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   story codes: (Mb bb snuff anal oral ped) style: contemporary

   THE DUNGEON MASTER by Rafe Morgan (Copyright 2012)

   BOOK I: THE CAGE (Jacob)

   Chapter 7

   I stood up and took a deep breath.  Jacob looked small and very young,
lying there at my feet.  After pulling the sword out of him I leaned down
to close his eyes and then did the same for Brandon.  There was a small
puddle of urine around his hips as well, but almost no feces when I looked.
Thinking back, I realized that the only thing I had seen the boy eat was
the breakfast shake I had made for him.  Meth users often went for days
without eating and I wondered how long it had been since the boy had had a
meal.

   After stripping Brandon I got out the digital camera and took multiple
close-up shots of both dead boys along with full views of the final scene
in the cage.  The bodies were starkly highlighted by the slanting bars of
sunlight from the windows high on the walls and I moved around
photographing from all angles recording the multiple slashes and cuts that
each boy had received.  Blood was everywhere and I had gotten a lot on
myself when I had taken Jacob, so once I finished I went and washed myself
off in the mop closet before pulling on my pants and boots.

   I took care of Jacob first.  Picking the boy up gently, I carried his
dead body out of the cage and rolled it carefully into a clean plastic
tarp. Then I did the same for Brandon, first removing Jacob's spear and
then lifting the dead boy's bare lanky body up out of the congealing pool
of blood that he was lying in and bringing it out.

   When the two bodies were wrapped I collected the weapons, loaded
everything into the van and did a quick preliminary clean up, getting the
worst of the blood off both the floor and the cage fencing.

   Driving home it felt strange not to have Jacob leaning against me
holding my hand.

   When I got to the house I took Jacob's body upstairs leaving the other
dead boy lying temporarily on the weight bench in the basement.  Using the
kitchen counter as a working space, just as I had when I tended Jacob after
his previous fight, I carefully unwrapped the body and gently removed his
earring, bead necklace and gold ankle chain.  Then slowly and very
carefully I washed Jacob's body and long hair using a scented soap.

   "Sorry, Jacob," I murmured when I turned him onto his side and took out
the shirt I had used to plug him.  "We have to do this."

   Squeezing and massaging I emptied what bowel contents there were, and
then washed the body again from back to front.  When it was done I placed
him on clean plastic, wrapped him once more and then took the body
downstairs and placed it gently into the freezer.

   For Brandon I did exactly the same thing, washing the body very
thoroughly so that it could be treated with respect because the boy had
shown himself to be a warrior and I wanted to honor him.  Then he too was
wrapped and put away.

   Once the dirty plastic tarps were rolled into garbage bags I made a
sandwich and ate it slowly out by the pool, thinking of how I had been
swimming in it with Jacob just a few hours before.

   In the afternoon I spent hours at the warehouse cleaning and then loaded
all the video equipment into the van.  The garbage bags with the dirty
tarps, the mop, bucket and all the cleaning supplies went to the van as
well and got dropped into a dumpster on the way home.

   That night it felt very strange to go to sleep without a boy lying
beside me in the bed.

   Over the next few days I dismantled the cage, removing parts of it in
small sections and carting them down to the junkyard in my pickup truck to
sell for scrap.  The job took me nearly a week and once it was done I
inspected the empty warehouse thoroughly, and then locked it up.  The lease
was good for another year and I might need to come back.

   After resting for a weekend I buried Brandon.  The spot I picked was one
I had taken some care in choosing because I wanted it to be a place with a
view and pleasant surroundings.  When the grave was done I stretched the
dead boy out in it, crossed his arms over his breast and placed the weapons
he had used in his match against Jacob at his side.

   "You were a warrior, Brandon," I murmured, touching his face.  "If you
had survived, think of all the things we would have done together."

   I had brought flowers with me and covered the body with them before
filling in the grave.

   For Jacob I did not want a burial.  The boy had lived and died a warrior
and I wanted him to have a warrior's funeral like his heroes of the Iliad.
I wanted him to have a funeral pyre.

   In Homeric times, and right up until the last few decades, having a
funeral pyre was simply a matter of stacking up enough wood and lighting a
match.  Now, however, anything larger than a campfire required negotiating
a thicket of bureaucracy and obtaining permits from multiple county and
state offices, the local fire department and the Environmental Protection
Agency of the federal government.  Getting what I wanted for Jacob proved
to be difficult.

