Sometimes your first memory is when you can truly remember living.
This story is created for fan fiction purposes only.
Furthermore, this story is written with the intention of the author's attempt at understanding the relationship between Wez and the Golden Youth in regards to the original script when Wez abducts a child. I do not condone his behaviour. Got it? Good.
The sun was setting behind the rocky hills in the distance. And the rust-coloured desert sand blew this way and that way since the wind kept shifting directions. But he paid no mind to the various shades of red, yellow and purple streaking the sky. Nor did he care that stray sharp pebbles pelted his slim arms. He was used to this. For the past fourteen years he lived outside.
The bonfires would soon be lit and the shouts from the eclectic mix of gang members carried through the camp. Some had mohawks. Others wore camouflage cloth which blended with the colour of the desert, and their faces were covered. The remainder dressed in highway "chaser" gear that consisted of helmets, Gestapo boots, sunglasses, gloves and leather jackets and pants.
He stared at the knife and stone he held because he was in the midst of sharpening the six-inch blade. His long legs were crossed and he sat hunched over while his dark brown eyes narrowed in concentration.
This was a task he performed every night before sleeping: readying the weapons they'd require on the morrow.
Some might call this a harsh life, but it was the only life he knew. When he did search his memory, only bits and pieces hidden in the shadows surfaced: A blurred face here, a distorted voice there. He couldn't pinpoint actual events or people, and he also couldn't recall emotions from a time long ago.
All he remembered was the smell of leather, sweat and gasoline, followed by the sharp gunning of the motorcycle's engine he'd been plopped on, his little child-like legs dangling from both sides of the pillion and his tiny hands clutching a stranger so he wouldn't fall off. Yeah, that's all he could remember.
Cold but warm. He'd snuggled against the big body belonging to a man who spoke in a guttural tone of grunts, followed by short, clipped outbursts of orders: 'Go! Toadie, the gasoline! No! You die! We kill! Sit!'
He understood sit. He understood the many commands barked at him-stay, eat, sleep, clothes off, dress me, ready weapons....
Isolated. He only acknowledged the big man with the red mohawk, who possessed eyes of blue steel that either narrowed with anger, widened with outrage, beaded with amusement or softened with desire.
Wez. That was the big man's name.
He heard the "talk," but he couldn't decipher what it meant.
Another word he was familiar with because everyone glanced in his direction when uttering it. He didn't believe his name to be "mute" because Wez acknowledged him as "My Golden Youth." So he did know his name...or he at least thought he did. Perhaps "mute" was a description or something? He wasn't sure.
But, whenever he heard "Golden Youth!" being shouted from Wez's thin, malicious lips, he knew he must address his companion with a nod.
He wasn't sure what their relationship was. Probably because he didn't understand the definition of "relationship." Nor did he remember previous relationships. He only understood his feelings, intuition and senses-something even the most barbaric possessed. When Wez sat next to him, he felt warm inside. Happy. Even pleased. When Wez bestowed on him gentle bites and nips while clawing at his bare body, he felt desire and pleasure. When they rode together on the Kawasaki at breakneck speed down the highway, he felt giddy and free. When Wez lightly slapped him across the face, he felt sad and angry.
Right now he felt content, although he didn't understand what "content" meant. He kept carefully running the smooth rock along the blade. This he understood because when he touched the end with his finger, he winced, and this meant he was done his chore.
He glanced up, knowing whom the shadow belonged to. Only one person dared to approach him. Only one person was allowed. He'd witnessed what happened, maybe six or seven years ago, when a brave fool dared to walk up to him when he'd been sitting on the Kawasaki. He never forgot the blue mohawk, the cleanly outlined beard and the lust in the man's eyes.
He knew such a "look" because Wez's steel blue gems would fill with desire in the same manner the stranger had stared at him. But nothing happened. Before he could blink, the stranger had been riddled with four arrows: to the heart, the thigh, the stomach and the right hand. A knife had been unsheathed and the blade shone up bright from the sunlight glistening off of it.
The stranger had dropped to the ground, eyes wide open.
The eternal sleep. A sleep nobody wakes from.
He held out the knife, his head slightly bowed, waiting for Wez to take it. He felt the handle slip from his palm and he heard the "shffft," meaning it was now sheathed.
Movement. A smidgen of dust scattered when Wez joined him.
