Reporter-Man

Road hypnosis. It was a real thing. Driving through the open land of Colorado, Miles understood how it happened. Staring at the mountains in the distance, outlines against a gray sky, and passing nothing but one cow pasture after another, with a few small towns interspersed. Yeah, it was easy to see how someone could just zone out and operate on autopilot until arriving at their destination and remembering only that they had seen a whole load of jack shit.

The empty, forgettable, open nothingness...yeah, Miles thought that driving through Colorado was a lot like his life those days. His choices left him so alone and disappointed...it was easy to just close his eyes to the daily suffering until he would open them with no idea how he had fucked up so badly to get him to his current destination of loneliness and depression. Life hypnosis.

No cars on the road. A glance in the mirror reminded Miles that he had not shaved in weeks. Brown hair badly in need of a trim fell to his eyebrows, but at least it helped obscure the scar on his forehead. The bags under his gray eyes may as well be considered permanent features at that point. Thirty-two was young to have given up on his appearance, but depression morphed even the slightest grooming effort into a monumental task.

The dark thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. There was no hands free in his old, dented red jeep. Miles picked up the phone and hit accept, holding the device up to his ear like some kind of neanderthal.

"Upshur."

"...I really don't care babe it's whatever you want to...Hey! Miles!" Just hearing that voice...

"Hey Park. What's new?"

"I have such good news," said Waylon, and even over the phone Miles could hear the excitement in his voice. His friend was terrible at keeping his emotions in check. Miles could not help but smile imagining the excited grin that was surely splitting Waylon's face in that moment. His green eyes would be twinkling, and his pale cheeks pink with happiness...

"Don't invite that asshole," mumbled a deep voice in the background on the other side of the phone. Waylon quickly shushed the other voice.

"I got it! I got the job. It's official. The final interview was today and they went ahead and hired me on the spot. I'm starting in two weeks as soon as I am done with my other job. I'm officially joining the information technology department at the University of Colorado at Denver! Can you believe it?"

"That's great Park. I'm really happy for you," Miles said, sincerely.

Waylon made an undecipherable happy noise that was so loud Miles needed to pull the phone away from his face for a moment. "Okay so we are going out tonight. Me and the guys from the bank and Eddie. It's a combination celebration-slash-going away party and you have to come. You have no choice. I'm going to get wasted, It'll be awesome."

"You better not get too drunk. I don't want to have to replace my bath mat again after you throw up all over it like the last time," came the deep voice again.

Waylon's voice became slightly muffled, as though covering the phone's receiver with his hand."Okay not that wasted, but I'm still celebrating. Aren't you happy for me?!" Waylon asked to the side.

"Of course, darling. I love you!" the voice answered.

"Aww...I know, I love you too Eddie," Waylon finished his side conversation before uncovering the receiver and speaking back to Miles. "So you have no choice. I'll see you tonight okay? We'll be at the Crying Dog at eight and I got food poisoning from their quesadillas last time so I would highly recommend eating before hand and..."

"I can't make it. Sorry Park," said Miles, tightening his grip on the steering wheel to vent his frustration while keeping his tone neutral.

"Awwwww," Waylon pouted at the phone. "Boo Miles! You have to come. Just come okay?"

"I absolutely would if I could, but I'm not even in town. I'm driving right now actually," said Miles.

"Where are you going? I didn't know you were leaving town," Waylon protested.

"I know, sorry, I just got lead from that source with Murkoff again," Miles said.

"Murkoff? Still?" Waylon groaned theatrically into the phone. "I thought you were moving on away from that..."

"Sorry. My reporter-sense was tingling. I had to check out this lead. I'm headed to Leadville..."

Waylon snorted at that. "Is that a real place or are you joking like, you got a lead so it's "Leed-ville."

"No, it's a real place. I'm checking in on an address who might know more about that abandoned Project Walrider," said Miles.

"Miles," Waylon's voice turned softer and quieter, "this Murkoff thing isn't good for your health. I thought after the last...episode...you were going to stop worrying about Murkoff?"

"I was going to yeah. But then I got this lead, and then my..."

