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You know they're doin' it
Xander Harris - Undercover 
22nd-Oct-2007 05:15 am
Title: Xander Harris - Undercover 26/40

Author: BmblBee
Rating: Adult
Paring: S/X with a side of W/G
Summary: Xander is drifting, looking for a purpose in life.
One that finally comes clear when he spots a certain
hairdresser by the name of Mr. William. Xander
immediately begins planning and plotting to win over
this scrumptious man. Of course nothing worth having
ever comes easily.
Genre: Comedy, romance. HAU
Warnings: The usual bad language as well as graphic m/m sexual
activities. Also warned of hints of poultry perversions.
Disclaimer: I Own or have claim on none of the characters or products
used and named in this story and no profit is made.
Feedback: Much appreciated. It encourages me to continue.

Special thanks to Petxnd for the wonderful banner and her patience and
willingness to preread and comment on my stories.

Xander trotted out the front door and dropped down on the old wooden
swing on the front porch. He looked up at the rusty chain that squeaked
and groaned as he swayed back and forth while contemplating the
little scene that had just played out in the kitchen.

That could have gone a whole lot better but, smiling, he realized
it also could have gone a whole lot worse.

Checking his happy meal watch he was somewhat surprised to see
it was almost one. He would have thought that Spike would have
been by before now, wanting to take him for a ride on his monster.

Maybe even a ride on his bike. Xander snorted and snickered at his own
amazing sense of humor. He briefly wonder if turning gay had some
how increased his sparkling wit.

It had been slightly concerning to realize Spike didn't get his phone number
when he took him home, but he then relaxed, assuring himself that it really
wasn't necessary since Spike now knew where he lived.

Impetuous boy probably didn't want to waste time on the phone.

Xander sat back and waited. The old swing creaked, the flakes of rust
drifted down and settled on his shoulders like dandruff.

By two o'clock he was becoming down right worried. His ears had picked
up regularly at the sound of any loud motor only to be repeatedly disappointed
when a truck, scooter, or Yugo cruised by. The one time it had been a motor
cycle the bright red color told him instantly it was the wrong one.

By three o'clock his ass was crimped by the swings slat seat and his
brain was conjuring up all types of gruesome scenarios.
He vowed to never forgive himself for not driving cross town to make
sure Spike had arrived safely.

Xander stood up and started pacing. Mental pictures of high school
films such as "Blood on the Highway" and "My Seatbelt Would Have
Saved Me" flashed through his head.

He had no doubt that the one or two twisty turns on the way to Locust st.
were the culprits. The place where his beloved lost control, spinning
wildly across both lanes, directly in the path of an 18 wheeler, driven,
no doubt, by a wild coked up lunatic who was obviously more
concerned with the bologna sandwich he was eating than the hot,
sexy driver of the approaching Harley.

Finally able to slam on the breaks he must have crashed into the steel
guard rail, flipping head over heels and landing, broken and bleeding in the
gutter below, calling out Xander's name weakly before losing consciousness.

Rocked by the horror of it Xander turned and dashed back in to the house.
He rushed through the living room headed for the basement. He had urgent
calls to make.

He was in such a blind hurry had he hardly noticed the man sitting on the sofa,
beer in one hand T.V. remote in the other, wearing only an undershirt and a
pair of well worn boxers that permanently gapped open in the front.

"Hey! Boy! Your Mother tells me your a homo. That right?"

"Tony! I did not! I said the boy was very gay this morning, that's all.
I'm sorry, Honey, your Dad just misunderstood."

Jessica returned to the kitchen where she was tackling a difficult suduko
and an even more challenging gin and juice.

Xander quickly weighed his options. Continue on to the basement or stay
and have this out now. Considering the hospital already had Spike on life
support, another minute or two really wouldn't matter. Besides, if this was
going to be ugly he might as well know now.

Xander turned and slowly faced his Father. He took a deep breath and
straightened his shoulders.
"That's right. I'm gay. Gay as an interior decorator. Gay as an Olympic
ice skater. Gay as Chucky, the nurse's aid that works at the senior center.
Gay. Gay. Gay."

Xander braced himself for the scathing reply. The cruel remarks. The threats
of abandonment and eviction.

Tony Harris took another drink of his beer and turned back to the football game
on the television. He belched once and scratched his partially exposed nuts.

"Had a cousin like that. Big family scandal when his parents found out.
Know what happened? Boy lived on a farm. His old man, my Uncle Dale
caught him doing a chicken. Can you imagine that? A fuckin' chicken.
You ever see the claws on them fuckers? Funny thing was he only
liked the brown ones. Brown chickens only. Boy was real picky
about that. Interracial chicken fucking."

Tony turned and looked at his son.

"You ain't doin' no chickens are you boy?"

Xander shook his head.
"No sir. No chickens."

Tony turned back around, giving his attention again to the Browns - Steelers
game and apparently losing interest in the conversation at hand.
"Good that's good."

