pour
over the evidence and go over the testimony. Most of it was useless crap
stammered out by witnesses intimidated to the point where a sudden move by
anyone in the room would have them peeing in their pants.

Only the solid and unshakable testimony of Officer Velasquez held up to
close scrutiny. It seemed that everyone liked him. Tom had never met the
guy, yet he had to admit to taking some satisfaction in his choice of lunch
time fantasies.

They finished just before the Fourth of July weekend. Thanks mostly to some
minor issues and technicalities that couldn't be explained (or justified)
only one of the two hoods went to jail. The other one would have to be
retried. Once again the legal system had been shown to work, warts and all,
when given the chance.

Later, after they were excused and given their pardons, Tom took his last
elevator ride with a sense of relief and, strangely, loss. He read the gang
graffiti on the walls as the tiny car bumped and jolted between floors, and
wondered how anyone found the opportunity to deface public property.

There were people everywhere he looked, all wearing the same expression of
grim determination to either beat the system or use it to their own
end. Except for sporadic Velasquez sightings, there was nothing he'd
miss. It was a mystery as to where was the sense of loss was coming from.

He was standing just outside the main entrance, taking a last look at the
immense gray hulk across the street, when he noticed that someone was
standing at his side. He turned, half expecting to see one of Crazy J's
family members out for revenge, and nearly fell on his ass.

It was none other than Officer Velasquez, in all his glory, looking at a
point about half way up the side of the building. Tom had never thought it
possible, but he was even more spectacular when he was close enough to
kiss: which he very much wanted to do.

"Damn he's a hot fucker," Tom thought to himself.

"What's so fascinating?" Velasquez asked gesturing toward the granite
façade.

Tom waited for a bus to rumble by before answering. Surely he hadn't
noticed him staring. He'd been so careful. Yeah. Right.

"I'm not sure I know what you mean," Tom replied at last. "What makes you
think I'm fascinated with y... uh... It... It's just an old b... building."

"Because you don't strike me as the type to write something off before all
of the facts are presented. Every time I've seen you, you've been staring."

"There's n... not that m... much to look at around here," Tom
stammered. Aside from still not being sure of what they were talking about,
he was mortified at his sudden inability to communicate without stammering.

Velasquez just laughed and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. Tom hoped it
would go unnoticed when he jumped.

"Depends on where you're looking," Velasquez said taking a step
backwards. "Well, it was nice talking to you."

Tom's heart was pounding as he watched the good-looking policeman turn and
start across the plaza. He'd have to think of something" fast.

"You silver tongued schmuck," Tom muttered to himself when his mind
remained blank. "Now he thinks that you're not interested."

Then, just when it was starting to look as if he would walk out of Tom's
life forever, he came back. "Listen, I've got to go now, but would you be
interested in getting a closer look?"


"A closer look" A closer look at what?"

"The building" The one you've been staring at all week."

"Yeah sure. I guess that would be..."

"How's tomorrow afternoon around one?"

Tom didn't have to think twice. The next day was Saturday and he shelved
all social engagements for the duration of his jury service. Now that he
was a free man, he couldn't think of a better way to celebrate his freedom
than with a guided tour of a musty old jail."

"Yeah. Okay," Tom said glancing at the massive plywood barriers. "Should I
bring a hammer and a chain saw?"

"No need for that. I've got the key. I stop by a couple of times a week
during my off duty hours and keep an eye on the place. I'll meet you at the
parking lot entrance."

He jotted down Tom's phone number, in case there was a change in plans, and
sauntered down the hill to his cruiser. The way he sort of swaggered when
he walked made Tom hope the elevators in the Hall of Justice were shut
down. How bad could eleven flights of stairs be with that butt leading the
way"


He was ramming his cock up Ben Affleck's ass, while Hugh Jackman
masturbated on his face, when the phone rousted him from his sex-drenched
dream. Still hard enough to shatter brick, he stumbled from the bed and
grabbed it before the machine kicked on.

"Huh?"

"Hey Tom. This is Anthony Velasquez. You up yet?"

"Funny you should mention that," Tom said looking down at his stiffie and
giving it a couple of strokes. "Yeah, I'm definitely up. So" uh" What's
happening?"

"I'm going to be up in your neighborhood today. I was thinking that instead
of you driving downtown, I could swing by and pick you up. It would save
time."

"Uh, yeah. That's fine. What time should I..."

"Great. I'll see you at eleven. Dress for action."

"Eleven" I thought you said... Hey don't you want my address?"

It was too late. Velasquez had already hung up. Tom glanced at the clock
and groaned. It was just after eight. That meant he had less than three
hours to get an entire day's errands out of the way. How could he have
known that his ability to perform under pressure would be put to the test
several times over the course of the day"

Velasquez, still in uniform, was knocking at the door, on time, at the
stroke of eleven. Thinking he'd been called in to work unexpectedly, Tom's
heart sank a little.

"Last minute change of plans?" he asked cautiously as the sexy cop walked
in.

"No. Why do you ask?"

"You're in uniform," he responded stating the obvious.

"I'm just now getting off. There's a change of clothes in the trunk. We've
got a lot of ground to cover, and it seemed more practical."

