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Horace wasn't all that surprised to see Martin rubbing every cold beer he grabbed on his knuckles. They were swollen like he'd lost a fight with a nest of hornets, and although Man Code dictated that he not let himself be seen wincing, he favored the right paw by drinking with his left. It was a red flag to somebody as keen-eyed as Horace.

The reason Horace wasn't very surprised was because Martin's old lady could be, to put it diplomatically, kind of a problem. Oh, Sheila was a real beauty, any man would have been glad to have such a pretty wife, but she was damned mouthy. Thought she ran the show sometimes. Martin might have been an alcoholic, he might have been a little rough on their son, but he still provided. She had no right to complain about the drinking when there was food on the table and a roof over their heads, and by God, he had a right to tune her up here and there. After all, if God didn't intend a man keep his wife in line, why did He give him knuckles?

Horace himself believed in the value of busting a woman in the mouth when she lipped off, but Martin made it into an art form. If there were ever wife-beating Olympians, Martin would be the champion to rule them all. Horace had seen Martin tuning up his woman now and then when he stopped by for a cold one after work. They worked vastly different jobs - Martin was a decently-paid mechanic at a shop up the road and Horace worked at the scrapyard, crushing cars and smelting steel - but they got off around the same time, and they came home smelling enough of grease and sweat that they got along just fine.

The weasel, tipping back his beer, made a thoughtful noise Martin's way. The panda looked back at him with a grousing face. "The fuck is it now?"

"Ah, just wondering what that dumb bitch said this time," Horace chuckled.

Martin grinned. It was a hideous, beastly grin, an expression which harbored such evil intent that it made Horace think of a serial killer. Which one, he wasn't sure. What kind of murderer Martin could turn out to be was one of the thoughts that occupied him sometimes when he was laying awake, unable to get any from his frigid wife. If I could give Martha a tune-up like old Martin does his woman, Horace thought in such times of needs like his own on take on What Would Jesus Do? But she was a skunk, and a burly woman besides, and if anybody was getting tuned-up it was usually him. Just once he would have liked to see Martin knock her teeth out for him. It was a fantasy he turned to on lonely afternoons up in the crane's cab, when there was nothing to do and nobody around.

"Cunt climbed up my ass about not mowin' the grass," said the panda. "Like, bitch. Christ's sake. I just worked a twelve so I could come home'n listen to your bitching?"

"Ain't that the truth. 'Sides, your kid's what, twelve? Thirteen? He can cut the grass."

Martin grumbled. He sipped his beer, then went back to rubbing it on his knuckles. "Lars? He broke his ankle. Got into a pissing match with me and fell out the front door. Clumsy little shithead."

Rubbing the sides of his beer can, making smears in the condensation, Horace hummed in thought. "Still. He's a good kid, right? I mean, I've seen him, he's a good-lookin' boy."

"He's quiet." Martin chugged his beer. "Jesus, he's fuck'n quiet. Kid can be in a room and you wouldn't fuck'n know it. I've busted his ass for that shit but he still keeps silent." Suddenly he laughed. "Shit, if Sheila could be that goddamn quiet."

They snickered together and Martin finished off his beer, tossing the empty in the floor. It clattered against a loose pile of other empties; a cockroach scurried out of one on the margins. "Y'ever gonna take these fucking cans in to the dump or what?"

Horace waved him off and passed him another beer from the cooler. "Much as you gotta bust her face, I bet punchin' her is how you get her primed to fuck, huh?"

The panda scoffed. "She doesn't fuck anymore. Not unless I hold her down." The crack of his beer can cut through the still, humid air of the trailer. Horace's chubby wife, off reading a novel in the bedroom where the air conditioner was, groaned instinctively at the sound. "Fuck'n her when she don't want it ain't as fun as it was ten years ago. Even her shit chute's gettin' worn out from it. Need to find me somethin' else."

