Neighbors 3: Tate's Troubles

Tate's brown eyes widened in a mixture of fear and disbelief. Why was this happening to him? All he ever wanted was to be safe and happy and loved, but all those things seemed to be way out of reach for him. Instead, he was constantly faced with bullshit like this. He took a step back and was about to bolt for the door when a something stopped him.
"Howie? What the hell are you saying to that poor kid?", a robust female voice boomed. The voice belonged to a large-breasted, heavy-set woman with a mass of bleach-blond curls piled high atop her head. She approached the two of them, placing a strong hand on Howie's shoulder, which caused him to stumble backwards momentarily. He shot her a scathing look as he yanked himself free of her grip.
She turned her full attention to Tate and gasped when she saw his haggard appearance. 
"Sweet mercy, child! What on earth happened to you?"
"I-I-I'm okay, I just-I need-"
"Mmm-mmm, darling, so no more. You are welcome to stay here," and while shooting Howie a warning glance, she added tersely, "for free.
"All's you need is a nice, warm bed to sleep in, some food in that belly, and some of Aunt Flo's TLC! I'll get you back to normal in no time." She drew him close to her ample body and led him away from the still-fuming Howie. 

She brought him to a modestly furnished single room with an adjoining bathroom. The phone on the nightstand had seen better days and beyond the foot of the bed sat a card table serving as a TV stand. On it sat an old black and white set that was probably older than Flo and Howie combined. Without hesitating, she grabbed his bags and tossed them on his bed. 
"Now, listen, sugar...oh, wait a second, now; I don't think you told me your name."
Timidly, the boy replied, "Tate. My name's Tate."
"Well, that's a fine name for a fine young man, isn't it? Yes, well, as I was saying, you ain't nothing but skin and bones and- did they feed you where you came from? Boy, I say you could use some of Auntie's Flo's good cooking. Now, I know this place ain't much to look at," she prattled on, waving her large arm in a sweeping motion, "but I'll tell you thing...me and Howie be eating good! I got some of my Grandma Edna's fried chicken and my own special mashed potatoes left over from mine and Howie's dinner down in the kitchen. You go ahead and wash up and I'll be back for you in a few, ok?" Tate nodded. 
"Ok, sweetie, I'll be right back," she warbled as she gave his arm a slight squeeze. As she turned towards the door, Tate finally found the courage to speak.
"Thank you, Flo...thank you so much."

Half-an-hour later, Tate was showered and changed when Flo came back to fetch him for dinner. Howie was watching through his peep-hole, waiting for the two to disappear so he could be alone with his movies. He watched them bound past his door, Flo talking a mile-a-minute, as usual.
Satisfied that they were gone, he stumbled over to his makeshift TV stand and popped a video into the ancient VCR. Instantly, the carnal image of two smooth young boys engaged in wild, animalistic sex filled the screen. Making full use of Flo and Tate's abscence, Howie jacked the volume up so that his windows rattled from the strength of the boys' moans and screams of pleasure.
But in Howie's damaged, twisted mind, he didn't see a well-built young top, he saw himself. And instead of a young brunette bottom lying on a table, he saw an auburned haired demi-god, legs splayed open, begging to be pleasured. And in his fantasy, his delusion, Tate was gagging for it.
Howie's pants dropped to his ankles and he acquainted himself in his shabby arm chair. His erect penis stood at full attention and he grabbed ahold of it, the scence playing out in his head rather than on the screen.
Oh yeah...he and Tate were going to have a lot of fun together, just the two of them, but he had to get past Flo first.
"Fat bitch," he muttered, slipping out of his reverie. "Cock-blocking bitch." If Flo weren't such a damn good cook, he would have offed her fat ass by now. 
Well, she wouldn't be in his way much longer; he'd find a way to get past her and into Tate. Yeah, he was going to have that boy all to himself one of these days.
"Oh, baby, you gonna feel so good!" he chuckled, stroking his hard cock even faster. "Hell yeah...I bet you're gonna wiggle like a fish!"

January 2001

Tate was sitting in his room, staring blankly out the window. He sighed and murmured, "A new year, a new home..."
It was nice to be able to simply exist without the fear of an attack hanging over his head, but even so, Tate was not completely at peace. 
So far, Howie had not laid a single finger on him, but that didn't mean he wouldn't. Flo's prescence was a major deterrent, but she couldn't guard him forever. Tate's prayer was that he would find a new place to stay before Howie could have his way with him; which is precisely the reason why Tate sat there, staring out the window. He was trying to think, to plan his next move...trying to save his skin once more. Flo had been so good to him- making sure he was fed and this his clothes were clean and mended- but, he knew he couldn't stay much longer. And though his dilemma was crystal clear, the solution was non-existant.