"I see," Tom mumbled lamely, offering a silent plea to whatever deity
happened to be in charge of such things to keep him soft. They were alone
and Velasquez was in his uniform. If you asked Tom's friends to describe
his good points, self control when confronted by a uniform wasn't something
that readily popped into their heads.

"I hope being seen leaving with a cop doesn't screw up your reputation with
your neighbors," Velasquez added seeing Tom's distressed expression.

Tom looked over his shoulder toward the houses across the street. His Gay
neighbors had already congregated at the base of Mark's driveway, watching
to see what happened next. How did they know?

"Don't worry about them," Tom said as he locked the door. "There are as
many who know me to be a good, law abiding citizen as there are people
who'd figure it was just a matter of time until I got caught. The others
would just assume that I... uh..."

There was no need to take the conversation in that particular direction and
he didn't bother to finish the sentence. They were just getting in the car,
a late model BMW, when Tom made the mistake of looking up.



"Don't worry, honey," Mark called out. "We'll bail you out."

Velasquez observed them from the rear view mirror while adjusting his seat
belt. "Which are they?" he asked.

Tom waited until they'd backed out and were half way up the block before
stealing a glance at the assemblage of neighbors waving from the curb. "I'm
not sure," he muttered through clenched teeth.

For the most part, the conversation on the way downtown centered on the
trial and why the jury arrived at that particular verdict. Velasquez didn't
seem especially surprised when Tom mentioned the weakness of the
prosecution witnesses.

"It happens all the time," he said quietly. "People get themselves all
fired up to testify because they want revenge. The big day comes and they
show up ready to put the fuckers away and all they can see from the witness
stand is an audience filled with gangbangers. The reality hits and they go
brain dead and forget all about the friend they saw die in the street. The
bad guys walk and we're left standing there with shit on our shoes."

"I'm not sure the public would like to hear that."

Velasquez gripped the wheel tightly but kept his eyes focused straight
ahead.

"They shouldn't," he answered while keeping his eyes straight ahead. "Maybe
they should get mad enough to do something."

Fearing that he might have hooked up with one of those law and order
extremists who keeps a year's supply of freeze dried emergency rations in
his cellar, Tom didn't ask him to elaborate.

"You never told me how you knew where I lived," he said nudging the
conversation toward something less socially relevant.

"I'm a cop," Velasquez answered matter-of-factly as they turned on to the
south bound freeway. "I know a lot of things about you."

"I don't think I like the sound of that," Tom replied flatly. He looked out
the side window. The tinted glass made the sunny day appear dark and
overcast.

"You've got nothing to worry about," the cop said with an enigmatic grin.

Tom would never know what was going through Velasquez's mind when his right
hand left the steering wheel. Maybe he'd intended to pat his leg
reassuringly and reconsidered the move. The sight of it coming to rest on
the center console left him as disappointed as he was confused.

The weather had warmed up considerably by the time they pulled into the
parking lot. Let the records show that in the name of propriety, Tom
successfully resisted the urge to throw him to the ground and lick the
sweat from his forehead when the cop unlocked the sliding gate and wrestled
it aside.

It seemed wise to focus his attention on his bulging and stretching biceps
and leave the hardcore fantasy stuff to Chi Chi LaRue. If he noticed Tom's
appreciative stares he didn't let on. He simply dusted off his hands and
glanced up at the unusually blue sky.

"Looks like we're in for a hot one today," the cop observed as he started
up the loading ramp.

"I sure as shit hope so," Tom thought once he realized that the partial
erection that first came up when he opened his front door still hadn't gone
away. It was still rubbing uncomfortably against the seam of his Levis as
he followed at his heels.

He listened intently while Velasquez rattled off a string of facts as
easily as if he'd given the tour a hundred times before. It was something
that he'd failed to consider before.

"How often do you conduct these tours, Officer Velasquez?" Tom interrupted.

Velasquez came to a stop outside a formidable looking metal door. His
expression was one of genuine surprise as he looked over his shoulder.

"Never. You're the first one I've brought here. Why do you ask?"

"No special reason. All of this information makes you sound like a tour
guide."

"It's funny you should say that. My first job after getting out of the
Marine Corp was as a studio Tour Guide. I believe in knowing everything
there is to know about anything I'm involved with. Does that bother you?"

"This is just fucking great," Tom thought to himself. He shook his head and
looked out across the desolate loading dock. "He's a cop... and a former
Marine. This boner is never going to go down."

Truer words had never gone unspoken. Everything he did from the moment they
stepped through the door seemed calculated to keep Tom hard. He hadn't
realized the full extent of the cop's actions until he was standing in the
middle of what used to be the booking room watching him turning on lights.

Velasquez was pushing him with a word here, a phrase there and a seemingly
innocent gesture thrown in for good measure. Toward what Tom could only
guess and fantasize.

"Come on in here while I change. It's the old locker room," Velasquez said
guiding him toward a door marked Authorized Personnel Only.

His hand lingered on Tom's shoulder, then slid down his back until it
stopped just a couple of inches from his belt and a whole new level of
involvement. Tom gritted his teeth trying to will his whopper woody back to
parade rest as they started through the door.