A creepy smile spread over Horace's naturally sleazy face. His teeth, busted and ugly from innumerable barroom brawls which he never won, gleamed like wet niblets of corn on a half-eaten cob. "Something else, huh? What would your woman think of that, anyhow?"

Martin snapped his eyes on Horace. "Who fuck'n cares? You know that bitch owns a goddamn vibrator? Oh, sorry, yeah - personal massager. My ass. Lars found it in her closet."

They watched the game, sipping beer and eventually going through a couple more each. The panda was only just buzzed when the lanky, tall weasel was starting to lose much of his coordination. He still had the requisite motor skills to keep raising his beer to his lips, however. "Ey... Martin."

"What now?"

Horace tried to hold aloft his beer, to tip it slightly at Martin in a little pointless gesture. Foamy beer splattered on the pleather sofa, neither man noticing it. "You really oughta find another somethin' to fuck. Somethin' young. Soft. Nice tits. Ya' know."

"Mm. Yeah, that'd be just about all right," Martin chuckled.

"Or... if you can't find a second bitch fuckin' dumb enough to fuck you," Horace grinned, leaning across the seat and almost falling into the smear of beer, "you could find somethin'else to fuck."

Martin scowled, and it was even uglier than his grin. "You goin' faggot on me?"

Horace recoiled, blinking. "No. 'Course not. Nuh-uh." After a slug of beer, he reached across and patted Martin's arm. The panda's bicep was thicker than Horace's thigh. "Y'ever helped a friend out before? In high school?"

The panda grunted, looking away. "You're a fuck'n queer."

"No I ain't!" the weasel huffed. He slipped across the couch, kneeling in the wet spot. In his drunk state he found himself thinking (albeit not caring if it were true) that he'd pissed his pants. "Now listen. It's queer if you look him in the eyes. Or you fuck him in the asshole. But givin' your friend a jerk-off is like... it's fine, ya' know? We all used to do that in the locker room. Almost all of us grew up wantin' pussy."

"Mmh."

The weasel chugged down his beer until it was only foam in the bottom of the can. He tossed it aside and almost fell getting up next to Martin. With drunken, hazy eyes on the prize, he put a long-fingered paw on the panda's groin and pulled down the lead of his zipper. "Lemme jerk you off. Suck your dick if you want. Fuck that cunt wife of yours. You're a good man, Martin. Damn good husband and father. You deserve somethin' good."

"Guess I do," Martin mumbled.

Horace's knee slipped on the wet cushion. He grunted, pushing into Martin's thigh as he straightened out. Chancing a look up at the panda - that handsome, beautiful panda who never smiled unless there was something rotten going down - let him see that Martin was frowning more than ever. His eyes were aimed at the hallway. An excited thought raced through the weasel's mind: his fat bitch of a wife waddling out, finding him with Martin's cock in his mouth. Would she have been surprised? Upset? He didn't know. But he loved the fantasy. His circumcised little cock struggled against the insides of his briefs.

The weasel opened the button Martin's fly. His greasy work pants were worn-out and old; the button slipped out of its gouged eyelet easily. He pulled apart the flaps and the bulge of a large penis greeted him, bigger than any of the other men in the neighborhood (or at least the ones he had talked out of their clothes). Even flaccid it made a beastly hump in his boxer shorts. Horace cupped it reverently, feeling so very thirsty as he palmed it.

"Big ol' dick. Real big." The weasel licked his lips. "Your old woman... dumb bitch don't know how good she got it."

Rain started to tick on the roof, pattering on the dead flowerbed outside the fore window. Martin thought half-heartedly of how he'd left his window cracked to keep the heat down some. He reached down - Horace flinched back a few inches - and scratched his inner thigh. "Geddit over with," he grumbled. "I gotta get--, there's shit I gotta do. Hurry the fuck up."

