The Book of Masks (Vol. 3)

Manhandling Mendoza, Part 2

Previously: "Manhandling Mendoza, Part 1" 

"So when you hook up with Kirkham," you start to say, but are interrupted by the crunch of car tires on the grass outside. You and Sydney hurry over to a window.

A battered gray sedan has parked next to Sydney's SUV. "Is it your minion?" she asks, and the answer comes a moment later when the door opens and George Mendoza gets out.

He looks tired and angry, and he glares around with his hands on his hips before catching sight of you and Sydney through the basement window. He flushes and trudges over to the door.

You hang back, but Sydney hurries up to the stairs. "What's your name?" she asks him—bright and eager—when he appears at their head.

"Fucking bitch," he snarls.

"Will, make him tell me his name!"

"I told you his name!"

"Just make him!"

"Tell Sydney your name," you order your minion.

He licks his lips. "George Mendoza," he mutters.

Sydney hops on the balls of her feet.

"This is so great," she gurgles. "He looks so natural, so real, you can't tell the difference between him and—!" She squeals. "But he's ours, Will!"

You still hang back—your girlfriend is in a weird mood—as she mounts the stairs with a shining smile. Mendoza draws back. Her hand darts out and she pinches his shoulder; he slaps her away.

"Get into him," Sydney pants.

"Get into him?" you repeat.

"Get into his rig, his mask! Do yourself up a him." Sydney scoops her hair up in two handfuls. "I want it to be you standing there, Will, looking just like him, talking just like him, looking at me the way he's looking at me now." She writhes. "Calling me dirty names 'cos you hate me. But it's really you, and you love me."

Wow. This girl is pretty goddamned twisted, you think.

But then, you already kind of knew that.

You turn your gaze onto Mendoza. Paunchy, doughy, baby-faced George Mendoza, dressed out in cheap shorts and a thin t-shirt. It's not a happy idea, turning yourself into him.

But it will just be until you get to Kirkham.

You crook your finger at Mendoza. "Get down here," you order him, then point to the conference table. "Get on there and take your clothes off."

He pales. "Fucking kind of gay-ass shit is this?" he asks as he comes down the stairs, walking as though pulled by invisible ropes.

You only turn to dig out the mask you made of yourself. When Mendoza is undressed and laid out on the table, you keep your eyes locked onto his head as you edge up to him and grab his face. Sydney grabs your arm with both her hands, and squeaks as you pull the mask off your minion.

* * * * *

You wake into a kind of thundering darkness. A pain like a migraine claws at the front of your skull, and you feel cold and grimy all over. You sit up on one elbow and grimace.

Sydney is grinning at you from the far end of the table, beyond your feet. "Hey sweetie," she says. "I had the hardest time keeping my hands off you while you were out."

You grunt, then flinch as your eye falls from her face to your gut. It's like a puffy pillow, and it gives like dough when—with loathing—you push your fingertip into it.

The headache fled almost as soon as you raised your head, but you lay back down and stare at the ceiling.

George Mendoza, I've got your body, you think. Do I have anyth—?

Oh yes. Jesus. There he is. You shut your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose.

It's like falling into deep, muddy water as the mind and memories well up around you and inside you. It's like you're drowning, like your sinuses and skull are sucking in a thick, oozing mess. You feel your own self wallowing under the weight of Mendoza's memories. You capsize and turning over, and the person who bobs up in your place is—

You snap your eyes open.

The new person is you. Still you, you would say. Is and always was you—Will Prescott. Only you're George Mendoza too. Fuck you, Prescott, you think. If that's your name. Cocksucking douchey little loser.

"Will?"

"Yeah." You raise up with a groan and a sigh. You brush the bangs from your face, and do a double take at the brown, stumpy fingers with the ragged nails. You clench a fist, and look at the muscles bulging in your smooth forearm and bicep. They're not huge, but they're bigger than the ones you're used to. "I'm here."

"Mm." You look up sharply as Sydney slides in on you, pushing herself between your knees to put her face into yours. Your cock tells her hello. "Teach me to like this asshole," she tells you.

You stare at her.

Then you take her face between your hands and kiss her gently on the lips.