Wez also crossed his legs Indian style, but didn't bother to stare at his "Golden Youth." There was no need to because the youth's sun-kissed platinum locks that shone up flaxen while under the sun, white when overcast and silver come nightfall, was etched clearly in his mind-a memory that never faded.
He fingered the knife and gazed at his crew busy readying a bonfire for his camp: the Mohawkers. Everyone resided with their own. The Smegma Crazies were busy laying out bedrolls since they refrained from using tents. The Gayboy Berserkers preferred sleeping in their vehicles. And the Mohawkers liked tents because they were the lustiest of this motley gang. Sex was just as important to his bunch as the precious "guzzaline" they pillaged for.
He was aware of the youth's knee brushing against his. He was always aware of his Golden Youth. Silence. Never a word spoken between them unless he barked orders. Not even a "good morning" or a "hello."
The Toadie finished erecting their tent. All that was left to do was eat and retire. Retire so he could fuck the youth.
He'd been fucking his Golden Youth for the past ten years. Not one to show mercy or take pity since he was as savage as an animal, he couldn't fuck the youth during their first four years together because the pretty lad's "equipment" couldn't handle a man. But he'd played with "it." Oh yes, sure did. Kissed the soft skin. Made the youth undress while he'd avidly watched. Fondled the "secretive" places and licked the child's pink lips.
Bah...and waiting a good four years while having to satisfy his lust with the men and women he stalked, it'd been a piss off. His temper knowing no boundaries. When he could wait no longer, he'd helped himself to the youth when the boy had been a mere eight, perhaps.
He never tired of fucking his Golden Youth. To be honest, he didn't have a clue why he kept this beautiful creature around this long. Nor did he think to question himself as to why.
They just "were."
A young man now. Perhaps eighteen. So the youth had possibly been four when he saved this kid from death.
It'd happened during another raid--his comrade Two Chins held up the crossbow, ready to kill a pretty little boy. He'd halted the slaying with the wave of his big fist and then reached out and grabbed the child by the scruff of the collar.
The youth didn't remember, but he did.
It was his first memory.
Funny, he forgot the war, prison, his childhood, the apocalypse...all because he considered laying eyes on the youth as his first moment of life.
Twenty-eight years he'd been alive when coming upon that farmhouse, yet he felt regenerated. A newfound energy had coursed through his body, shoving away the bitterness of merely "existing." Day in and day out: hunt, scavenge, rape and kill.
Why he saved a four-year-old kid who now saw eighteen summers, he wasn't sure. Maybe it was "something" he needed to have? "Something" everyone needs, whether a fave toy, shiny ring, warm fur blanket or a pet.
Whatever it might have been, his Golden Youth gave him back the unquenchable urge to take down prey.
So much killing. So much rape. So much torture.
The hunt . With the Golden Youth riding shotgun, he lived to chase down a roadster and bring death to those who were foolish enough to ride the white line nightmare. But after the vehicle flipped, he thirsted for...yeah, what he first did at the age of nine when he'd stalked a kid at school. So he would leave the raping to his comrades. It was too easy-raping and torturing. Plus, the screaming and begging to be spared annoyed him.
A game. A childish game.
He'd look to the youth who patiently sat on the Kawasaki, silently waiting for the single. The youth would nod his golden head, which meant "kill." And he'd kill.
Off they'd go to fuck. Once done engaging in animalistic sex, it was time to hunt again.
Today, he lost the hunt. And he wasn't pleased about this. It was the first hunt he ever lost. He knew the youth hadn't been happy about the outcome either. Who the hell was that stranger driving the black on black? Probably an ex-cop.
Welp, they'd meet again. He was sure of this.
The last of the sun disappeared and nightfall spilled across the desolate wasteland.
He turned and fingered the collar wrapped around the Golden Youth's slim neck. Then he touched the chain dangling along the youth's slim chest. Dark, sparkling gems met his. No questioning. No anticipation. Nothing.
Of course his Golden Youth would never ask or hope. From their first day together, he knew the youth accepted being owned, in the same way a person accepts air is needed to breathe. And this blonde-haired lad was his most prized possession. He guarded his youth like treasure and cared for his pretty companion in the same manner the gang of marauders he rode with painstakingly looked after their roadsters.
If one wasn't mobile, one was doomed. Life--consider it over. Without wheels to lead a raid....
So if his comrades would cease to exist upon losing their precious vehicles, what did this mean if he ever lost his Golden Youth?