THE LOGAN TAPES – SEX IN THE SLAMMER – PART 4
To Cirocco because she likes bittersweet endings
To Wolverine6claws hoping he'll forgive the bittersweet ending
But mostly to Witchlite for a kind, generous, witty and GREAT
post about us

And while looking at the pages of a book without reading any of
it, it comes to me. The answer to the riddle. It's a very good
answer because I know it will not work at once and he and I will
have the time to get accustomed to each other. Even better, he'll
get the time to get accustomed to use his cock.
Lovely. Perfect. I can't wait for lights out.
So that night, before he has time to climb up or say a word I say:
"Listen, kid, you may think not, but it'll get boring in time what we
do, so why not make it more interesting with a little bet?"
He's intrigued, as I knew he would, but the gaming light I see in
his face is unexpected – better and better, he's not gonna bail
out of it.
"What kind of a bet, Monsieur?" but I can see he's ready to take it
on, to take everything on, actually, if it's wrapped in a nice `bet'
package.
"We blow each other and the first to cum loses his ass." I say
matter-of-fact.
His eyes widen.
Better and better and better.
"You'll win every time, Monsieur." he says shrewdly, but he's not
annoyed.
"Maybe, for the first few times. You'll be amazed to discover how
little variety there is in that particular game.
"You want me to win?" Wonderful, he's lost the `Monsieur'!
"Eventually you may. Why not? It's the way of long-standing bets.
You win some, you lose some." Not even under torture would I
confess that yes I *want* him to win, and how!
He grins at that – has he divined something? Naaaah. – and
sheds his uniform and climbs up.
"Well, Monsieur, may the best man win, then." He leers at me.
"Yes, kid, may the best man win." I leer straight back.
Of course he loses.
He has no chance really, so soon after discovering the huge
thing dangling between his legs has a life of its own. I must say
that "The Insistent Rapper" is a winner, but *anything* would be
a winner at that point.
Right, he reverses himself and looks at me questioningly.
I grab him and am on top.
I want to see his face, gods, but how I want to see his face in
orgasm!
Then I get off and go to take something to lubricate us.
I know, spittle sounds good and it would be good if it didn't dry in
a second.
And I want to go slowly.
Very very slowly.
I want to savour every instant, every nuance, every passing
emotion on that breathtaking face.
He looks at me, curiosity stamped on his features.
The only thing I could think of getting without starting a
guard-gossip that would have them checking our cell every 4
seconds is a cream for chapped hands. That's allowable, you
work or pump in the gym and your hands get dry and itchy, a lot
of guys buy hand cream in jail, nothing to gossip about.
It wouldn't have been my choice, but, as I have already said –
probably more than once – needs must.
When I get back rubbing this enormous dollop of cream between
my hands he smiles sweetly and relaxes back.
God knows what he was expecting, and I don't want to know, not
really.
Well, I cream up and start creaming up his delicate, delicious,
lovely sweet tight puckering rosebud. And it's rose-coloured. The
kid washes a lot. And it smells – before I put that stupid
oily-cheesy-pukey smelling cream on it – like a mysterious
present you're about to open, a bit acrid, a bit soft, a bit hot, a bit
metallic even and underneath it all, running like a thread through
the kid's wonderful smells, is the honey tangy acid sweet
perfume of applejack as it gurgles from the bottle into the glass.
I make him mightily nervous inhaling like a man on a mountain
for a while, but I can't explain what my nose does to me or I
would sound mad.
So I anoint the sacred hole… Allmightyfuck! Got carried away just
remembering, sorry. You should have my nose to understand
what an incredible… now what's the word? EWWWWGH! But I
can find no other.
Ok, sorry.
You should have my nose to understand what an incredible
nasal presence the kid has.
On with the tale, Wolverine! Get a grip!
So I get over him and raise his long graceful legs with my arms. I
swish over his body, getting ready. I want to eat him slowly when
lodged into him.
Not easy, my *me* me, my Wolverine-cock wants to ram up and
deep and sure and keep ramming until it explodes.
So we sort of find a compromise.
I push gently, he's real tight and the last thing I want is pain.
Well, I push gently but relentlessly so I gain some sort of
entrance, it's still very precarious and I have to clench my whole
back to keep it like that. He's squishy from the cream but his
flesh feels swollen. I push in deeper and I am at last with my
head at the entrance of the chamber of delights. It's narrow here
and suffocating, but I know that if I push it will open to me.