Once inside, Tom left Velasquez to change his clothes unm*****ed and set
out on a self guided tour around the room. He peered down the rows of metal
lockers and poked his head into the white tile shower stalls. Thanks in
part to the lingering smell of old cock sweat and the effects of an already
over-stimulated libido, he could easily imagine them filled with wet, naked
men laughing and joking above the steady hiss of water.

>From there, they'd walk back to their lockers. Some would be wrapped in a
towel. Others would be naked... their damp cocks flopping in the steamy
air... balls swinging from front to back" right to left.

Some would be coming on duty and would don their uniforms for the first
time that day. Others would be finishing their watch and would put their
uniform away still smelling of whatever surprises the day had provided.

There'd be locker room talk about wives, k**s, girlfriends and barroom
pickups. They'd discuss Lana Turner's knockers and the gams on that street
walker that worked the corner of Sixth and Hill, but they'd never speculate
on how well hung Tyrone Power was.

Back in the late twenties, around the time that it was built, there
would've been snide, some might say bitchy, remarks about a bunch of
pansies, including William Haynes, being arrested in Pershing
Square. Nobody would ask why the cops were even bothering them. That
wouldn't happen for another sixty years.

The subject of all the Gay men who disappeared into the shadows out of fear
would be studiously avoided. Many of them would end up in this very
building watching their futures being destroyed with the rap of a gavel.

"Talk about your sexual depressant," Tom thought to himself as he wandered
back to check on Officer Velasquez.

Tom had gone completely soft long before he reached the end of the row of
lockers. Officer Velasquez looked up and grinned as Tom peered around the
corner and cleared his throat. The hot young cop was down to a very well
filled jockstrap but hadn't gotten around to pulling on the white tank top
hanging from the locker door.

Seeing the cop astride the scarred bench, jockstrap clad and gleaming with
sweat, should have brought Tom's erection roaring back to life but
didn't. He ambled over to the next row of lockers to wait.

"Screw it," Tom muttered softly. "Don't do that to yourself."

"Sorry to take so long," Velasquez called out. "My uniform has to make it
through another shift. I'll be just a second."

"Take your time," Tom called out nonchalantly. "There's lots to see over
here."

Truthfully, there was nothing new to see on either side of the bank of
lockers. He'd seen well filled jock straps numerous times in the Athletic
Club locker room, and just as many banged up lockers with names scrawled in
black marker pen.

Tom thought that perhaps Velasquez had wanted him to see him like
that. Maybe it was all some kind of test to see how he'd react. If so, what
did he think he was going to do: drop to his knees and beg for the
privilege of sucking his cock"

"Not fucking likely," he thought. Under other circumstances he just might
have taken the bait, but not this time.

If Velasquez was playing games, Tom was having no part of it. He was past
that stage in his sexual development and had no desire to relive the
experience. He had better things to do: things like examining a short
length of bench that had been dinged and scarred by three generations of
handcuffs and dildo-shaped Billy clubs.

Velasquez appeared, fully dressed, from around the corner. Tom's
disinterest seemed to have a galvanizing effect on Officer Velasquez.

"All ready to do some exploring?" he asked brightly.

"Lead the way," Tom replied while silently asking himself the question of
the hour; "What the hell am I doing?"

He'd been asking himself that question a lot, and was no closer to an
answer than he'd been that first morning of jury duty. Had he been so taken
with the stud cop and what he might be packing between his legs that he was
ignoring something more significant"

Granted, there'd been a guard at the parking lot entrance, but what if the
two of them were in on a plot to bash an unwitting fag? The old building
was the ideal spot for a mugging. If the intention was for him to not
survive the ordeal, who'd be the wiser?

His neighbors saw a guy in a uniform, and that could describe half the guys
he went out with. That, and the knowledge that there was an entire city
block over their heads to hide the body, led him to wonder why he hadn't
thought twice about accepting the invitation.

Tom hadn't experienced such paranoia since his d**g dabbling years at Mount
San Antonio College. He missed the good old days when you met someone and
had his pants down around his ankles inside of ten minutes: never thinking
of ulterior motives.

A long corridor with a low ceiling and walls painted institutional green
led to a giant holding cell, roughly forty feet on a side. Velasquez
stepped up to the bars and stared into the gloomy interior.

"This is where they kept the perverts before taking them upstairs to the
jail," he said tensely.

"Uh oh," Tom said to himself. "Here it comes."

Officer Velasquez's hands gripped the bars tightly, pressing his chest
against the cold steel. The friendly demeanor was gone: his voice an icy
echo in the cavernous room.

"Imagine what it was like to be crowded in here with fifty other guys like
cattle waiting to be slaughtered. Imagine having to endure the jokes and
the taunting of people who went out of their way for a glimpse of what a
queer looked like. Imagine what it was like being looked at as inferior to
murderers and r****ts."

"Every minority group has its stories of degradation and discrimination,"
Tom replied stepping up to the bars. He was unsure of where his line of
thought was headed.

Velasquez turned from the dingy cell without comment, pausing to look
deeply into Tom's eyes before continuing down the hall. Conversation became
sporadic and tense after that.