George Mendoza, it turns out, is a shy and tentative lover. Sydney wraps her arms around you, and has to pull you in.

The open-mouthed kissing doesn't last long, though. "This guy didn't brush his teeth this morning," she says as she pulls away.

"This guy didn't know he'd be making out with you," you retort. "Eat you out instead?"

"We'll talk."

"Fuck talk." You stroke her arm. "Lemme go home and brush my teeth, and then we can pick up again—"

"Maybe I can just nibble on you." She dives in and bites at the side of your neck. You jump, and are too surprised to reciprocate before she pulls back out. "Come on, get dressed." She slaps you on the side of the stomach, which sets you jiggling a little. "I wanna see the full effect."

"Where'd, uh, I go?" you ask as you paw at the rumpled pile of clothes that the real Mendoza left behind. "The kid who—" You make a face as you remember "Will Prescott" from Mendoza's perspective. A skinny little fucker with a rabbitty smile and frightened eyes, talking to you like he was your boss but looking like he wanted to shit himself.

"Minion-Will?" Sydney asks. Her lips purse in amusement. "You sent him home. Don't you remember?"

Oh yeah. That was the rushed bit after you got your mask onto Mendoza. A blonde scarecrow sat up where the dark and dumpy Mendoza had laid down, and in a kind of panic—you'd not known where to look at him, and had looked around everywhere but at him—you'd ordered him to go home. Sydney had to call him back sharply and remind you that you should get undressed and give him your clothes first. You quickly peeled your things off and thrust them at him, then laid back and dropped the mask on while he was still untangling the wad.

"Long as he stays outta my way," you mutter, then pause with Mendoza's briefs in your hand. "At least I hardly ever seen him around school."

"You gonna stick around as this guy?" Sydney grins at you.

"This guy has a name, you know," you retort. "George. Jorge if you're his aunt or an asshole at school." You pull on the briefs and pick up the burgundy-colored flannel shorts. "His friends call him Medroso."

"Why?"

"Their stupid idea of a pun on 'scary'." More of a stupid pun on "scaredy cat," you silently add with a grimace.

"Is that what I should call you?" Sydney dimples.

"Is this who I'm going to be?" You've got the shorts and the t-shirt on now, so you reach for the shoes. "I thought I was gonna be—"

"You'll have your choice." Sydney cocks her head. "We need ten of them. Don't you want Medroso to be one of them?" she asks with a smirk.

You suck in your upper lip. "I was just thinking about Kirkham," you admit. "I was just gonna use fucking Jorge here to get up and personal with him."

"He had all those guys with him. They could be our Brotherhood. Its core. Come on, Medroso, get your shoes on, get finished."

You think about what she's said as you push your feet into the smelly sneakers and pull the laces tight. It's a lot of losers Mendoza hangs out with, with Kirkham the best of the lot. But Sydney was right, you now know firsthand with Mendoza's knowledge, the fucker's got a lot more on the ball than you'd care to admit, and a lot more than you—Will Prescott—actually have, God damn it. Taking AP math classes and science classes. Playing cello in the fucking orchestra, and good enough to take lessons from a university professor. Kirkham's best bud, Gary Chen, has got a lot on the ball too.

You wince internally. Chen. The school's more or less official drug dealer. You're not sure how that works, but Chen has squashed any and all competitions, so that anyone wants anything on school grounds, they gotta go to him. Mendoza is a sub-dealer, along with Tanner Evans and Joe Thomason. With a slight shudder, you reflect that Sydney would probably really dig the idea of using the school's gangster underclass as your "Brotherhood." Start slipping something really awful into the weed supply?

Plus there's the other lowlifes that Mendoza knows, the ones who are on the way to dropping out or who already have. The Joshua Calls, the Jeff Spencers, the Brian Heaths, the Rich Austins, the Oscar Cantus.

You heave yourself onto your feet, and give a start when Sydney catches you in her arms.

"So are you going to be my cuddlebunny?" she asks as she squeezes you. "Or are you just—?" She kisses you lightly on the lips. "Here long enough for a fling?"

That's all for now.

*
"Table of Contents (Vol. 3)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 3)"