Just down the hall at the reception desk, Flo was going over the motel's books. Howie entered the lobby from the stairs, carrying a special glass of egg nogg he'd made especially for Flo.
He set the glass on the desk in front her. "Here you go, Sis. Egg nogg, extra rum, just the way you like it."

Barely looking up from December's numbers, Flo grabbed the glass and muttered a brief thank-you before slamming the entire drink in one gulp.
All he had to now was wait for the secret ingredient (enough valium to knock out a horse) to take effect. And that was the hardest part, though he only had to wait for about fifteen minutes. Slowly, but surely, Flo's eyes began to droop, and pretty soon, she was out completely, her heavy head hitting the big book with a bang.
This was it! This was his moment. Excitedly, Howie rushed to the main door, locked it, and flipped the sign over so that it read, "Closed". He hit the lights on his way out of the lobby, leaving his slumbering sister to snore alone in the dark.

A sudden knock on his door brought Tate out of his deep-thinking and back to reality, a reality he wasn't sure he wanted to face. It was probably just Flo, wanting to play some Scrabble or Parcheesi. She had a thing for board games.
Sighing heavily, he heaved himself off his bed and went for the door. 
"So what'll it be this time, Flo?" he teased good-naturedly, as he opened the door. "Yahtzee or-"
Tate stopped mid-phrase when he saw who was on the other side of the door. It wasn't Flo.
Howie was cracking his knuckles and licking his lips in anticipation. His button-down shirt was open, exposing his hairy, sweaty chest.
Tate gasped in horror and backed away from the door, as Howie entered the room, swiftly kicking the door shut behind him...

It was while Howie was fucking him for the third straight time that evening that it finally happened. Something inside Tate finally snapped. He went quiet and limp as Howie continued to assault him.
The angry Tate, the dangerous Tate he'd now become was extremely patient, willing to wait through a fourth go-around and even a fifth, so as to ensure Howie's eventual fatigue. He was willing to wait as long as it took for Howie to wear himself out, because that meant Howie would sleep deeply afterwards. So deeply that Tate could slip in and out of the room without waking him. So deeply that a man could be stabbed in the heart and never wake to see his killer's face...

With a grunt and a groan and a final shudder, Howie was finished. He heaved himself off Tate and rolled onto his side, exhausted and spent. It had been better than he'd dreamed was possible. He wanted to cuddle with his new boy toy a little more, but he was so tired! The little bugger had worn him out! With a nary a word spoken between the two, Howie drifted into a deep, deep sleep before he could even take one more look at Tate's lovely face.

Once Tate was sure it was safe, he silently climbed out of bed and slipped into the cool hallway, naked as the day he was born. He strode past the desk and saw the dark, slumped figure snoring there. He saw the silhouette of the glass and put two and two together. So that's how he did, thought Tate. Howie had drugged Flo. But the angry, dangerous Tate he'd morphed into was calm and collected and he did not hesitate a moment longer. He quietly padded down the basement stairs, turning the lights on when he'd reached the bottom step. The kitchen lit up light the house in that National Lampoon Christmas movie. 

Tate took long, purposeful strides across the room, stopping in front of the knife drawer. He slid it open and peered inside, calmly contemplating which one to use. He settled on the most obvious one of all, a large, extremely sharp butcher knife. That would get the main job done. He selected a small paring knife, perfect for the next task on his list. 
He shut the drawer and left the kitchen, not even bothering to turn off the glaring lights.

{AUTHOR'S NOTE: For the following scene, I imagine J.Ralph's "One Million Miles Away" playing}

Once he was back in his room, he shut the door and locked it. No use in waking Flo, he'd decided. She'd know what had happened soon enough.
The angry, dangerous, and eerily calm young man stood before his attacker, watching him sleep, knowing that these breaths were his last. Tate climbed atop the sleeping man, straddling him the same way he'd been forced to hours ago. The time had come; the time was now.

Raising the blade high above his head, Tate arced it swiftly back down, plunging it deep into Howie's heart. But once wasn't enough. All the rage that had been steadily building within the boy now came to the surface and boiled over with a fury. Blinded with rage and the pain of a broken heart, Tate raised the blade again and again, plunging it deeper and deeper into Howie's torso each time.
The time had come and Tate had finally taken matters into his own hands...but years of abuse and neglect had taken their toll on the boy and, sadly, it seemed as if he'd lost his mind. 
As Tate continued his assault, he never once noticed that Howie was already dead, having perished from the first blow to his heart. And what's more is that Tate was right; Howie had not lived long enough to open his eyes again. He had died without seeing the face of the boy that took his life that night one last time.