"Blah blah I know, reporters-sense, okay whatever Reporter-Man. Go check on your lead. But you are missing out on an awesome party because we are getting crazy at the Crying Dog tonight. Maybe when it turns out to be nothing you could drive back into town and get there before I'm passed out at the bar!"

"You better not be," growled a warning on the other side of the phone.

"It's a joke Eddie. Calm down," Waylon muttered.

"So what are you wearing?" Miles asked into the phone, shifting his grip to make it more comfortable to continue holding the phone while driving. There wasn't another car in sight on the long, two lane highway.

"My running t-shirt from last year's Turkey Trot, why?" Waylon said.

"Mmm."

"Miles," admonished Waylon, and the reporter just chuckled at his friend's discomfort.

"I miss you," Miles said, his tone level and serious.

"We are going to miss you for sure," Waylon said.

"I won't," Eddie quipped in the background. Miles rolled his eyes while driving.

"Eddie," shushed Waylon, "It won't be as much fun without you Miles. Eddie and I both feel that way." A snort in the background.

"No. Park, I miss you...your touch, your smell, the way you sound when you..."

"What did he say? Darling, your face is beet red," Eddie accused. Miles chuckled. He felt guilty but also satisfied that he could still have that kind of effect on his friend.

"Well, I need to get off the phone," Waylon said, hurriedly. "Drive carefully. And you really need to quit doing that."

Beep.

Miles sighed as the phone cut out. He dropped it onto the seat beside him in the jeep. A green road sign slowly loomed into view declaring that Leadville, Colorado was a mere ten miles away. Finally. He would have been excited about the dull journey coming to an end, if he had not been so miserable about the thoughts of missing an evening with his best friend.

Deep down, Miles knew how the night would develop. He would sulk about not getting enough time with Waylon, enter into a passive-aggressive argument with Eddie Gluskin, and then probably drink too much and wake up feeling even worse about his life. But something inside of him could not give up hope. Miles could not stop the dream that maybe, just maybe, Waylon would drink enough to become completely honest with himself and realize that Eddie was a terrible mistake and Miles was who he really loved. Waylon would come to him and confess and they would leave together and start over as lovers instead of friends...

Miles almost missed the exit sign for the small town because it was so faded. The address was not actually in the town itself and it was generous to call the tiny blip on the map a town at all. More like a stop over between larger towns where the local ranchers could meet up. The biggest buildings in the town were a giant red brick Baptist church and a huge auction house where cows were bought and sold every Monday. Even after extensive research, Miles was unprepared for how desolate the area was in the Spring. The snows were still clinging in some areas and the fields were barren and dead. The animals that were out eating from hay bales looked cold and miserable. Most were huddled beneath shelters with tin roofs and rotted wooden railings.

There was no service on his cell phone after he turned onto a small road with no center markings, barely wide enough for two cars. At one point, Miles came up behind a tractor and slowed down with an irritated grumble. He followed for almost two minutes before he realized that the man was trying to wave him around. Miles passed the tractor with a wave and continued on the way.

Miles squinted at the printed out Google map he had brought along in case of any malfunction with his cellphone's GPS. He missed the county road turn and had to do a quick u-turn in the middle of the road. It was easily accomplished considering he had not seen another car since turning, excluding the tractor. The following turn was an even smaller road sandwiched directly between wooden fences denoting different hilly ranch land identical except for the different types of fencing. The tires squealed as he spotted the next turn right as he was passing by and nearly flipped his jeep making the turn. The road was only gravel and he had to slow down considerably. Not that his jeep was in pristine condition, but he did not need to purposely dent it with careless driving. That damned jeep was the longest, best relationship in his sad life. She had to be protected.

Soon, Miles was passing dirt roads, each one denoted with a road sign and a cluster of mailboxes. The number on the mailbox were falling off but they at one time read 174. Miles turned down the dirt road, little more than tire tracks through a yard of reclaimed weeds and grasses. A lone telephone pole housed a collection of faded signs including "Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted" and "No Solicitors (Unless You're Selling Girl Scout Cookies)." The last part was written in with a permanent marker and made Miles chuckle.

