Weapon of Total Devastation

Deleted sections. From last pages and, below that, also cut epilogue.


Jericho rallied his final defenses. His ultimate weapon. Rising up like the avenging angel Gabriel from his forehead. He had no choice. It was simply too much power to handle for one love-blinded boy. It had to end now.


So he raised an eyebrow. 

But nothing, absolutely nothing changed around him. Not in how he himself felt (permanently dazed and confused) and certainly not in Enzo’s huge dark, mischievously sparkling pools, that were doing their level best to drown him again.


Jericho was usually amazing at it, too. Raising just one like that. Straight up and proud. Look how straight I can be. Utterly unbendable in my lack of intention. Meanwhile the other would hardly twitch. This time too it sat there, totally horizontal and oblivious. Jericho had executed his patent-perfect warning-off salute, perfectly. Like someone else might raise just one corner of their mouth to show they understood much more than you did about certain things that had just been deliberated over, laid out on the (massage) table, but were too polite to say so (or too smart). Just like that. 

It cracked people up, usually, and managed to dispel equally and at once any lingering tension and false hopes. Such as might be felt, by someone, during the embarrassed 'now what' after great sex. 'Now what happens, we all gonna play naked twister together again, sometime soon?'


But on all-powerful Enzo, of course, it had had no effect. He was quite simply immune. Or. Wait.

Enzo of course hadn't even seen his elegantly executed parring manoeuvre. Or maybe he wasn’t just blind, but blinded too. By desire to see. Something else. In Jericho. Something that might secretly, treacherously, like a spy in the house of Jericho’s love, instead wink back invitingly.


Jericho wondered which of the two of them had actually been the one to see everything clearly, grinning back at him all the while like that. Innocently happy. And a little too sly. With that disturbingly butterfly-inducing faint sparkle that seemed to signal, what exactly?

The spy's secret accomplice in Enzo seemed to be messaging someone very nearby Jericho's own person, to the effect of, how you say, „A dopo, you big dope!“


….


That potent eyebrow? Crying uncle? Well, you know why it didn’t work, of course. Because even though the one Jericho had so expertly arched had in fact remained totally straight, the other had remained about as straight as a three-dollar bill. So it just silently smiled to itself, the traitor, like a Buddha comfortably perched on the ample pillow of Jericho’s brow, in perfect contentment with the way things were, as far as it was concerned, just peachy-keen. 


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