Alligator Men: An electrifying story of suspense, terror, and swampland eros—Deliverance meets Brokeback Mountain—from a master storyteller at the height of his art

By Perry Brass

Steamy and suspencefull story like "Deliverance" meets "Brokeback Mountain" in this  white-hot tale from the 1990s, about a tall, nerdy sexually awkward Jewish accountant from New York who is kidnapped and kept as a work slave by a strange clan of illiterate swamp men who live deep in the wet lands of Texas near the Louisiana border. if you treasure stories of Outsiders—their secret codes, rituals, and desires—you won't put this one down. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Belhue Press
• Release date: Oct 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9781892149268

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Title Page

Alligator Men

Perry Brass

An electrifying story of suspense, terror, and swampland eros—Deliverance meets Brokeback Mountain—from a master storyteller at the height of his art.

The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents described here are either the work of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblence to actual locales, events, institutions, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely incidental, and beyond the intent of either the author or this publisher.

Belhue Press New Unique Digital Edition

Copyright © 2018 by Perry Brass

(Original Copyright © 1994, by Perry Brass)

Published by

Belhue Press

2501 Palisade Ave. Suite A1

Bronx, NY 10463

electronic address: [e-mail]

For more information about Perry Brass books from Belhue Press, please go to: http://www.perrybrass.com

ISBN: 1-892149-26-5

ISBN: 978-1-892149-26-8

This story was originally published in Out There, Stories of Private Desires, Horror, and the Afterlife, by Perry Brass, 1994, Belhue Press

Alligator Men

The room, over-air conditioned but calming, was dark when Rob finally took a moment to stretch out. He had his big, aching, size-twelve feet—the middle toes that always looked like they were poking out of his black Orlon socks even when they weren’t—on the arms of the chintz couch. He dialed the call direct to his lover Gil in New York. They talked for a while, and mostly what he remembered was how tired he was. Blank tired. Just blank tired. None of the right words came to him—all those important words that he’d actually made a living from for years. None of them came to him.

He wanted to kill Gil after he hung up the phone. It was a strange call and he was still reeling from it, like he’d been kicked in the nuts or in the head, and the kick didn’t stop. He still had his feet up on the couch in the suite, and he still had a gin-and-tonic in his hand. He’d been tired, but not defeated when he placed the call to Gil. It was going to be a regular call, like he liked making, the kind that made him feel as if he were connected to some one, like he was real person, instead of a fairly well paid, genial, genderless accounting manager. Or minor executive, as they were called. Hi, Sweetie, he said. Yeah, I’m here in Orlando ... at the Guest Suites. It’s fine. The suite’s great—right over the pool. Quiet. Yes, it’s quiet. I’m going to have breakfast with the guys and then we do all the big talking. I’m a bit scared, actually, but I think I can handle this. I think I can handle just about anything. . . .

Rob started laughing then. Laughing at himself. It was that funny, squeaky kind of laugh that made Gil think Rob was a big wind-up toy. That’s what Gil said the first time he heard it. He said, Rob, you sound like some kind of wind-up toy! That only made Rob laugh even more.

Rob had his six-foot-four frame stretched out on the couch. His charcoal gray suit pants were still on, but his jacket was off, slung on a nearby chair. He still had on his white shirt, but had taken off his tie. His back was killing him; his back always seemed big and soft for his body. Like most boys who grew too fast in their early teens, his back and chest did not keep up with his legs, feet, and shoulders. His back could barely support his shoulders in high school; he started to walk very stooped over. It gave him a stupid, self-conscious appearance. That hurt him. He envied smaller boys who seemed faster, more graceful; they weren’t tripping over their big feet and getting laughed at.

His big feet were up, and he’d started to relax after the tiring flight down from New York, that followed a whole day of work as usual. It was a day that started at five thirty that morning: a chalky instant breakfast; without Gil. Gil was never