The two men advanced through a maze of corridors and rooms that seemed to
push them forward and in circles at the same time. One room, however, was a
dead end. Officer Velasquez shined his flashlight into the tiny windowless
cubicle.

"They uncovered this room after the 94 quake. There was some bad shit that
went down in there... back in the old days... stuff they didn't want the
public to know about. They hid it behind a false wall back in the late
fifties."

Tom shined his flashlight against the back wall and shuddered. The brown
smears on the dirty green paint left little doubt as to the nature of their
dirty little secret. With all of their faults, the LAPD had at least made
that much progress.

"Suddenly jury duty doesn't seem so bad... considering the alternative," he
muttered as he backed away.

"No shit," Velasquez responded softly. The beam from his light traced an
arc across the ceiling and back down the narrow corridor. "We'll go this
way."

"Right behind you, Ossifer Sir."

The tour made its way upward. Tom observed Officer Anthony Velasquez
intently from a respectful distance. There was something that went beyond
how great he had looked in his LAPD blues that fascinated him: something
that made getting into his pants less important than getting into his head.

The oppressive weight of the building began to lift the moment they emerged
at the north end of the ground floor. The grime encrusted windows kept the
vast marble clad lobby in a state of perpetual twilight that not even the
powerful beams of their heavy flashlights could overcome. The old place had
endured a lot of years of indifference and neglect.

A threadbare carpet of paper, sluggish dust bunnies and broken glass
crunched flatly beneath their feet as they crossed the lobby in a straight
line toward the long bank of elevators. It was an odd contrast to the lower
levels where each sound constantly doubled back on itself and walking more
than twenty feet in a straight line was out of the question.

Officer Velasquez stopped to examine a sheet of paper wedged between the
metal track and the marble floor outside elevator Number Five. He played
his flashlight across what appeared to be random doodles and stuck the
wadded paper into his back pocket. The door slid open and they stepped into
the gloomy interior.

Velasquez punched the eleventh floor button and joined his companion at the
back of the car. Tom's stomach remained nailed to the ground floor as the
doors shut and they began the slow, lurching upward climb..

Tom was no Humphrey Bogart, and Velasquez sure as shit wasn't Mary Astor,
but the old fashioned arrow pointer edging its way across the dial toward
the right side reminded him of one of those black and white detective
movies from the forties. There'd be a fifteen minute trial on one of the
upper floors in which a surprise revelation from an unexpected source would
either convict or exonerate the accused man. His heart began to race.

"God, I'm getting delirious," Tom thought to himself. Only the heat from
Velasquez's arm as they were repeatedly jostled and bumped against each
other could distract him from thinking too much. He had a rabid dislike of
riding in creaking old elevators inside neglected old public buildings with
someone he barely knew.

The tour began with the actual jail at the very top and worked its way down
floor by floor. They passed through the old law library, still heavy with
the acidic aroma of old books and silver fish, to the cafeteria that would
smell of fish and meat loaf for as long as the building remained standing.

There were stops at office doors that bore the ghostly outline of famous
names in legal history. The doors were locked, but Tom was assured that
anything worth seeing had long since been removed.

What little light there was came from a couple of widely spaced fluorescent
lights and from between the slowly turning blades of the giant vent fans at
either end of the wide empty hall.

"Shit!"

They'd come to a set of double doors marked "Superior Court A - Room
900". Finding them locked, Anthony cursed softly as he searched for the key
on a ring as big as his fist. Tom stood by patiently until the doors flew
open with a flourish.

"Another court room? " Tom asked as he followed him inside. "Haven't you
had enough court rooms for awhi..."

Tom fell silent as he looked over the cop's shoulder. Compared to the one
that stretched out before them, the court rooms across the street were wood
paneled toilet stalls with foam padded seats. The flag poles behind the
judge's bench were empty, and the city seal was missing from the wall but
other from that, it looked as if court had simply recessed for the day.

"This is impressive," Tom said easing past the handsome cop. "How long did
you say you've been a museum curator?"

The cop pushed the giant doors closed. "It's not as anal as it
appears. There's been talk about using it to take some of the load off the
Criminal Courts Building."

"And in your spare time you come in and tidy up?" Tom offered as he
strolled across the last row of the spectator gallery. "I've imagined you
assuming a lot of positions, but on your knees with a scrub brush wasn't
among them."

It was a lot less subtle than he'd intended. Velasquez followed him down
the row, brushing dust from the bench seat as he went along.

"I don't do any of this," he countered. "City workers do it all. I just
come in to make sure it's been done right. What kinds of positions have you
imagined me assuming?"

"Say what?"

"I asked what kinds of positions..."

"I... uh... You know...The usual," Tom replied shakily. He stepped over the
bar and approached the defense table. Was it his imagination or were they
playing cat and mouse? If so, what part was he playing?

Velasquez advanced toward the witness stand with the same self-assured
stride he'd shown across the street. He turned and leaned against the dark
polished wood of the judge's bench. Bathed in the diffused light of the
floor to ceiling windows to his right, one thing was certain; the cop knew
how to present himself.

"Define usual positions."