So I push and suddenly I feel him move against me, puckering
those not-lips, those circular rings of joy, to make them open
quicker.
He knows what's he doing alright.
Encouraged I get a little more weight behind my movement and
my head – look, why quibble? I'm down there, have no fucking
idea of what the rest of my body is doing, alright? – slurps in,
caressed and squeezed and slurped by the living glove of his
glorious arse.
In, in, in… Still not past the barrier he's doing his very best to
open to me, but getting there, getting there…
And I'm in! Omigod the sensations I get threaten to kill what
little`s left of my brain.
It moves.
Right, I know it's peristalsis, but it feel so incredibly ecstatic I
couldn't care if it was an earthquake.
He's eating me with his sodding hole!
Unbelievable!
And I follow his hungry not-mouth and suddenly the
Wolverine-cock cannot be restrained anymore and with a
powerful surge I'm in to the hairs.
Heaven and bliss and a furnace of love all at the same time.
He's gasping hard. The sound gives me back my body and my
sight and Logan-me takes the con once again.
I bend to kiss his gasping mouth and discover I'm too short to
reach it.
Damn! DAMN! DAMN AND BLAST!
Then I get an idea.
The sort of idea only a terminally demented half-animal in love
would get.
Look, I'm really short and he's tall enough.
Moreover his cock is a thing to take guided tours to, like a
monolith.
Why not?
I can't reach his mouth, that's for sure. I'm not even that sure I
can reach his nipples now he's arched that slender colt body in
pleasure.
But I can try to reach his shaft.
Temptingly near my puckering mouth.
Why not?
If I can't I can't, it isn't as if I was contract-bound to.
So I bend with a very purposeful gleam in my eyes.
Does he realise? Does he fear?
I haven't the slightest idea.
I can make it… I can make it…
NO, dammit!
Yes, maybe, if I bend a little more.
Gods of Wolverines let me make it!
I touch it! Just the tip, just barely with my lips, but I do and he
jumps as if I had shot him through with electricity.
We lose our position.
I grin at him and he looks awed at me.
"But you can't…" it's the barest whisper.
"I just did." I grin "Now bite your hand or something and let's see
what happens."
We restart and I get into him with a punch-like blow.
He's so hot at the moment he barely feels it.
In I am again, my hairs nestling his balls and I tickle the tip of his
pecker to make his love-flag wave again for me.
Sooner done than said.
I bend down again, industriously, and again I graze the tip with
my pouted lips.
He bites his hand and goes:
"Nggggwwwwwhhhhh"
a strange sound that's like the most potent aphrodisiac made by
man.
I struggle further, I gain microns, but I persevere.
That's me, you know, persevering in the face of impossible
odds.
I want it so much I feel something go SNAP in my back, but I get
enough purchase to work my lips a little.
He explodes.
And I drink that most potent liquor and feel so near exploding
myself that I have to swallow fast.
My scrote's so tense I think my balls must be going ballistic.
So I let him go and slam my signature orgasm.
Three deep hard violent blows to the hilt and back.
SLAM! SLAM! SLAM!
Three markings deep inside my mate's body, harsher and
sharper than claw marks. They say: this is my territory.
Mine.
He cums with me on the third blow.
Fuck, how I love him!
After that my back is screaming at me and I move like a
paralysed old man.
He's *very* solicitous.
"Monsieur, are you alright?" he groans-gurgles, because he too
can't get his bearing back that fast.
"I'm alright, kid." I rasp, and it's right. I'm in heaven even if I'll
have to walk bent in two for a week.
Then he does an amazing... *another* amazing thing.
He helps me turn on my belly and starts to massage my back.
Mmmmmmm… wonderful, I fell the tension lessen.
He bends over me and whispers...
There we go, the hated word, I want to write gaily but you'll read it
as a pun, let's see...
He bends over me and whispers cheerfully:
"Don't do that again, Monsieur, you are not made of rubber."
Then he massages me some more and adds:
"Thank you, I've never felt like tonight."
And as my back approaches normality again I purr more to his
words than to his magical hands.
But I also vow to myself that I will *not* do it ever again, I don't
want to sped the rest of my stint like a feeble old man.
Anyway you should have seen his face. No amount of thinking
and consulting dictionaries will give me the words. Ecstatic? Too
little. Awed? Not orgasmic enough. Blown out of his fucking
mind? Colloquial, but not really there.