He drove a short ways before he spotted a one-story, ranch-style house with moldy beige siding and cloudy windows. Miles continued until he was parked behind an ancient Ford pick-up truck. He got out of the jeep, nose scrunching up at the amount of dust kicked into the air. Miles shrugged into his brown leather jacket, shivering at the cold breeze ravaging the hillside that gray afternoon.

Miles pulled out his camcorder, checked the battery level and settings, then hit the button and began filming the area. The house looked in ill-repair though not very old. Probably within the last ten years and potentially a prefabricated buildings. The truck was predominantly red though one of the doors was unpainted and the entire thing was discolored and rusted. The truck bed was filled completely with huge sacks labeled as cow feed. Miles spun in a circle trying to determine where the cows were located, but saw none. He hummed to himself as he shut off the camera and hid it away in his jacket. He approached the house cautiously.

The screen door squeaked as Miles opened it before banging his knuckles against the flimsy plywood door. He waited patiently for a minute and was about to knock again when he head the noise of several locks being undone. Something to hide, or just prudent living for being so far away from a police station? Miles filed the information away.

The door finally opened just a crack, still held by a chain lock. A wide eyed young face appeared in the crack and addressed Miles. Miles' eyes were not adjusted to the darkness, but he could make out black framed glasses and wavy hair. "Can I help you?" the face asked.

"Hi there. Miles Upshur. I'm a reporter doing a piece on the Murkoff Corporation. You've heard of them?"

"Uh...no," said the boy. Miles' reporter-sense flared. Liar. "You uh, must have the wrong place, uh, Mister..."

"Miles Upshur," he repeated, his tone friendly. "Can I get your name?"

"Uh...William," the boy answered, but the way he said the formal name had Miles immediately guessing that he probably went by something different. He sounded like a Will, or a Willie...no...

"Nice to meet you Billy. How old are you?"

"I'm uh, twenty," said Billy, peeking through the crack.

"You live here by yourself?"

"No, I'm..." the young boy's eyes were darting around behind their frames, "...I'm not alone. I have lots of room mates. They're out right now. Hunting. They are hunters and they will be home soon, with their guns. So many guns."

Miles just sighed to himself, disappointed at the amateurish tale. "I won't take up much of your time. Do you happen to have any information about the people that lived in this house before you?"

"My grandfather built this house," said Billy, pride creeping into his tone.

"Oh really?" Miles said, his ears perking up at the admission. "And where is your grandfather now?"

"Not here..." the boy answered, and Miles narrowed his gray eyes.

"What's your grandfather's name?" Miles asked, reaching into his pocket and taking out his flip pad, unhooking the pen from its docking station.

"Mustermann. Max Mustermann," answered Billy, saying the name with enough conviction that Miles was almost ready to believe him. Almost. He jotted the name down on his pad.

"Sounds German," he said, writing. "There were a number of German scientists working at the company I mentioned. Murkoff?"

"I know, but grandfather never worked there," said Billy.

"Yet you knew that Germans worked there?" Miles asked, looking up from his pad and raising an eyebrow.

"Look, my grandfather knows nothing about this company or whatever it is you are asking about. Yes he's German, but the scare about every German being a Nazi has been dead for decades so I don't know what kind of trouble you are trying to dig up by coming here asking these questions," said the boy, and Miles' eyebrows shot up his forehead. Okay, so maybe this person was slightly more formidable than Miles had originally believed.

"Trouble?" Miles laughed, oozing his charm into his actions. He replaced his pen and slid the writing pad back into his inner coat pocket before leaning one elbow lazily against the outside door frame and grinning in the small opening. "I don't want trouble. Just curious. I'm a reporter, that's true enough, but...well..." Miles fished a card out of his pocket and held it up with a sheepish grin. The boy squinted through his frames and Miles pushed the card through the opening. "You can keep that."

Billy accepted the card and stared down at it, his young forehead wrinkling in confusion. "I uh, write for blogs," Miles explained. "Corporate blogs. Sorry, blogs are like, web pages on the internet where you can update periodically and people..."

"I know what blogs are," snapped the boy. Miles shrugged and smiled again.

"So yeah. I'm just looking up some old addresses that might have people that could tell me about Murkoff back in the good old days. Just...wanting to do some fluff pieces. I don't suppose you could tell me how to get in touch with Mr. Max Mustermann?"