"You know... On your knees... Holding a gun... Getting ready to shoot," Tom
blurted out.

Thankfully, nothing came to mind that involved his being on his back with
his legs in the air. Tom felt that he was already knee-deep in double
entendres. He wiped a thin film of perspiration from his forehead and sat
on the edge of the table.

"Really? I don't get to use it as often as some of the other guys,"
Velasquez repled. An enigmatic smile playing across his full kissable lips.

Tom's eye dropped to the rising bulge behind the buttons of the policeman's
faded 501s. Earlier conservative estimates of size would have to be revised
upward to allow for double digit inflation.

"I've heard that a... gun... should be used..."

Velasquez trapped and held him prisoner with his incredible green eyes. His
right hand slid downward from his waist band. His thumb disappeared between
the third and fourth buttons.

"Were you ever in the military?" he asked, stroking the lurking b**st in
his basket.

"N... No. Why do you ask?" Tom stammered.

"We had a saying in the Marines. 'This is my weapon. This is my gun. One is
for killing. The other's for fun.' Which one are you talking about?"

"You left your holster downstairs... in the locker and I'm strictly
non-violent," he whispered hoarsely. He wanted to say more but his throat
had gone dry.

Velasquez pushed away from the polished mahogany witness stand and slowly
approached the table. Tom's erection, now unencumbered by the whims of
propriety, gleefully charged down his left thigh and was once again pushing
painfully against the inner seam of his pants. Velasquez stepped between
Tom's legs as he spread them to relieve the pressure.

"Nice gun you've got, buddy. You up for some target practice?" he
whispered, rubbing his hand up and down the length of Tom's swollen, rock
hard cock.

As you might imagine, Tom was pretty fucking confused. The guy liked him;
that much was obvious from the way he pressed their crotches together. The
questions that came to mind centered on the word "why". Why on the ninth
floor of the Hall Of Justice? Why not some place private where there was a
guaranteed supply of lube?

Los Angeles was as well known for its good looking men as it was for smog,
freeways and earthquakes. Why had he been signaled out? He'd been told that
he was quite a good looking guy in his own right. As a strapping 6'4", 190
pound blonde with blue eyes and a big dick he embodied, at least on paper,
a sort of Tom of Finland ideal. In real life he was just a regular guy.

Thankfully, Velasquez didn't seem to agree. Who was Tom to turn down such
an appealing invitation when there were men going to bed celibate and horny
all over the city?

Tom couldn't remember the exact words that came to mind as the silence of
the ninth floor enveloped them, but he was sure they weren't "stop or I'll
shoot" or "fire when ready". He was positive that he didn't say: "don't
shoot until you see the whites of their eyes". He was looking right into
the cop's eyes and so far there was only a small sticky spot near the tip
of his dick. He still hadn't popped his load.

It didn't really matter what was said. What did matter was the fact that
weeks of fantasies hung in the balance: fantasies that could come to
glorious reality or go down in a hail of misfired bullets.

The prospect of touching Velasquez for the first time threw Tom's brain
into overload. How would he remember the sensation when he wasn't sure that
even his ever vigilant scanners could be trusted.

He could say that touching the cop's skin was like running his fingers
across a silk sheet at the height of passion but decided that it sounded
too much like Barbara Cartland on a poppers rush. Thinking of the cop's
chest in terms of being as being smooth as that of a young boy weirded him
out. It was also inappropriate and probably i*****l.

Given the intensely sexual nature of the situation, he wasn't particularly
surprised when his thoughts turned to jerking off. He thought of a day in
the not too distant past when he was especially horny and spent an entire
rainy afternoon engaged in a marathon masturbatory orgy. He remembered the
sound of the rain falling on the leaves of the tree outside his window and
how the sound brought out the sexually insatiable b**st in him.

Most of all he remembered laying on the bed in the cool gray light watching
a pool of cum run down his chest and collect in his navel. Touching it,
savoring its perfection made him forget all about the cum towel. Maybe that
would be how he'd remember the first time that he placed a trembling hand
on Velasquez's muscular chest: touching perfection.

He buried his face in the crook of the cop's neck and inhaled deeply. His
natural scent and the heady aroma of clean sweat made him dizzy with lust
as he worked his way down his right shoulder and back.

Some people say that the first kiss is the toughest, even if the reasons
are unclear. You can suck his cock dry or fuck him senseless. You can shove
your tongue, your finger or even your fist up his ass and he won't raise a
single objection but for some the kiss is the last great frontier.

For all his bravado, Velasquez was no exception. He resisted as their lips
brushed on their way to some other less threatening spot. Ears? No
problem. Neck or throat? Ditto. Shoulders? Don't stop Dude. Lips? Later,
amigo: or so he thought.

Tom was on his way to the other side when Velasquez's full, kissable lips
came within snapping distance. He grabbed the back of his head and pulled
him forward. The cop shook his head and tried to pull away but Tom's grip
was too strong.

"I don't kiss," he whispered, urgently pulling at as many buttons as he was
pushing.

"Yes you do," Tom countered.

"No," he insisted. "Not for a one shot... Oh fuck."

