Cry Havoc

Chapter 16
Regression

Chapter Description: from Book Two: Submission

wednesday 18 october – 7:30 PM

The boys are back in town, but most of the parents aren’t. Welcome to a whole new definition of babysitting.

Peter “Loudmouth” Kim had never had a problem with his 17-year-old stepbrother Jamie per se. But Jamie had some gripes of his own. Only his reclusive, nearly-silent nature (unlike Peter, Jamie would occasionally utter an honorific or a courteous word, as opposed to merely gesturing) prevented him from voicing those gripes, confronting, and, ideally, resolving them.

It still ground his gears when Loudmouth would bribe him to leave the house for the night, as if the whole structure comprised Peter’s own personal bachelor pad. It fed him up even worse if the bribe failed, or was disagreed upon, or was never made-- but Loudmouth would bring home one of those random girls from the gym, anyway. POUND. SQUEAK. POUND. SQUEAK. And it particularly insulted his general senses of honor and decency, the manner in which his stepbrother would treat his female “acquisitions” -- traveling carnival attractions meant to be enjoyed once and forgotten, never again to be seen.

So, when Jamie received a text from an associate claiming that he was dropping off a three-year-old incarnation of Loudmouth -- ones whose needs were simple and whose genitals couldn’t please the Incredible Shrinking Woman -- Jamie was out that front door in such an ecstatic flash that, in the baby supply store, he couldn’t recall whether he’d even closed the door, let alone locked it.

The in-the-know associate had expressed one caveat during the call, though: “The nickname ‘Loudmouth’ is... kinda... no longer ironic.”

Jamie Kim didn’t care. He was back at home in time to set up that potty chair and line up some of the prettiest little size-2 boy’s briefs he could find. The chair itself was relatively generic... plastic, with a duck’s head for a splash guard. But the underwear was assorted and Loudmouth would have his veritable pick of the litter, so to speak. Spongebob, Dora, My Little Pony, some freakish locomotive with a face...

When Jamie intercepted Loudmouth from his friend, he realized that he should have taken the warning a little more seriously. The 17-year-old punk in the 3-year-old body was bawling, wailing -- at times, screaming -- and produced so many tears from the corners of his eyes that Jamie knew he’d have to provide several sippy cups’ worth of water.

“Put me down,” Loudmouth begged between sobs.

“So, champ? How was your day?”

“Very funny.”

“Do you have to use the potty chair?”

The still-denuded Loudmouth stopped dead in his tracks. He hated the question. He especially hated the honest answer.

“Y...yes.”

“Good,” Jamie declared, taking little Peter by the hand. Loudmouth had managed to calm down a little bit, still sniffling and tearing up, but his now-big stepbrother knew that the tiniest infraction or slightest unwelcome noise would again set off the klaxons.

When they arrived, Jamie proceeded to arrange his stepbrother. “You’ve got to put one leg over here and--”

“I gooot thiiis!” Loudmouth whined, saline vertically streaking his cheeks. After a few seconds, the tiny punk looked up at his stepbrother. “Do you mind?”

Jamie couldn’t repress a chuckle. “Yeah, kinda.”

So, there they waited -- Peter “Loudmouth” Kim, the best cleanup man in the gang game, and his bookish stepbrother, who’d have to be cleaning him up -- first for Loudmouth to overcome his stage fright, and then for the telltale splatters of urine echoing across the concavity of the duck’s head.

“Verrrrry good!” Jamie delightfully patronized.

“Shut up!” squealed Loudmouth.

“Ah-ah-ah! You’re not too big for me to put you over my knee for a spanking.”

Incidentally, that’s exactly what was happening across town in the Velez residence. Mikey, his pull-up prank obviously having come into its own, had the significantly-reduced-in-size body of his brother Rico laid across his lap, bare ass in the air. Bare everything, really; Mikey didn’t care. Payback for four years of unrelenting psychological torture.

WHAP!!

“Ah, fer God’s sakes, knock it off!” Recon howled.

WHAP!!

“That’sh fer blashphemy,” Mikey hooted in a roar of self-indulgent cleverness.

Mikey shoved Recon off his lap and the naked, paradoxically-prepubescent teenager fell to the carpet. Recon still hadn’t gotten used to viewing the world from four feet off the floor. Nor had he gotten used to the little snot-nosed Mikey being bigger than him. Nor did he ever--

--“PULL-UPS!!” Mikey screamed, interrupting Recon’s silent self-flagellation fest. “I found ‘em when I was going through some of my first mom’s old things. They’re just perfect! There’s a ton of ‘em. And they’ve got race track waistbands and little blue race cars and--”

“I am not wearing Pull-Ups.”

“You do wear pull-ups, smarty-pants. Or should I say ‘baby-pants?’ Nice little peepee, by the way,” Mikey sneered. “S’like one I saw when I went caroling in the hospital once and we went to the maternity ward.”

If Mikey was trying to employ some sick, pscyhoincestual breakdown strategy... it worked. Recon had become immobilized by the mortification he felt towards the knob between his legs.

“Say yes or I’ll find you diapers.”

“Yes! YES! Alright! I’ll wear yer stinkin’ baby Pull-Ups! Just keep your damn pants on!”

“I’m a grown-up. I get to.” Mikey started to root through his junk closet, into which he shoved basically everything anytime he was told to close his room. “They’ve gotta be in here somewhere.”

“Okay, then, if you’re a grown-up, then I get to quiz you!”

“Fine!”

“Who was President when you were born?”

“George W. Bush!”

“Who was the Republican Presidential nominee in 2012?”

“Santorum standing on top of Romney’s shoulders in one of those giant trenchcoats!”

“I don’t know how you remember this shi--”

“GOT ‘EM!” yelled Mikey, in his characteristically understated volume. Out from the darkness of the closet flew two plastic packages of boys’ Pull-Ups. The good stuff. “Now, I’m going to help you into your Pull-Ups.”

“Oh, ho, ho... I don’t think so!”

to be continued