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Inthrallis – Chapter 13

June 27, 2014

The beat was going strong
Playing my favorite song

“I…I gotta go…get some lunch.”

As the freshman was scurrying away, Moller held up a pizza box and tried not to laugh as he said after the brown-haired, brown-eyed P.Y.T., “But there’s pizza right here.”

He chuckled quietly and glanced over at Michael, who seemed to be engrossed in looking over the results of the Get Out the Vote effort.

“Michael…did you send him down here just for me?” Moller quizzed playfully.

At 45, it was amusing seeing an 18 year old get flustered and then having to run back to his room to hide what was happening in the front of those tight shorts. It was also a little bit flattering. He hadn’t been single that long and his LTR had been about a dozen years in duration.


Michael seemed entirely engrossed in whatever he was looking at on the screen. That was when Moller noticed the camera eye on the front of the laptop the young Voting For America strategist was holding. It was pointed in Moller’s general direction.

Didn’t I read something about FBI being able to activate those remotely?

Or had Michael recorded the whole interaction for some reason? Moller had shown up, volunteered partly out of curiosity, partly out of boredom, but mostly to see if he could figure out where his trouble was coming from, if not actually put an end to it.

Yeah, right. Politicians.

Still he hoped there’d be some positive movement in some direction despite his pessimism. But someone expecting him to be there?


Moller was a good reader of people. He had had to be.

He looked around at the room. Old. An old frathouse. One of the oldest at UW-Madison.


After lunch, they resumed the phone calls. It was supposed to be door-knocking, but they decided on cold-calling due to rain.

Was it Moller’s imagination, or did it seem like Michael, Jake, and a few other of the ringleaders had expected him? Even knew something about him, his politics. And then the way they looked at him, expectantly.

Who the f— do they think I am?

Eventually, the young flustered freshman made his way downstairs. The smile on his face…well, he’d obviously taken care of his hormone-induced issue. Moller suppressed an urge to work some masturbatory euphemism into the conversation. He didn’t want to scare him away twice.

The cutey’s name was Kevin. Seems he was from big money. His father was one of the biggest Democrat-donors in the tri-state area and a big supporter of the frathouse.

Yet his son was a staunch conservative. Like Moller, he had taken the opposite stance of his parents. Though in Moller’s case he had been with his parents politics at Kevin’s age, but not for long after.

“Maybe we’re both just rebelling,” Moller offered. He was turning up the charm to see if he could get Kevin, a Dick Caine supporter, to sign the pledge to vote.

Kevin smirked a dirty bedroom smile, “Not interested.”

This boy is way oversexed.

“You may change your mind when it’s ‘President Caine,'” Moller smiled back his best drunk-and-it’s-closing-time-pickup smile.

Kevin blushed. No, that was wrong. He somehow made a face as if he were blushing.

“What do you think about Caine’s words about 4/17?”

Moller was digging now. He was average-looking. A cute kid with money could have his pick of the pack. Something weird was going on.

Kevin smiled again and shrugged.

“Tell him,” Michael suggested to Kevin.

“What? Oh… yeah…”

Kevin turned back to Moller, looked him in the eye and said, “There are already too many fat people in the world.”

Moller gave a short, amazed laugh, “But…that’s exactly…”

Then he shut his mouth. There was that expectant look again…from Mike…from Jake. Then it disappeared.

Moller got up and made his excuses. He rolled up his umbrella. Flirting and lighting up brain pleasure centers had just given up the driver’s seat to Moller’s inner detective.

“Well, hope to see you again soon.”

No one even asked him to complete the aborted sentence. The “detective” did manage a few more flirty exchanges to cover his departure. He wanted very much to get the f— away from this–what was it?–hive mind.

He walked twelve paces down the sidewalk lined with frathouses. Then, not for the last time, he spoke aloud to himself. This time it was in rhythm to his walking.

“What. In. The. F—. Is. Going. On?”

No one answered.

‘There are already too many fat people in the world.’

That had been the exact phrase, word-for-word that had popped into Moller’s head after the lead he tried to run down the previous night turned up dry. How was that possible?


From → Inthrallis, Novels

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