"Maybe..." said Billy, staring up from the card and then back at Miles who continued to wear his vacuum-salesman smile.

"That number is my personal cell. I'm going to be in town for a day so you can feel free to call me," said Miles. Though he would be doing his own research and attempting to contact this Mr. Mustermann himself, of course. The boy seemed simple. Maybe he would not suspect much. "Anyways, thanks for your time. I should probably get going before the room mates show up and mistake me for a buck."

"Roommates?" Billy asked, confused. Miles' smile crept up on one side. It was exhausting being right all the time.

A strange buzzing noise from within the house suddenly caught Miles' attention and he attempted to look past Billy, deeper into the house. The boy looked very alarmed when Miles tried so he quickly held up his hands innocently. "Sorry, I heard something strange like a buzzing. Probably just the television. Anyways. Thanks again."

Miles grinned to himself as he started walking back toward his jeep. He had almost reached the door when he heard the door to the house behind him flung open and footsteps approaching. He turned slowly, knowing to be cautious in these situations. People were possessive of their secrets, and anyone could potentially be carrying a weapon. Miles had learned these things the hard way.

Billy trotted to where Miles was standing and then stood catching his breath. "Sorry. Mister Upshur," he said. "I feel like we got off to a strange start. I'm not trying to be unhelpful. I just don't know if my grandfather would want someone bothering him. His health...his health is not good and he does not like to talk much about his life before he...retired."

Miles was listening and recording everything in his brain, but he was distracted by the boy. Billy claimed to be twenty but he had a face that looked far younger than his years. Large square black glasses lined dark blue eyes and his hair was wavy and black. Miles originally though it seemed highlighted or frosted until he saw it was actually streaks of silver gray. The youth of his face and brightness of his eyes seemed in direct opposition to those accents. Billy was slightly taller than Miles, though not by much, and his build was muscular perhaps due to living alone on such a large ranch. He was wearing faded blue jeans and a gray plaid button down shirt and dusty boots.

"So um, I actually do want to, uh, help you. I'll talk to grandfather. I mean, I will try to get in touch with him and ask him his thoughts and see what I can do. No promises. What exactly do you even want to talk to him about then?" Billy asked, and Miles was confused. The boy seemed almost shy to meet his eyes and he could have sworn that was a blush on his smooth cheeks.

"I appreciate the help. I'm up for an award you see, and I feel like a good story could be what wins it for me," lied Miles, giving his "aw-shucks" smile. "Just want to ask him about some past people and events at Murkoff. Nothing too big. Any help would just be amazing. Thank you so much."

Miles climbed up into the jeep and Billy watched him go. Miles gave a wave after he turned the jeep around in the large flat front yard of the house and began driving back the way he came. His mind immediately began to race. There had to be more to this Mustermann than Billy was saying, and there was something very odd about Billy himself. Miles' journalistic instincts were never wrong. He drove back the way he came and went towards Leadville proper, finding it to be as pitifully small as he had imagined. He checked into the nicest motel he could find, which was not saying much. He had to go to the front desk to ask about the internet.

"So you guys do not have wifi? The sign outside clearly states that you have internet," Miles said to the balding clerk at the front desk wearing a stained white tank, gray sweats, and watching a twelve inch television on the desk.

"Internet. Yeah," said the clerk, reaching into a desk and pulling out a frayed ethernet cord.

"So there is no wifi? What is this, 2003?" Miles complained.

The man pushed the cord over to Miles with a bored look on his face and glanced back over at the television where Alec Trebek had just announced the Daily Double.

"It's not dial up is it?" Miles sneered, pulling the cord to himself and preparing to storm out of the tiny office back to his pitiful room.

"Shoot no. What do you think this is, 1997?" the clerk asked with a scoff.

"Don't fucking use my same snide comment back on me, asshole," snarled Miles before attempting to slam the door only to find it had a release that prevented such a thing from happening. There must have had a problem with disgruntled customers at that establishment. Miles rolled his eyes and returned to his room to set up his laptop. He put the hotel television on the local news and started his research.