Horace mumbled an affirmative, counting himself lucky that Martin was being passive. He hadn't thought the big panda would be receptive; all the times he'd gone over the scenario (with your dick in your hand 'cause goddamn he's so fucking perfect) it ended before it started, usually with broken bones and so much blood. But Martin was taking it. He was getting hard, making the stripes on his boxers bend with every pulsing inch. He wanted it.

The weasel, fingers trembling, pulled down Martin's boxers. Opening the front flap wouldn't do, he had to pull them down, tuck the waistband under his balls, and that was what he did, taking the utmost care not to let go and snap the panda's nuts as if with a rubber band. The black, vein-pocked flesh of Martin's cock yawned into view, its surface slick with a hard day's sweat. A thick whiff of musk made the weasel's nostrils flare. He tucked the waistband carefully under Martin's balls and outright savored the heavy dew of sweat in their fur as they brushed against his knuckles.

Fearing perhaps rightly that more praise would just drive Martin off, Horace sidled up to the panda and clutched him with his dominant right paw. He stroked Martin firmly, slowly, exhibiting only the utmost reverence. Precum welled in the puckering and stretching flesh, smearing down the length each time he unpuckered the panda's foreskin.

Martin, at a loss for a more comfortable way to sit, draped his arm over Horace's shoulder. The lanky weasel felt tiny but incredibly safe in the panda's embrace. He bit his lip, tugging Martin harder and faster. Soft wet noises accompanied the gestures; his pads gleamed with the panda's precum. "Y'gonna cum? You gonna shoot for me? You like that, don't you?" Horace asked, his voice hopeful.

"Mmh." Martin watched the TV. It presently showed a whimsical commercial for car insurance. "This doesn't make me a fuck'n queer. It goddamn doesn't."

Horace couldn't agree more. Fags were wrong, unnatural things. They went against everything he knew to be good and pure and perfect - and a perfectly beautiful man like Martin couldn't possibly be a dirty fag. He squeezed fast on the panda's cock, closing his fingers over the head. Martin grunted and shifted in his seat, bucking awkwardly but intently into Horace's grip. It made the weasel shudder. He wasn't a queer either; he just appreciated the good traits in his fellow men, and he liked to show that appreciation physically.

The weasel, unaware and uncaring that the seat of his pants was wet with beer, leaned over into Martin. At first it seemed like he wanted to kiss the panda (he did, but that really was queer) but he leaned down as Martin recoiled. His nose dragged along the red panda's beer belly, down his thin black work shirt with oil and transmission fluid soaked into its pores. Finally his snout neared the panda's cock, and he gulped it down like the secret of eternal youth was inside of it. He sucked and slobbered, making noises far more wet and sultry than the handjob could have ever caused.

Martha heard a few sharp breaks of suction over the din of the air conditioner and the rain on its frame. Although she wasn't particularly hot, she turned the air conditioner up. The sounds of her husband's faggotry were lost under its whirring.

Martin absently set his paw on Horace's shoulder blade. From pinky to thumb, his grasp could cover much of the weasel's narrow back; Horace felt small but cherished under Martin's touch.

Drunk and desperate, thinking only of how perfect Martin was and how much he deserved to be shown affection, Horace bobbed and gulped as if possessed to suck dick. He palmed Martin's balls, appreciating their thickness and warmth, loving how the sweat permeated the fur like a marinade. Martin was such a handsome guy, a devoted husband and father who worked hard even when his balls were swampy and itchy. Who did that dumb cunt Sheila think she was, forcing her hubby to bust his knuckles across her face? Horace doubled down, gulping as much as he could fit in his not-queer mouth. His cock ached.

"Fuck. Fuck'n shit-fuck," Martin grumbled. "You gotta be kiddin' me..."

The panda leaned back firmly, chewing on his lip. He forgot he was even holding a beer in his sore paw and some of it spilled into the carpet. Slowly he closed his fingers around the weasel's shoulder, clutching the ball of it where he could gain the most purchase. His testicles gradually pulled taut in Horace's grasp and his penis throbbed madly, precum hitting the back of the weasel's mouth with every pulse. "Fuck... you're gonna make me--, ugh, you're a fuck'n queer, butt-pumpin' piece of shit, Horace."