Breathing a sigh of relief Xander headed back in the direction of his
mancave only to be stopped one more time.

"Hey. Just one more thing."

"Yes, sir?"

"Let me know if you can get us a good deal on a dozen eggs"

With that Tony roared with laughter. Flopping around wildly and finally
emphasizing the point by tossing his empty beer can in the direction of
Xander's retreating head.

Years of practice had Xander ducking easily. The can bounced off the
wall and hit the floor.

"JESS! Bring me another fuckin' beer!"

Xander closed the basement door before he could catch his mother's reply
but had one of his own as he muttered.
"Ha ha. Man's a fuckin' comedian."

Wasting no more time on the bullshit that was the Harris family circus,
Xander snatched up the phone book and his little black note pad.
He flipped both open and immediately copied down the numbers of both
local hospitals, the Highway Patrol, and the Sheriff's office.

He grabbed his Sports Illustrated shoe phone and began dialing.
Twenty minutes later found him more confused than before.
No one reported any flaming highway accidents. Neither of the hospitals
had had late night shattered bodies admitted, and no one had anything
at all on a William Pratt.

Xander paced the length of the basement. Starting at the bottom of the
steps that led upstairs, straight back past the washer, dryer, water heater
and his mother's discarded exercise bike to the small bathroom.

He stopped, turned and paced back. Finally after five trips he knew
what he had to do. He needed to go see for himself. Drive by their
small house on Locust st. and make sure Spike was there, alive
and breathing.

Leaping the steps two at a time, Xander cringed at what he had to do

"Um, Dad, can I borrow 10 bucks for gas? I'll pay you back as soon as I
get that job I put in for."

He braced himself for the insults he knew would accompany the cash, but
was pleasantly surprised when his Father pulled two fives from his wallet
and dropped them on the coffee table.

"Just don't be late for dinner. Your mom's making an omelet. Hahahahaha!!!!"

Xander swiped the money, rolled his eyes and left.
22nd-Oct-2007 09:32 am (UTC)
Shit! And here, I thought you were joking about the chickens!!!!!!!!!!!! Hmm, with the overly vivid imagination this Xander has, maybe he should take up writing- can't ya just see his name in the list of who's who in homo-erotic fiction? Maybe even get an entry in Hot Blood 58 or whatever number they're on...
22nd-Oct-2007 09:45 am (UTC)
The Bee promised chickens and the Bee never welches
on a promise. Sick fact: The cousin and his foul
perversions was based on a real inmate I had when
working at the prison. He would actually get twitchy
on fried chicken nights.
Hot Blood 58?
22nd-Oct-2007 10:22 am (UTC)
Okay can I say 'EWWWWWWW' over twitchy chicken inmates, lol.

Yeah, the Hot Blood series http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=sr_kk_1/104-1165507-2711927?ie=UTF8&search-alias=stripbooks&field-keywords=hot%20blood%20series
the ones edited by Jeff Gelb... I've always had a thing for The Egyptian Penis Beetle talk about hot and kinky!!!!
22nd-Oct-2007 10:28 am (UTC)
Damn You!
I'm supposed to be working on a story and Monday
is my day to drive to town and run errands,
now my big ass just wants to sit here and read.
You are evil! Leading the poor Bee astray like this.
Love ya, Hun.
22nd-Oct-2007 01:46 pm (UTC)
I love the way Xander's imagination keeps taking off on these incredible flights of fantasy. LMAO every morning!
My favourite short story evar is in Hotter Blood (vol 2 of the series): The Braille Encyclopaedia, by Grant Morrison. It was the first non-comic story he ever wrote & it won all kinds of awards. Cruel, perverse & really hot.

22nd-Oct-2007 04:23 pm (UTC)
I need to get back on the book bandwagon.
I slipped off when I started writing so much
and there didn't seem to be time for both.
I will definatly take myself in hand and change that.
Stop it! Shame on you! I didn't mean that.
22nd-Oct-2007 08:50 pm (UTC)
Bee, you are twisted, in a totally great way of course. Three words I would have bet I wouldn't have seen in a fic....

"Interracial chicken fucking."

Snort, snerk, snort, bwaaahaaahaaahaa!
22nd-Oct-2007 11:12 pm (UTC)
You just never know what kind of ugly will
rear it's head in a Bee story.
However, I do believe interracial chicken fucking
was a new low even for me.
23rd-Oct-2007 12:59 am (UTC)
And the crackitude continues. LOL

Not everyday you encounter the phrase: Interracial Chicken Fucking. Half of me is scared to ask what you put in your coffee to get word combinations like that. The other half wants the recipe. ;)
23rd-Oct-2007 08:10 am (UTC)
It is a recipe from the Jessica Harris cook book
of happy mornings.
It is a phrase that makes you slightly uncomfortable
at the neighborhood barbecue.
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