Hanging with Harmon Part 2

I arrived at Harmon's house around 6:30ish. Not too early so I would have to hang out that late; not too late where he would already be into some of his kinky shit. But judging by the pink hot pants, I had guessed wrong.

"So this is why you haven't been blogging lately?" I said, removing a cigarette and openly smoking in his house. A sin that Harmon largely frowned upon, and a tricky habit I usually was only capable of doing in his bathroom.

I pulled in on the cigarette, what had happened here? Why was there a ball gag in Harmon's mouth? Why were all of his fingers broken? Was one of his cruel live action role playing friends extending the boundaries of the game? Was this some sort of revenge by a co-worker making amends for Harmon's heinous gas? Or was this just some local tough that had seen a grown man wearing hot pants and decided to send a message to the rest of the neighborhood?

I thought of asking Harmon. But as I bandied about my blade watching the light catch the cold, blue steel and stream into Harmon's pleading eyes, I thought better of it. There is something simple and nice about hanging out with a Harmon that can't talk.