Imagine meeting with your personal God face to face and
He/She bending down and kissing your genitalia saying "I really
do love you." Then showing you a lot of shark's teeth.
That.
Awe and joy and exaltation and terror and some residual
nagging doubts about your worship of *that* particular deity.
His face and eyes were like this only much more.
Every time I remember that particular fuck I smile. Toothily.
So the days drip, dribble and drop in their sameness, but they
are not so boring anymore.
Only three things of any importance happen.
We don't talk much, see, me and the kid. Once he gives me a
book to read. Not bad, actually. Once I make him listen to some
of the music I like. He jumps as if bitten by a rabid mosquito. Not
much to talk about when you refuse to talk of yourself or your
past. The simple everyday needs of conversation and some
essays at literary critique. I never tell him how more and more I
love him, because this thing will end. This idyll not born in
verdant greens but in shittant slammer has no future that I can
see.
As I was saying three important things happen.
I am tempted to cheat and let him win after a while, even if his
wonderful living arse is a joy that will never pall for me, but in the
end I decide not to. For one thing I fear he'll know, for another I
name them because I don't have *that* many of them...
I know I know every time is the first time, every nuance counts,
every little bit is a wonderful new experience.
Even so, we're talking months here. Time enough for blowjobs
to become mere foreplay, time enough for a bet to get edges,
time enough for him to get accustomed to my little quirks. I'm
dynamite to the new ones, a bit of a soggy cracker to the
informed user.
The second is that he starts to play the game in earnest, which I
feel as a personal victory, holding back as much as he can and
doing more frantically wonderful things to me with his prehensile
tongue. I can see he wants to win.
The third is that finally I find what to use when he wins. No way
I'm going to use hand cream to guard my poor arse against that
monster. I need a better lubricant, a long lasting more fluid thing.
Not K-Y because you can't even think of asking for *that* in the
slammer. It means either you're a cunt, and a very sensitive one
at that, or that you aren't man enough to spit on your hand and
take the friction. It also means that the guards get almightily
curious about what you're doing in there and want a piece. So I
pass my days churning possibilities and wearing my mind out to
find a solution.
In a certain horrible sense it's a pleasant way to pass the time,
but the days go by and all I've managed to decide is that I want to
live with this kid. I'll get out and find a place to live and fuck the
X-Saviours-of-the-World, I'm entitled to a little happiness. That is,
if the kid wants to come and live with me, if I can find the balls to
tell him that I love him and – and that's the real rub – if we both
can learn to talk to each other, because sex is a lot, but not
everything.
Maybe, after a while, I can bring him with me to the Mansion,
because he has to have a talent of some sorts apart from being
a sexgod… Mmmm, that *could* be a talent... Naaaah!
Sorry, got sidetracked again.
And under the lukewarm dribble they call a shower it comes to
me in a flash – intuitive chap, amn't I?
I know what to use and it even doesn't smell too pukey.
Hair cream, not the thin conditioner, but the pack you put on your
hair and keep for a while to stop it from frizzling. Lubricant,
long-lasting, relaxing very very squishy-oily. And even better, it
washes away in a second.
Mental memo for Logan: `have the kid buy it, with his hair they'll
wonder why he has not bought it before'.
Aaaaah! What a weigh off my shoulders.
When I tell him, the kid tilts his head and says:
"Everybody knows I have no money. They'll think I'm buying it for
you and the rumours will start." A thought strikes him and he
adds
"Doesn't everybody know we fuck? Am I not supposed to be your
c… yours?"
I smile at his avoiding the forbidden the word, and explain:
"They may know we fuck, but they don't *know* it. Officially we
don't. Officially nobody does. Officially this is a celibate chaste
place. So, unless people do stupid things like buying K-Y or
screaming their fucking heads off, nothing happens. Now you've
got great hair – I almost said `lovely', stopped meself just in time
– and so you're allowed to care for it. As you're my kid I pay, it's
one of the unwritten rules. Only the lowest turds keep a… -
Ah-ha, caught in my own trap – permanent lover and never buy
him things. Actually you get done if the… Dammit!"
He laughs and hiccups: "Cunt, Monsieur, say it, I don't mind
anymore."
"'Kay" I say sheepishly "You get done if your cunt says you're not
paying for him. So no prob, kid. Go buy the longest-lasting gooey
hair pack you can find. If they don't have it, order it. You know
some brand?"