"Again with the guns? What makes you think this is a one shot fuck? Tom
mumbled as he pulled his fly open and shoved his hand inside.

Tom wrapped his strong fingers around the cop's prodigious piece. Velasquez
took a deep ragged breath and let it out slowly.

"What makes... you think... it isn't?" he asked with a surprised gasp.

"Because you didn't go to all this trouble just for a quick blow job. He
had something else in mind," Tom replied.

"Maybe I like to do it in exotic places," Velasquez offered while shoving
Tom's pants down around his knees.

Tom found himself sitting on the edge of the table. The wood felt cool
against his naked butt as he leaned back. That was when it hit him.

"You've never kissed another guy, have you?"

"Sure I have," Velasquez protested: albeit lamely. "I've done it lots of
times with..."

"I know: with lots of guys. Every one of them was a meaningful
relationship, huh?"

It was a mystery to Tom why he was copping an attitude instead of a
feel. Officer Velasquez's defensiveness told him everything he needed to
know, yet he was compelled to go on. Officer Velasquez was a true romantic
adrift in a world of quickie blow jobs. Something that he'd read about
D. H. Lawrence came to mind. It described the great author as being a
sexual idealist trapped in a repressed age. If his instincts were right the
hunky cop was about to be set free.

"No, but..."

Tom stroked himself but was careful not to get carried away. Already so
hard that it actually hurt, there was a point that had to be made.

"Uh huh. See I don't like games unless I'm in on the rules and I don't like
to be kept in the dark. Up to now, that's exactly what's been happening so
I'll tell you what I'm going to do. If all you had in mind was getting your
rocks off, I'll put this back in my pants and we'll finish the tour as if
all of this never happened. No hard feelings. It's your call, Officer
Velasquez."

Velasquez stepped out of his pants and stretched out on top of him. His
face hovered above Tom's as his eyes searched for a hint of
deception. Yeah, it was that obvious.

Frankly, Tom was as surprised at his own candor as Velasquez appeared to
be. He clamped one hand around a bulging tricep, the other around the back
of his neck and started to pull him forward.

"You won't find it. Stop wasting time," Tom said as he closed the distance.

Let the records show that Officer Anthony Ruben Velasquez's first ever kiss
by another man took place on the defense table in Superior Court A, Room
900, on the afternoon of July the third at approximately two in the
afternoon.

Tom's sense of vindication was immediate. Once his reservations were put to
rest, it was like a flood gate had been opened. Suddenly the hunky cop was
all over him, his tongue probing and pushing against Tom's in a first kiss
neither one wanted to end.

Not surprisingly his jockstrap, having been stretched to capacity,
relinquished its hold and his huge uncut whopper joined Tom's in the warm
still air of the courtroom. Now with their cocks pressed together, skin
against skin as they rolled across the table, nothing else mattered.

The intermittent rain of keys and coins falling from his pockets reminded
Tom that his pants were still down around his ankles and there were things
that he might need rolling beneath the chairs. Anthony closed his eyes and
took a deep breath as Tom pulled out from under him and slid from the
table.

"What's wrong?" Velasquez asked. Confusion clouded his strong, masculine
face as Tom stood with his boner waving in the still air.

"Not a thing. I'll be with you as soon as I get my pants off," he said
pointing to the jumble of fabric covering his shoes.

Velasquez glanced at the floor, then scrambled off the table and dropped to
one knee to help him undress.

"Let me give you a hand with that."

"How cool is this?" Tom thought to himself as the cop untied his boot
laces. "The man of my dreams is at my feet... on his knees with his big
hairy balls swinging beneath a big uncut dick bobbing up and down between
his powerful legs. All I have to do is stand here and enjoy the show. How
many writers would kill for such inspiration?"

Free at last from the last remnants of his sartorial respectability Tom
pulled him, slowly, to his feet. Never once did their bodies lose
contact. Never once did he doubt that his fortitude was being tested as
Velasquez dragged his silky smooth chest upward: first against his crotch,
then rising slow and unhurried over his stomach until Tom could his heart
beating against his own. A dazzling ray of white light streamed in from the
south end of the room as their lips met.

"Jesus," Tom croaked. "You should come packaged with a vial of Nitro
tablets. That trick could give a lesser man heart failure."

"You liked that, huh? Don't expect it too often. It's hell on the knees,"
he replied as he led Tom back to the Prosecution table.

Tom no longer knew what to expect. The shy, reserved officer of the law was
gone. In his place stood a man who, based on early estimates, could send
even the best of lovers back for a refresher course. This, in turn, led to
the question of whether he'd ever existed at all.

Tom stretched out on the gleaming oak surface and closed his eyes while the
handsome cop arranged his legs and himself between them. When he looked
again, Velasquez was flat on his stomach. All he could see was his head
poised above his erection.

Their eyes met as Velasquez grasped Tom's quivering, quaking column of cock
flesh (don't ya love euphemisms") and grinned. The time had come.

"Buckle up and spread your legs, big guy. You're in for the ride of your
life," Velasquez said with a low, sensual growl.

Buckle up? No sweat. Spread his legs? How far? Tense with anticipation and
driven to the edge of total abandon by lust unparalleled in the annals of
sexuality, Tom would have done anything asked of him.

