Dr. W. A. Frost's Ides of Revolution

“SOLD! For eight thousand five hundred to number 29, thank you so much ma'am, please see our associate afterward for your banking information.” The auction hall was buzzing. It was all over the news: locker 482 having it’s lock busted and the heavy iron door rolled up to reveal the long lost estate of the old school pro-surfer Ronnie “Riptide” Darensbourg. Ventura’s very own legend from the 70’s, Ronnie Riptide was a local hero who’d passed away in 1991. In fact, he’d been the hero for Francis Cragg since childhood. To Francis, the heartthrob represented everthing he wanted to be as a teenager in 1977: laid back, efforlessly cool, athletic, flirtatious, sexy… and notoriously “open minded” in the bedroom. To be queer back in the day was quite the scandal that was reserved only for the Hollywood stars and not for the everyday person. Under this strict social law, Francis couldn’t look at another guy, couldn’t even be suspected of being gay- but he could live vicariously through Ronni

10:30 PM, Saturday, June 4 of 2022: Officer C. Wickham dispatched to 3247 North Park Avenue from North Police District of Indianapolis, Indiana for a suspected prostitution ring in the Northside. — “Officer, 10-35, please confirm, over.” Chuck rolled his eyes as he finished snorting the last of his cocaine for the final leg of his shift. 10-35, of course meaning a major crime in his immediate vicinity. Sighing, the cop clicked the button on his walkie-talkie, irritated as he choked out “10-4, what is the address of the crime?” He flushed the toilet, walking out of the stall, as the dispatcher fumbled over her words. “Uh… well… Uhm… It’s… Uhm…” Primping himself in the mirror, Chuck smirked at his handsome visage which had come in handy a myriad of times before. “Address is 3247 North Park Ave.” The officer acknowledged the dispatcher, knowing full well his obligation to intervene. He had been looking particularly sexy on this particular occasion to the restroom, and it had warrented an

  Looking to the corner of the gym, Nick stared with poignant malice at the hispanic twink. Taking selfies in the weight room mirrors was already a no-no at the Texan’s “Manly” gym, but that thing was a bad hombre from cocaine-infested Mexico. The kid had only recently joined the gym, and from what the desk manager had spilled, he was “potentially” undocumented- which in Nick’s mind meant: illegal. The kid was lean, tan, perhaps a bit scrawny. He walked in every evening at 8:30 wearing the stereotypical laborer uniform of a dirty, sweaty white tee shirt, heavy cargo pants, and beat up old work boots. For the red-blooded, all-white-meat American man, this kid needed to realize just where he was. Nick continued his workout, lifting insane amounts of weight thanks to the copious amount of steroids in his system. As soon as the kid finished his final set at the abs machine, he took his water bottle and quietly walked into the locker room. This is exactly where Nick wanted him to be. He rer