"My hair doesn't stay like this without a little help, Monsieur. Are
you planning on losing soon?"
Bastard! Clever little bastard! For all his youth and somewhat
childish attitude to some things, he's got a rapier mind. Straight
to the point and in to the hilt. Mmmmmm… I wonder if he will
bugger me like this… Quite frankly I hope not, but you never
know. Oh, well, we'll see.
"Want to call off the bet?" I ask.
"Do you?" he retorts.
"Yes." I say and surprise myself "It was fun while it lasted, but
now we both know the reason for the exercise."
"I never thought you wanted to be a cunt, Monsieur."
He's teasing me! The clever bastard is teasing me!
Affectionately even.
No, no, Logan, no hope in this story, there is *no* hope in
heaven or hell he'll ever feel for you what you feel for him. He
simply likes you, that's good to know and it's all there is to it,
understood?
But I can't quench hope. Not completely quench it.
"You earned it, kid, and frankly I can't wait to see your face the
first time you use that rad cock of yours."
Oooops! The Wolverine has stolen the con from Logan on this
one.
He blushes rosily and opens his mouth to speak, but he can't.
What can he say? Come on Logan, bail the poor kid out.
"Don't look like that, kid, it's pretty obvious to an old hand like me.
No disgrace in it, you know, shit happens. You cannot always
control your life.
"Besides, I've always dreamt of making some handsome young
devil lose his virginity."
But that feeble attempt at bantering doesn't make him smile.
Instead he pales suddenly and dramatically. What the fuck?
What have I said now? Shit, I really have to *talk* to this kid, I
can't keep shocking him like this. Oh, damn timidity to hell! I can't
say a word paralysed by the fear of hurting him even worse.
He looks at me, I can't read what's behind the hurt in his face,
but his eyes look imploring, he wants me to undo the damage,
but how can I? I don't even know what sort of damage I caused.
Yet I must do something or say something to help him out. So I
stammer:
"D… don't l… look like t… that, kid. I didn't mean to insult you.
You were a child when…" GAAAAAAAAAH! What the fuck am I
saying? But I must have done something right because he gulps
and talks.
"When I was a whore, yes. It was not that Monsieur, I'm sorry.
Only…"
And he stops.
"Nevermind, kid, just so you know I did not mean to hurt you."
"They called me devil, Monsieur." this comes out low and painful.
"Because of your eyes?"
"Maybe." And he says it with such finality that I can hear the door
clang shut in his mind.
"Ok, I see. I meant that as in recklessly brave, just so you know."
He perks up a little at that and finds a ghost of a smile.
"I'll go buy the conditioner…?" he says.
"At once." I grin at him, relieved.
Happily he has to order it so we'll have to wait a bit more. He
needs the time to get back to his usual cocky self, also to bash
another mentally impaired newcomer who thinks that he's ready
for plucking just because I'm not about.
Of course I follow slammerlaw and thump the newcomer good
afterwards. I give the Wolverine the con and really enjoy
squashing the slimy beef.
After that nobody but nobody molests my kid anymore, in fact they
give him a wide berth and all gym privileges he cares to claim.
He's got one hell of a rep now and, once I find a way to stop Baz,
I'll be able to leave him in here without a qualm.
When the conditioner comes I'm as nervous as a virgin bride. A
little scared as well, to tell the truth. He's so big and so
inexperienced he's sure to hurt me when his head drops down
to the tip of his cock. He won't be able to restrain himself and no
amount of conditioner or even K-Y will save my poor ass from a
royal bashing.
At the same time I want him to fuck me so much, I'm salivating…
Oh, alright, drooling.
He's as nervous as me, afraid to fail, I presume.
We look at each other in the dark and wait for nightsong to start,
tense and suddenly very shy with each other. Oh, fuck, I'm the
older, I have to start this. I grab his head and kiss him as lustfully
and hungrily as I can and am rewarded by the intensity of his
response.
Good, his shaft is quivering.
He grabs me and squeezes the breath out of me and kisses me
furiously, I breathe his breath and my knees almost give out.
Before we both pass out from lack of air I push him away and
whisper roughly
"Get the conditioner, kid. Let's do it."