As it turned out, the hard part was upholding a measure of dignity once
Velasquez got behind the wheel. In no time at all, Tom's universe was
turned inside out and backward.

Most guys who engage in public sex or as in their case, semi-public sex,
get right down to business with none of the usual preliminaries. In this
respect, Velasquez was no different. He began at the perineum, that little
piece of sexual paradise between the balls and the butt hole, and lapped at
the hyper-sensitive flap of skin until waves of pleasure totally engulfed
Tom's brain.

"God, Velasquez. It feels so fucking good," Tom cried out, mindless of who
else might be around to hear.

"Call me Mphmphmph," the officer replied from between Tom's spread legs.

"What?"

"I said to call me Anthony," he repeated. "My name's Anthony."

"Anything you say... Anthony. Just don't stop eating my hole."

Velasquez... Anthony... responded to his words of encouragement by
redoubling his efforts at turning him into a mindless prisoner of
sex. While clouds of dust, raised by the beating of Tom's fists on the
table drifted toward the ceiling, Anthony's tongue plunged into Tom's
twitching bung hole.

"Do it Anthony!" Tom roared as his butt cheeks were pried apart. "Eat my
ass!"

It felt good to give himself over to this man: to just lay back and enjoy
the ride while his tongue did all the work. Tom had been tongued before,
but never with such a level of expertise.

Even in the old days, back when sex could be as adventurous as you could
stand, it was rare to find someone willing to go down that particular road
with such eagerness. Whether he was a throwback to those hedonistic times
or he'd just been repressed for too long,there was something about Tom that
inspired Anthony Velasquez to act out his impulses with total abandon.

Anthony went from eating ass to sucking cock without missing a stroke: so
to speak. One minute Tom was writhing breathlessly on the edge of the table
with his legs d****d over the cop's wide shoulders, mulling over the erotic
possibilities of chin stubble on tender skin. The next thing he knew,
Anthony's warm mouth engulfed the head of his rigid, dripping cock and the
acoustical tile ceiling erupted into a galaxy of shooting stars.

Tom felt compelled to raise his head and witness the spectacle. As a
veteran of numerous blow jobs, Tom was aware of the enormous "turn-on"
potential in seeing his favorite external body part being serviced by such
a hot man. The simple act of watching it slide into the horny cop's mouth
until it bumped against the back of his throat flipped every switch on the
board. As for the way it looked as it emerged, glistening with saliva; it
made his heart race.

"Okay. This is it," he thought to himself, placing his hand on the back of
Velasquez's head and urging him on. "This is what you've been waiting for."

As if reading his mind, Anthony looked up from between his legs and
winked. He paused just long enough for his tongue to pass over and around
the hyper-sensitive corona.

"That's it, Anthony. Suck my big cock."

Tom grinned once it became clear that it was to be a wet suck, with equal
measures of saliva and eagerness. He liked his blow jobs wet. He liked
seeing the little rivulets of spit running down the length of his shaft and
collecting in his pubic hair. He liked the way that it felt when a breeze
whispered over his moist prick. The soft slurping sound it made as it slid
between Anthony's soft lips was like music to his ears. The steady up and
down movement lulled him into a trance-like state where he heard only
bells.

It seemed as if the carilloneur had no sooner begun his lengthy bell solo
than he heard Anthony speak and opened his eyes. Anthony stood over him
holding his big beautiful boner just inches from his face. Tom blinked
once, swallowed twice and opened his mouth wide.

"You want to give it a shot?" Anthony's voice was low and insinuating as he
rubbed it teasingly across Tom's sweaty forehead.

"I'll do more than that," Tom growled, swinging his legs over the side of
the table. "Get up here and spread 'em. I'm gonna eat me some cop butt."

Anthony looked dubious as the two men changed places. He wasn't accustomed
to taking orders from a civilian. He'd always been, in every aspect of his
life, a take charge sort of guy. Whether it was making a bust or making a
good appearance on the witness stand, Anthony was used to people doing what
he wanted them to.

Now he was the one with his knees shoved up around his ears with his tight,
smooth butt cheeks spread wide. Tom forced his tongue into his puckered
hole.

"Oh fucking hell!" Tony rasped as Tom buried his nose in the under side of
his balls and pushed his tongue upward into mostly unexplored
territory. "That's so fucking hot!"

"Haven't had a lot of action down in these parts, huh?" Tom asked from
behind the erect cock that blocked his view of the cops face like a tall
tree swaying in the breeze.

"Not like that... I mean not the way you do it."

"Then you've been with some pretty stupid people who didn't know what they
were missing."

"I've never gotten to know any of them well enough to... I... Oh
Jesus... Screw that. Don't stop."

For Tom, things were turning out to be too good to be true. Anthony was the
embodiment of every fantasy that his overactive brain could conceive. The
way he filled out a uniform was not to be believed. He was experienced, but
not so much so that he'd become jaded. He could still be impressed.