   My first move was to shift the base of operations to my grandfather's
old farm where I still had the house, and more importantly for my current
needs, a woodlot.  This necessitated a long cross-country trip in the van
with Jacob's body packed in ice, which had to be replenished from
convenience stores each time I stopped for gas.  More ice was required when
I reached the farm and during my stay I made the rounds of local stores
trying not to buy ice twice in the same week from the same one.

   On the pretext of thinning out the woodlot I rented equipment and with
the help of a few illegals that I found outside a Home Depot one morning in
the nearby city, I stacked logs up in a huge pile about the size of a
detached garage.

   It was then that I discovered about the permits, because the guy who had
rented me the logging equipment told me I was going to need them.

   "The fire department will be all over your ass if you don't dot the i's
and cross the t's," he said while we shared a cup of coffee.

   Starting with the local fire department and then working my way up the
line, it took about two weeks to have the necessary paperwork approved.  I
spent the time preparing my monster bonfire, stuffing the bottom layers
with dead brush and other woodlot trash as well as stocking up on a dozen
5-gallon cans of gasoline.

   At long last all the necessary permissions had been obtained.  The
volunteer fire brigade told me they would have a truck present on standby
the next morning and as soon as the crew arrived I could get the blaze
going.

   That night I unwrapped my little warrior and laid him out in the
kitchen, standing vigil with him while I listened to a live baseball game
on the radio.  When the body had thawed enough I covered it with a sheet
and then carried the dead boy out into the empty field.

   It was a cool, clear early summer night and the stars seemed very
bright, the way they always do when you see them far away from city lights.
Carrying Jacob in my arms I climbed to the top of the pyre and laid him in
a special little place I had prepared where he could not be seen by anyone
standing around the bottom.

   I stayed there with him all night under the stars telling him again the
old stories he so loved to hear because I had sworn to him that I would
never leave him alone.  Then, at first light, I kissed him, and descended
the pyre to await the coming of the fire truck and to start pouring out the
contents of all the gas cans onto the logs.

   The moment the truck arrived I struck a match, tossed it, and the lower
part of the giant mound of logs burst into flame.

   At first there was a great deal of dark smoke and the fire seemed slow
to spread, so I worried that the thing would snuff out and not catch.  But
this was only my inexperience.  It takes time to bring such a huge pile of
wood into full combustion.  Eventually the pyre was engulfed, flames
licking upward on a twisting column of superheated air, strangely silent
except for a steady crackling sound.

   The heat moved me back to where the crew was standing by the truck and
its driver offered me a cup of coffee from a thermos.  "Smells like you're
cookin' sompm'," he drawled.

   There was a faint odor of burning meat that now and then wafted to us
from the fire.  I had been hoping no one would notice.

   "Probably a stray dog or something got in there," the crew leader told
me.  "They do that all the time.  Get overcome by the smoke and burn up."

   I nodded, sipping at the coffee, but I wanted to kill him for the dog
remark.

   When the great pyre finally crashed in on itself, sending up showers of
sparks, the crew drove their truck around the field, dousing a few embers
here and there before coming back to me.  "Guess the show's about over,"
crew chief told me.  "You want us to douse it?"

   "No," I said, shaking my head.

   "It's likely to keep smoldering all night."

   "That's okay.  I'll watch it."

   "Well, call us if you need us," he said, looking disappointed.

   After they left I sat down on the grass and watched the flames dancing
on the wood with the embers glowing beneath them.  My mind was empty and I
did not move for a long time.  There were only the flames, the smoke and
the silence.

   As the crew chief had predicted, the fire burned all night and the ashes
were still smoking in the morning.  It took days for it to cool enough so I
could begin raking.

   Wood fires burn flesh, but they are not hot enough to consume human
bones.  It took hours and days of patient sifting to recover Jacob's
skeleton, or at least all of it I could find.

   The ancients would have soaked the bones in wine and raised a mound over
them.  I could not do this, so I buried them along with Jacob's weapons in
a place where there was a view, some trees and a slope of wildflowers.

   "You were a warrior, Jacob," I said, spreading flowers and then clean
earth over his bones.  "As brave as Achilles or any of the rest.  If there
was a way I could chant some Homeric verses over you, I would.  But take
them as read."

   Once it was all done I sat for a while contemplating the view.

   "If I get killed you'll be sad, won't you," he had said to me - how many
times?

   "Yes, Jacob.  I'm sad," I whispered.

   When I arrived back home, I avoided going into either of the two
basement bedrooms.  After selling the van, I arranged for the house to be
looked after and then flew to Cancun, Mexico for a long vacation.  The
beaches were pleasant there and so were some of the young boys.  But none
of them was Jacob.

   ------------------- End of Chapter Seven =================== END OF TDM
BOOK I -------------------