I wait for him and I'm tense again which I know it's a very bad
move, but how can I help it? I haven't used my ass except for its
natural function in donkey's years and the Wolverine-cock
doesn't like it one bit. He wants to be in and dancing, not out and
ignored. Well, not really ignored but you get his drift. This is all
Logan's game. This wanting to experience all, to give the other
the chance to experience all, is pure Logan.
But both Logan and the Wolverine-cock are in love with the kid
and they both want their beloved eaglet to spread his
tempered-steel soul and fly as high as the sun.
He comes to me, rubbing his shaft and smiling shyly, then he
clambers up and kneels between my spread legs. I curl up,
knees to shoulder, and smile:
"Come on, kid, I ain't made of glass, y'know."
And finally and gloriously resigned to his fate he whispers:
"Monsieur, show me how to make love to you."
Make love? Make love! He said `make love'! Nothing but nothing
can make me stop him now.
But I'm wrong because when he finally starts to push in – fuck
he's big enough to kill with that thing! IT HURTS! – he cries out a
thin shriek that will clearly swell in volume and potency to a full
blood curling howl and I have to stop him soonest or we're both
done for.
So I brutally roll on myself, grab him and slap his face so hard I
made his head turn. Then before he has time to react I hug him
so tight I feel his downy chest hair on my nipples and say
urgently:
"Pay attention, kid and shut up. NEVER raise your voice that
much, even in the dark. Never, kid. Do I make myself clear?"
I feel his head nod against me, he's shivering. Poor kid, what a
way to start your first ever male fuck. I can't not say anything else.
"Listen, you were doing alright, nothing wrong except you can't
scream. If you do some guard will come and see what's
happening and more often than not will want a piece of the
action. When not, he'll be a fag bashing bastard and we both are
done for. That's why I *had* to stop you screaming. I did *not*
want to stop you fucking me, understood?"
He's back to himself and is too intelligent not to see I'm right.
"Understood, Monsieur, I could not help screaming. I never felt…
I never…"
"Yes, kid, I know. Do you think you can keep quiet?"
Is that my voice? Is that tender concerned - *loving* for fucksake!
– soft voice mine? God of Wolverines, help me now, I can't
burden him with my love now, he's not ready and he's confused
enough as it is.
This time he saves me without realising what's he saving me
from.
"No, Monsieur, but I can gag myself so I will not make a noise. I
know how to do it, Monsieur, don't worry."
`I know how to do it' is another phrase of his I like not at all. I
don't want to think on the implications, but I cannot help it either,
so some images his phrase conjures up make me taste my
own bile.
He *does* know how to do it. He twirls a handkerchief and bites
it in the middle. Then he ties the ends behind his head. The he
takes another handkerchief, balls it up and pushes it into his
mouth.
A real professional job. He can't scream and he won't swallow
the balled up cloth. He gives me the willies, frankly, but he's
right.
I close my eyes this time - I don't want to see that horror gag –
and guide his gland gently with my hand, as soon as it touches
my hole it grows and starts pushing in. It's no use his going
slow, I'm going to feel pain no matter what he does, it's better for
us both to slam in and wait for me to relax.
"If you think you won't cum at once, it's better if you push as hard
as you can now, kid." I grate.
I can't see if he's nodding or not but he suddenly smashes into
me and I almost pass out. God the pain! I feel ripped apart and
I'm sure I have tears in my eyes though the only thing I can feel
right now is the monolith lodged inside me. If this is how being
fistfucked feels I'm very very glad I always avoided that particular
option. Actually never could see the point, but people have a right
to their likings and tastes.
It takes a while for the pain to ebb and the kid behaves like a
trooper, he stays strong and still inside me emitting funny
sounds from behind that gag, but not moving a micron.
Then, as it always happens, the pain is just a memory and the
pleasure starts to kick in.
"Now, kid, grab my cock and go to work. From now on whatever
you do will be heaven for me."
I didn't have to tell him this. He suddenly remembers he's been
in my position a lot of time so he knows exactly –See? That little
talk about male sexuality *had* a point. – what to do and not do.
While I can still think – and Logan having the con in this helps a
lot in being able to think for a while – I recognise some of my
moves and feel strangely honoured that he choose what I do,
also very glad I pleasured him so much he wants to give
pleasure back.
Then his hand and his cock move to different rhythms and his
finger's dance and his cock's irregular beat sing my body a song
of such exquisite pleasure that I start to hum my own melody in
counterpoint.
My last thought before succumbing totally to the music of his
buggering me is that *I* have to steal some of his moves.