Horace winced at the stinging words. He was going to stop, to abort and save face with a fag joke or three, but the panda shot into his mouth. Martin came silently, with little in the way of bucking and breathing, but he was shooting his wad and there was no mistaking it for anything else. Horace's very first thought was one of total delight: it was what he wanted, after all. He gulped down Martin's straight seed, happily chugging what the panda's dead fish wife wouldn't go near anymore. His tail swished and swayed, fingers rubbing the Martin's balls.

Martin breathed slowly, looking up at the cobweb-streaked popcorn ceiling. "You got two seconds to get your fuck'n homo mouth off my dick."

Feeling suddenly very sober as danger reared its head, Horace pulled his ugly mouth off of Martin's shiny cock. "Heh--, hey... Martin, hey. That wasn't queer. C'mon, you know I wouldn't do anything like that. I ain't no faggot."

The panda remembered his beer and took a long drink of it, a drink Horace believed was a thoughtful one. "Martin... Martin, come on. Guys do that. They do, it's just..."

Martin tucked away his genitals, pulling up his zipper. He couldn't get the button to stay - sometimes it didn't - and he let it be. "This shit. That homo shit of yours just now. It happens again and I'm bringin' my friends Smith and Wesson over here. D'you understand me?"

Horace winced. "Don't--, hey, Martin, listen to me," he groaned, touching the panda's shoulder.

In all his life, Martin had never been described as quick, but the punch he threw at Horace's face seemed pretty fast to the buzzed weasel. There was no moment of clarity where he saw it coming in slow motion; it just came, plowing into his face like a locomotive with a few hundred thousand tons behind it, and it took him off the couch and dumped him in a stunned and stupid heap. His eyes were only just getting the memo to start watering when Martin got on top of him, straddling his narrow belly and pummeling his face into paste.

"I am not! A fuck'n queer! And if you ever put your goddamn fingers or your fuck'n mouth on me again, I'm gonna drag your faggot ass behind my car until there ain't nothin' left of you!" Martin snarled, throwing one punch after another, smashing and crushing and pounding Horace's face into unrecognizable humps of swollen flesh and jagged teeth.

Fat Martha emerged from the bedroom and ran up the hall, making the floor shake as though there were a minor earthquake. She came to a sharp halt in the threshold to the living room and she watched her husband's pulverization with equal parts fear and appreciation. She knew, but had never said out of being a good wife, that Horace's homosexual tendencies were going to get him killed. Now she was watching it happen. Indecision plagued her. Horace had guns in the bedroom; there was a phone in there too. But ultimately she went back into the bedroom, turned the air conditioner up as high and noisy as it would go, and wept.

When Martin was done, Horace was unconscious. Blood splattered the carpeting. It cascaded down the weasel's neck like a bandit's bandanna. Cuts and nicks covered Martin's knuckles, and one fist was as swollen and bruised as the other then. "You fuck'n piece of shit queer," he hissed, hawking and spitting a big wad of saliva on the weasel's cratered face. He was shocked to see blood when he spat; he had bitten into his lip in his fury.

Martin gave Horace a kick in the ribs for good measure. He went home, and Sheila and the boy were spared licks for their smartass remarks and stupid questions only because his knuckles were so busted already.

The story that went around the neighborhood was that Horace had gotten his ass beaten for welching on a bet. The cops never came to Martin's house - at least not for that.

With his near-murder of Horace, however, Martin didn't snuff out that dangerous gay pleasure he felt. He hated it. Fucking Sheila even when she wanted to give it up lacked the same thrill it used to give him, but Lars was turning out to be a handsome young man. Very handsome, and very eager to please his violent dad. Martin was getting ideas already.