Max Mustermann, he typed into Google. "Oh, fuck me," grumbled Miles, glaring at the screen. "Ugh, bullshit. I'm a fucking idiot. Should have checked on the phone but no service out in the goddamn butthole of Colorado. Goddammit..." Talking to himself rarely helped.

Luckily, one thing the town did have was a liquor store within walking distance. Miles returned to his room with a bottle of their cheapest bourbon. He scoured the hotel room for any kind of cup and was not surprised when he found none. Oh well, the bottle would have to suffice. Miles threw back a few drinks until he was buzzed enough that the local news report about some cowpoke parade seemed interesting.

His thoughts kept wandering to Denver and what he would be doing if he had not followed this lead to nowhere. Waylon was notoriously adorable when drunk, and affectionate too. His nerd friends from the IT department at the Denver Bank would be sipping their weak beers. Eddie would stick out like a sore thumb, resembling some kind of brute with his undercut, muscled physique, and mean blue eyes. Definitely not with the IT crowd. It would be so easy to get Waylon alone and allow his friend to hang on him and kiss him and talk about dirty things...

Miles felt like a creep for thinking about taking advantage of his drunk friend, or more accurately arranging for his friend to be able to take advantage of him. He felt even worse when he found himself opening up that familiar file he had promised himself would delete. He at least promised not to watch it again. A promise he made to himself after every viewing. But there was his movie player, loading with its animated circle icon slowly filling up until the video started.

"You're horrible, you know that," grinned Waylon, centered in the camera's lens wearing comfy pajama pants and an over-sized cotton shirt. His soft blond hair was messy because they had spent the evening lounging around watching movies. His cheeks were pink because they had drunk some beers, but neither had been inebriated.

"You like it," Miles teased back from behind the camera. There was some jostling of the scene as the camera was put onto a tripod.

Then Miles walked into the frame, shirtless with his jeans hanging off his hips. It was always satisfying to watch the video and see that his gym membership had paid off. His body looked toned and his naturally tanned skin looked darker next to Waylon's stark paleness. The camera recorded Waylon blatantly checking Miles out when he was not looking, and then blushing. Miles would often pause the video and stare at that pink flush, but that night he let it play on. "It'll be fun," Miles said on the video, "Aren't you curious what you look like when you come?"

"I guess I never thought about it," Waylon said, giving a nervous tittering laugh.

"That's too bad," Miles breathed, stepping closer to his friend, "I think about it all...the...time..." Fuck, the tension in the video after that line was always such a sexy shock to Miles when watching it. That was the moment he had known that despite all of Waylon's claims that he did not want to make the video, they would definitely be recording something interesting that night.

"So am I doing this myself then?" Waylon chuckled on the camera as Miles stalked even closer until their bodies were almost touching.

"I can help..." Miles purred.

"H-h-help?..." stuttered Waylon.

"Sure...I can touch you, or I can take you...tell me what you want..." Miles said on the video, causing the Miles watching to bite back a soft moan at the wanton look that crossed Waylon's face.

A long pause passed in the video where there was nothing but silence and the vision of Waylon blushing bright pink, chest heaving with every breath. "Take me," Waylon whispered, barely audible on the video. Miles' memory of the command was much sharper and louder. It played over and over again in his mind on repeat, driving him insane most nights. Forcing him to return time and time again to this goddamn cursed video they had made that one fateful night...

The sudden explosion of the phone in his pocket caused Miles to rip his hand out of the front of his jeans and sit up straight in the motel chair. He fumbled for several seconds, closing the video and bringing the phone to his ear. Unknown number. Miles assumed that Waylon must have found someone's phone and decided to drunk dial him to rub in his face how he was missing a hell of a party...

"Upshur."

"Oh uh, hey Mister Upshur. It's Billy."

"Not William?" Miles asked, shaking off the booze so he could focus.

"What? Oh. It is William, but everyone calls me Billy." Miles was not surprised. "I uh, well, grandfather he, uh, wants to talk with you. Maybe. Can we meet tomorrow?" Billy asked over the phone.

"What time tomorrow," Miles asked, already considering his schedule the next day. He would have a hangover until around ten, when he needed to put in some writing work to earn a paycheck, but after that...

"Can we meet around lunch maybe?"

"Sure thing, Billy."