Mmmmmmmm…
The music of my loving him…

EPILOGUE

It is night and I just woke up from the worst nightmare of my
entire life.
I feel so lost.
So lost.
Well, I never told the kid I loved him, but I asked him if he wanted
to live with me for a while. He was eager to accept and I was
overjoyed. So I told him I would come pick him up when his stint
was done.
"If you don't see me, don't worry, I may be in some shit with the
people I told you about. But I will come. I promise."
I meant it too, I meant every syllable.
The day I had to leave I couldn't even say goodbye, but he
prevented me.
Daring slammer rules and slammerlaw he knelt in front of me
and said:
"Mark me, Monsieur."
"No." I snarl, very roughly, "You'll be branded for life."
"But it's what I want, Monsieur. I want it to be for life." He's made
himself emotional and is trembling, but he goes on, doggedly:
"These have been the happiest months of my entire life. I do not
know what will happen to me and to you, Monsieur, but I want to
see every time I look into a mirror that I was happy for a long time
and I want to remember who it was that made me so happy. You
have given me great gifts, Monsieur, but the greatest gift has
been your patient kindness and your care for me. Once I needed
the mark for protection, but I did not want it. Then I started to see
your great heart and wanted it for the pride it made me feel to
make you proud of me. But if those were my only reasons, I
would not ask you this or risk so much right now. I want to be
branded for life by you out of love. Je vous aime, Monsieur. I love
you with all of my heart."
But I couldn't tell him I loved him back, not even then. I told
myself that was slammerlove, another thing that happens to you
in that soul destroying place. Then you go out and when you're
free you return what you were and that love evaporates in the
open air. I was making excuses for my cowardice, maybe. Maybe
I was protecting myself from hurt. To say it out loud would have
made the inevitable loss of his love unbearable. To this day I
don't know what kept me mute.
I branded him for life and the Wolverine exulted, but while he was
slashing that white throat Logan said to himself the kid real
name to brand his core self.
Of course I never picked him up, but you know that. We were on a
mission to hell and I got it deep and bad and it took me months
to get well again.
I went to England without any hope of finding my kid and I didn't
find him.
I resigned myself to his loss and plodded wearily on with my life,
I had had an idyll in the slammer, a funny place to have one, but
loneliness and loveliness combined are cruel bitches and undo
you when you least expect it.
Then Ro bought him to the Mansion and I looked at him, grown
up and dangerously splendid and could not quite find my kid in
all that glittering brilliance.
He bowed to me and said, formally:
"Monsieur."
I grunted and that was that.
When he started his Rogue-chasing I told myself that I had been
right to keep my trap shut in the slammer all those years ago.
The eagle was flying and he was not interested in rabbit me, no,
he was after tortoise-Rogue, all intent in cracking her shell.
But to see him day after day was becoming a torture, so I
isolated myself more and more from my fucking extended family.
He played pranks on me.
Stupid and vicious pranks I could never decipher or
comprehend.
And tonight I've had this lethal dream all drenched in death and
fate and madness and I can't breathe.
I have to go away.
I have to go away.
I really have to go away.
I go to the window to try and breathe properly and calm down a
little and I see him.
He's dancing in the moonlight with lethal grace his dance of
balance and flight and for a moment I see my kid in the
slammer's gym floor an ugly beef and grin a gigawatt grin of
victory to me.
Then sadness grabs my throat and shakes it like a terrier
shakes a rat.
I see him through tear-dazzled eyes: the moon has hidden his
red irises and his eyes are two holes in his white sharp-angled
face; the moon has leached all colour from his translucent skin,
leaving the faint trace of my marks silvery and unreal; the moon
has taken all the weight from his slender body so that it dances
in the argent air like a demon child, a moonchild, a hero of old,
forever young and impossibly far.
My black Celtic blood – my true curse, ruthless and crueller that
any adamantium – forces me to see the dark flame of death
dancing inside his tempered-steel soul. After all, what other way
have you got to stay forever young but to die young?
I have to run away, I'm suffocating, I can't stand to see him
anymore.
Run Logan, run!
Run away to the other end of the world before it is too late!
Run away before the kid gets to you…
Run before he gets to you again and makes you sweat for his
death that may not come now, but will come sooner or later.
I pack in a few minutes, run out of the mansion, start my jeep
and I'm gone.
I do not turn back to see if he's watching me go.
THE END