group therapy Part 6
#6 of group therapy
how do these dogs get their water?
Here's a crazy fact: Ryan was starting to feel a tad a hint of chemistry with a certain hyena. And no, not that crazy naked one who'd been jacking off in that other chapter.
I'm talking 'bout that handsome one with all the muscle on him. Flack. That's his name, how he got it? Beats Ryan. He's still trying to figure out what actually goes _on _at these camps.
Such chemistry, anyways, had started its lovely brew a good chunk into a conversation that they had been laughing about, since they'd left Mortar back at the 'sleeping tent' and proceeded the tour over to the great big holes at the far side of the camp.
The conversation was more of a piss-take on kid's television. Joking about how much it had changed. Getting nostalgic over all these old TV shows, all these real bangers that were so well made they could be watched today and entertain far more than just a child. It was a good subject for Ryan - or a lucky one, since all Ryan _had _for a childhood was that tiny television in Ms. Saguire's science class. "Nowadays it's all just this shitty marketing wrapped in talking animals." Flack said, and he was quite passionate about the subject.
Ryan chuckled. "We're talking animals."
"I know that, fang-face." That was the nickname the hyena had given him since he'd started riding Ryan's train of wise-ass comments (hopefully not the only thing of Ryan's he'll be riding sorry can't help it). Ryan was growing to like it. Ryan was growing to be a wise-ass just so he could hear it cross that Hyena's lovely tongue. He also liked the cheekiness on Flack's smile when he said it. It made his knees weak, for some reason. Made them melt like butter.
And then Flack did that thing again. And he pretended not to be conscious of doing that thing. He did that same bloody flex of his arm muscles, which stuck out from his stained singlet, as thick as logged. And they were veiny, too. Well used. Ryan was too shy to ask what Flack used them for. But eye candy is eye-candy. And looking at the muscles on that coyote felt almost as good as talking to him. Maybe even better.
Ryan closed his mouth once he noticed it'd been left hanging open.
"Mate, all I'm sayin' is that I just want things to go back to the way they were." Like the rest of the boys, Flack had developed that thick, almost Australian accent. "Actually, even that's a lie. I'd rather it jus the same. That way me and the rest of the boys can keep making fun of all the 'shit-shows' on the wreck-room TV." He chuckled. "Including the one we're having, fancy that. All made possible by dog-water quality television."
Dog-water, Ryan liked the term. At this point he was collecting them like red-stained souvenirs. "heh, yeah." He said loosely.
Speaking of red, fuck me if that hyena hadn't been absolutely butchered with the clay-breeze that's out here. He was so stained that Ryan was almost scared to see him without the red, just in case he wasn't as hot without it for some reason. In case his muscles didn't have that same tone if they were fully fur. Hundred percent, born and bred hyena. They usually didn't look to good, did they? Ryan hadn't seen many of them in his life, and they sure hadn't been much eye-candy to look at. And then, of course, there had been Mr. Hyde. And, well shit, Ryan couldn't even bring himself to look at that one.
But this hyena... Jesus, there's something about him. And that's what I mean when I refered to it as a kind of 'chemistry' before. All just under the surface. This connection playing with its cards under the table. All in the selfconsciousness.
All in that wild douse of hormones that had made Flack feel the need to flex his muscles (try saying that 10x fast), and those hormones that had brought Ryan's eye's to actually look.
Yes, all under the surface. All under the table, and both of these boys had the winning cards without even knowing. Interpret that as thou may.
"Ye' haven't asked the obvious question yet." Flack said, and he grinned that toothy grin of his.
Ryan tried to piece together why Flack had said this at the exact moment they had approached the holes. And by holes, I mean some big fuckin' holes too. Craters almost, more in depth than in width. It'd be impossible for one man to dig down there by any natural means. And there are many holes, and Ryan was noticing that they weren't in any distinguishable order. If a hole needed to be dug, a hole got dug' was how Ryan was interpreting it.
As for that question... "I've got no clue." But that only partially true. Ryan had so many 'obvious questions' about this camp that needed asking, that to guess it was to play a game of roulette and only bet on a single number.
So black or red, which is it?
Neither, as it turns out. It was blue.
"Ye' haven't asked how in the blue-devil we get our _water. _And it surprised me that ye' hadn't, given that you've walked that distance yourself ."
Ryan knew he was right; the walk had almost killed him, sure. But driving out to any of the camps out here seemed like a nasty endeavour. Especially for trips as frequent as topping up water would be. Ryan couldn't remember seeing any vehicles back at the school, and assumed that they'd been stashed away in one of the buildings of something. In case some trouble-making student saw one and got some _good _ideas.
Ryan imagined himself in the driver's seat of a truck. Getting out of this place... then there was this bitter, tightening feeling in his chest. And it came from this grim, grim realisation that he really had no where else to go. Nothing better than this dusty camp for murderers to call home. But Flack was here... and as long as he was, maybe it wouldn't be too bad. And that's not to mention Kyle.
