







You had done it. Not just you. You and a crack team of professionals. The vaccine for COVID19. Well, you helped at the very least. And your team helped. Really, it was all thanks to one man. And you had the pleasure of being adjacent to that one man for as long as you could remember. He was your childhood friend.





You and the others worked around the clock, affixed to the whims of his wandering intellect, like toy soldiers pushed along the board for his cause. But his cause was humanity’s cause. And humanity’s cause was your mom’s cause. And in the sophisticated channels from neurotransmitter to neurotransmitter in his brilliant mind, that connection was as solid as steel, the one between what you were all doing in that lab for those 8 months and what your mom would think of it when you all finally saved humanity from extinction.





Selfish? Perhaps. Romantic? Most definitely. He had loved your mom since he had tender testicles to love with. He had dreams, wet or dry, about her for as long as he could remember. He had books full of song lyrics and lines from movies that reminded him of her, or his love for her, and there wasn’t a single twitch of his muscles that happened without her in mind. If he could do it all over, he’d live his life as her shoe.





And while this may have been the fire underneath his loins, propelling him to the high branch entitled savior, being ugly and short and having nothing else to that would mean anything to someone as beautiful as your mother, it was hard to divorce the drive for the sake of his heart and penis from the drive to save humanity. After all, what was the difference? And who would honestly care?





As a contrast, you could always look at one of your other coworkers for the past few months, who couldn’t bring himself to stop talking about all the pussy he’d get after this vaccine was discovered. Your friend’s oneitis at least had a nobility to it. It would probably be made into a movie one day. You would all be famous. But him especially. He’d have access to any woman he ever wanted. But he only wanted one. A story made from the sprinkled mist and cobwebs of dreams.





And this is where this story should have ended. With a kiss on the veranda and the promise of a happy future in the sunset they rode off into. Your friend his nerdy self, your mom dressed classy and in a way that only hinted at what she was hiding underneath. The curve in her big toe as a hint at the curve of her more private places.





But something got in the way of this dream.





The 24 Hour news cycle.





Your more pervy coworker, being more cunning than he was intelligent, threw a press conference with all the forewarning of a surprise birthday party. Nobody in the team knew about it. Nobody except you. And that was an accident. And in that press conference, before the final touches could even be put on the patent paper that your friend was in the process of finalizing, your less intelligent coworker claimed, to a room full of notepads and flashing cameras, that he, with some help from his colleagues, had found the cure to the terror that had kept humanity cloistered like pearls for the past 8 months.





And by the time that live feed started, within the collective mind of the culture, he was now the face of the cure. There was no turning back time from that point on. He was handsome and tall and charismatic, everything a good press man wanted as his hero. And revisions were no fun. Nobody cared about the minutia of how this vaccine was made, or the who’s-who of who did what or how. They just needed a hero. And the press needed to give them one, without any confusion or nuance, if they at all hoped to create a buzz and in-turn a profit. Your friend never stood a chance.





You could have stopped this though. You were the one who picked up the phone first when CNN called to speak to the last person they should have been speaking to. You weren’t as smart as your friend, but you were smart enough to connect the dots and realize what was happening. And you were smart enough to know what it would mean.





You remember walking in on him when he was in the bathroom, with the picture of your mom he had stolen from your friend’s bag in his right hand, tugging his raging prick with his left hand, his eyes rolled back in his sacred head, glorious pure, white cum rocketing out of his dick and landing deliciously on the picture of your mom’s face. The fact that it was just his face that did this for him was flattering, but not too surprising. Your mom’s face, though dignified, had all the erotic energy of a freshly bared ass. You watched through waves of pleasure as he emptied his blushing nuts on your mom’s face, his pants at his ankles desperately, and his hips thrusting off the toilet seat, his cock twitching in a way that would have been agreeable in any context. It wasn’t until he was finished that he oped his eyes and was greeted to the horrible sinking feeling of you standing there. You closed the door, something you knew you should have done earlier, terrified of making him feel ashamed for what really a beautiful thing.





This episode happened only a few days after he met her in person. She left quite the impression on him, though of a different kind than the one she had left on your best friend. Your friend felt the need to draw her towards his burning chest, this guy had the need to draw her toward his gyrating pelvis. Your mom lived in the dual lights of these high-beams unknowingly. But even if she were to know, the feelings weren’t mutual. But now, with one of those high beams grinning while explaining the nature of the cure to a room full of snapping cameras and questions, she would be sending her high-beam back. And this is what you had in mind when you handed him that phone. Handed it to him and went on tinkering with your beakers silently.





And now the limelight had dropped, and only time could dampen its glow. The next morning, his face was framed by black on the cover of Time Magazine. He was at the checkout stand of every grocery store, which were now flooded with emboldened customers, half of whom had already taken the vaccination, and the other half only waiting for their appointments.