Across the board and without exception, absolutely everything about this
guy excited him: from the way his crotch smelled (a given) to the peculiar
way he breathed. At some point Tom realized there were two extra intakes of
breath for every long one and even that was sexy. It may seem like a pretty
odd thing to find exciting, but it made him mortal because a deity doesn't
have irregular breathing.

He was also intelligent, sensitive and above all was a man of
convictions. That alone was enough to inspire Tom to try that much
harder. If it turned out that Anthony was available and looking for someone
to share his life with, it might as well be him.

"Me'teme en el culo," Anthony whispered.

"Huh?"

"Put your finger up my ass," he repeated in English. "Just go easy."

Tom wet his right index finger and placed it against the puckered butt
hole, moving it in a tight little circle to relax the muscles and prepare
it for what was to follow. Anthony moaned and spread his legs wide.

"Go ahead" I can take it."

The question was whether or not Tom could. He spat on his finger again,
repositioned myself and pushed inward while swallowing the groaning
officer's cock down to the base. They'd have heard his surprised yell at
the front gate if not for the thick concrete walls.

"Damn!" he screamed. "Suck my cock, man. Suck it hard!" He was practically
doubled back with pleasure.

As a long time practitioner of the oral arts, Tom came to the table
equipped with a long repertory of cock sucking routines. While most were
highly specialized and usable only on those for whom they were named, a few
were easily adaptable to a wide number of recipients.

Based on his reaction, Tom pegged Anthony to be a Number 47: the Joe-Bob
knob-job. For the record, Joe-Bob was a Fresno motorcycle mechanic who also
had a big, uncut torpedo-shaped dick. Like Officer Velasquez, J.B. loved to
be finger fucked while being sucked off.

Number 47 required a bit more concentration than most. It involved exerting
a tighter grip around the base, extra tongue action along the shaft, more
than the usual amount of suction at the head and a steady in and out
prostate assault. Like any well executed routine, timing and coordination
were all important.

He'd seen a lot of beautiful sights up to that moment, but not one was as
exhilarating as the sight of Anthony laying on that table bathed in a shaft
of filtered sunlight. Tom loved the way that he played with his nipples,
slowly rolling them between his thumb and forefinger while staring,
trance-like, at the ceiling. All the tensions and anxieties of his job were
gone from his face.

"So what do you think?" Anthony asked after a long time.

"About what?"

"This table. Think it'll hold both of us?"

"Hard to say. It looks sturdy enough," Tom replied. He peered underneath.

"Then get your ass up here."

"If it falls, do I get to sue the city?"

"Nope. Just me... and you'll have to take it out in trade... but it'd be
worth it for another shot at sucking your cock."

"Slide over."

Tom extracted his finger from the stud cop's butt. Even if the legs gave
out, assuming they didn't break their necks in the fall, it would take a
hell of a long time for him to work off a twenty million dollar law
suit. The table creaked ominously but held firm as Tom stretched out at his
side, ready for round three.

There are times when it's just plain stupid to waste time on formalities
and Tom figured this to be one of them. Officer Velasquez groaned softly as
he took up where he left off and drew his cock back into his mouth where,
as far as he was concerned, it belonged. He attacked his friend's genitals
with seemingly boundless exuberance, determined to drain every last drop of
cum from Anthony's nuts by the time they were finished.

Anthony took a more leisurely approach. His innate sense of what made
people tick was proving to be especially useful in determining what threw
Tom's switches. He knew that Tom wasn't so impressed with his big dick that
he'd be content with having it waved in his face while jerking himself off.

Anthony wasn't lying when he said there'd been others. His past was
littered with mouths without faces. He'd left them where he found them:
lurking behind glory holes in restroom stalls and in the alleys behind bars
in towns where nobody knew who he was.

Who was this man between his legs: the one sucking on his dick like there'd
never be a second chance? What was it about Tom that made him open himself
up in ways he'd never thought possible? Was it the way he'd caught on to
his bullshit game playing and had called him it or was that just another
part of the mysterious something that had first caught his attention that
day in the courtroom?

Anthony slid his tongue back and forth along the sensitive underside of
Tom's rigid shaft before engulfing it in long, unhurried strokes. He was
determined to have the answers if he had to keep him there all day.

The taste of Tom's sweat churning in his mouth made it hard to
concentrate. Now and then Anthony would have to stop and savor it, allowing
it to settle on the back of his tongue like a fine wine. He loved the way
it mingled with the sweet pre-cum that oozed from his beautiful cock with
every stroke.

"I think it's time," Anthony declared as he sat up, stretched and slid
toward the end of the table. He sounded as if he'd just reached a verdict.

Tom laid back and stared at the water stains on the frescoed ceiling while
collecting his thoughts. They were down to the main event. Pretty soon
they'd both cum and maybe go their separate ways.

"Keanu Reeves has pee stains on his tunic," Tom observed.

"What?"

"The guy in the mural... above the jury box. He looks like Keanu Reeves and
he's got a big 'ol pee stain on his crotch."

Anthony strained to see what Tom was talking about. "That's Zeno of
Citium. He founded the Stoic school in... Hey! Are you bullshitting me?"

Aside from making absolutely no sense whatsoever, Tom couldn't say what he
was thinking at the time. The thing about Keanu Reeves essentially just