"Every week, we get one shipment of water, food and other goods." Flack explained. "We're camp C, and that means the ruck gets to us third. Whatever supplies have been yoinked by camps D and E, we won't get. Whatever supplies we yoink on top of those supplies, camps B, A, and S won't get." He chuckled. "But here's the thing: we're all within walking distance from adjacent camps. You see the problem we might get here?"
Ryan nodded.
But that wasn't enough for the hyena, who was wearing that cheeky grin once more. "Enlighten me." He said.
So Ryan did: "You'd get people raiding other camps if they were unhappy with the amount of supplies that their camp were left with."
"Yes," Flack nodded, and he looked like a dad proud of their son spelling their first word correctly. "That's what happens. And it used to happen to us often, since out group is smack-dead in the middle of the other groups."
"But there's 6 groups, including group S." Ryan mightn't know how to read, but his counting worked just fine. Logic is still logic, even to an illiterate mind.
Flack's face suddenly lost all its humour, and suddenly he was a very scary looking hyena. "We don't talk about camp S." And he was firm about it. "But since you're interested this, I'll tell you the cherry on top to the whole 'supply conundrum'. And listen well, because this may concern you. And you may find this out for yourself today, or tomorrow, or next fuckin' week. Point is, its hard to say. Has anyone told you about that rankings yet?"
"Yeah, the higher the camp's letter, the worse the committed crimes the members in that camp have committed." Ryan distinctly remembered the section Kyle had read: Group S, for 'disturbing crimes'. It occurred to Ryan that cannibalism may fall as a 'disturbing crime'. And this slow appreciation dripped into him, that lying about his crime may have been the best decision he'd ever made.
"Worse _is putting is lightly." Flack said. "But we'll use that word for the time being: the further your camp is from the school, the _worse your life is. Worse sleeping conditions, worse activities required of each day and night, worse treatment from the teachers... so, imagine what would happen if a camp like Camp A started getting worse supplies on top of that."
"Fuck, they'd go wild."
"Yes sir," Flack winked, "They go bat-shit. But they can only walk to either Camp S or B without damn near dying of first. And they sure as shit ain't gonna come bitching to a higher camp with even tougher boys than they are. So off they go to raid Camp B."
Ryan was picking it up quick. "It might not have even been camp B who mooched the extra supplies.
Flack threw him an impressed glance, "bingo. There could be a chance that camp B had received a shit intake from us, _and were actually being generous in giving _any supplies to camp A, given that they barely had any for themselves. But camp A doesn't care. They need an outlet for their rage. And they're bigger, stronger boys, who couldn't stop that rage if they wanted _to. You've said it yourself, Ryan, they're living _worse _lives than the rest of us. So Camp B gets absolutely fucking plastered, and now they're living _worse conditions because of that. And they're angry... and they're angry at us."
"So it keeps going down the chain until the group who mooched gets karma dished out at them, and they're forced to learn their lesson." Ryan shook his head and laughed at himself. "That's fucking genius."
The hyena nodded, satisfied in his teachings, and there they were, just sitting down on the soil. Beautiful red, its a midday red, and the skies a milky sort of blue that's hazy despite an absence in clouds. No clouds, no rain, nothing wet in this wasteland. "That's just how it is 'round here." The hyena said. His eyes were cool brown, and Ryan noted this for no obvious reason. They weren't muddy, more of a... hazel, if that makes sense. Flack smiled. "Whiteout calls that scenario the 'cafeteria effect'. Clever bastard, that fox."
It was Kyle he was talking about, and Ryan figured this out quickly. "He very talkative?" Ryan asked. Then, when Flack showed and expression of uncertainty: "Whiteout, he talk much?"
The hyena sighed and looked out at the horizon. From where they sat, they could look down the perfect line that one would need to walk to get to camp B. By the looks of footprints on the ground, trips didn't look too frequent. Bandit's Boys must obviously be paying their dues to the bigger, more scary boys.
"He talks when talkin's needed. But..." Flack squinted. "I dunno... he kind of comes and goes... like..." He turned to Ryan. "I dunno... this might sound real dumb, but I swear sometimes it's like he's these two different foxes, living in a body that only has space for one."
Ryan remembered Kyle's iconic pass, and the sound of the ball passing through empty space and hitting the floor still felt fresh in his ears. Then the cold shoulder just earlier, the lack of caring from a fox who he'd just been laughing with yesterday.
"But... I don't know." Flack said, and unintentionally he was doing his iconic flexing, "that's just how it seems sometimes. Ya feel me?"
"Yeah. I feel you." He knew it was just an expression, but he had an eagerness to one day make it literal. Feel the stains in the hyena's fur... see whether his muscles bulged the same within kissing distance... see whether he tasted good, whether he'd just slide off the bone or whether he'd need to chew the hyena up to get him down, oh christ, blood of my bl-
_"_Anyways," the hyena chuckled. "That's how we get our water."
And Ryan was drooling again.
Flack cocked an eye-brow, "You're kinda giving me that same feeling right now..."
The coyote snapped out of it, wiping his mouth with the back of his paw and gesturing an apology with the other. As though it were any inconvenience.