The funny thing was your best friend, who occupied the world as he created it as silently as a ghost, didn’t care too much when he saw that idiot taking all the credit for what was his work. He wasn’t in it for the fame or the congressional medal. He took it all with a amused humor at the cluelessness of the species who knew and loved so much that he saved their existence. He wouldn’t have them any other way. Or at least that’s what he thought.





It wasn’t until he saw your mom hanging off that brawny arm, looking up at that grinning face with fascination, that he felt the nausea he should have felt. After they left in your coworker’s shiny sports car, your mom’s bare feet on his dash, your friend awkwardly speedwalked through the lab to you, eyes wide, asking in hushed whispers why you hadn’t told her that it was him who came up with the vaccine.





“I thought you didn’t care about that stuff,” was your effeminate excuse.





The frustration was barely below the surface, but he still stomped it under foot for the sake of diplomacy. “Yeah... b-but... she’s your mom. You still live with her. You d-didn’t tell her about what was going on with the goddam- I mean, with the cure to the freaking corona virus? The one that you were working on.”





Sensing his anger, and eager to mirror it back at him you said “I didn’t do it because I didn’t feel like it, okay? The whole world doesn’t revolve around you and your accomplishments.”

Taken aback by your anger, something he had never seen in you before even after all the years of knowing you, and knowing you well, he sunk backwards a bit. You towered over him. He looked like a terrified animal in your shadow.





A tremble from some primordial space rose up in you. “Okay, I will tell her the truth.”

A redemptive sense of relief and wonder at your mercy flooded into the recently terrified crevices in his face. A joy, like that of a child, radiated from his cheeks.





You smiled. You had him just where you wanted him. “He came up with the vaccine. Almost all by himself. We just helped where we could and tried not to get in his way. Especially you. You were the biggest burden out of all of us. You were about as helpful as you are tall.”

The look on your friend’s face alone was worth the death of your friendship.





“Now get the fuck out of my face you fucking loser before I shove your gay ass in a locker.”





His eyes glazed over, as if his mind were flashing back to memories of torment in high school. Memories he entrusted you with as his closest friend. His eyes began to well up and he stormed off. His shoulders shook with his face in his hands. You felt like you were 7 feet tall for the first time in your life.





So now what avenue was left to him for righting this wrong? He knew the nature of mankind and how hard it was to return a person’s mind from accepting the truth of a comfortable delusion once initially accepted, never mind returning the collective mind of the herd, so he did nothing proactive to try to steer your mom away from what the entire world, including her own son, was telling her. She was a delicate and gorgeous leaf in the fall, riding the whims of the frosty river that was normal people. The normal people that neither you or your friend held much in common with. Instead, he decided to partake in a delusion of his own, a desperate one, and put faith in fate or some kind of higher power, in hopes that justice would keep the deepest horrors of his imagination from bursting forth in this reality, the one you both inhabited, as a real flesh and blood truth.





He did this even as you moved out of the house to give your mom some alone time with you-know-who. He did this even after the news cameras made their way to your mom’s place to conduct the interview with you-know-who. He did this even as the cameras left and he closed her door on the cameras with a big smile. He held onto that mustard seed of hope even as the soles of your mom’s feet tingled with awe. Even as the door was locked and the blinds were closed. Even as the sound of a belt buckle hitting hardwood echoed through the house, he hung onto that hope for dear life, knowing some sort of angelic cavalry would be coming over that hill at any moment, dragging the sunrise up with them to smash it down upon the evil in this world.





Hope would win.





Love would win.





















Needless to say, his hope was in vain.





















Your mom’s pussy was tight and satisfying on his cock. Her ass felt good in his pelvis. He liked the way her ass twitched when he brought her to orgasm. Her voice made him feel like the man. He pinched and poked her ass. She sucked his toes and ate his ass out. His balls bounced on her nose and upper lips as he facefucked her with her head upside down, leaning off the arm rest of the couch. Her nipples stayed hard for him. Her pussy wet.





She tried to keep her face serious and sexy, but she’d often break out into foolish looking smiles, finding herself to be so lucky as to be sharing herself with the most important man in the world. She didn’t like the way he looked initially, and wasn’t particularly fond of his personality on first meeting him, but given what he had accomplished, she would have let him have her no matter what he looked like. She hoped her aged body was good enough for him.





And after every time he’d cum, she would get close to him and hold him tightly. He would nudge her aside slightly to thumb through his phone.





“What you looking at?”





“Oh, nothing,” he’d say. “Just research,” as he pawed through thousands of messages from other girls, including ones better looking and younger than your mom. Some of them pornstars. Some celebrities.





A week later, your mom’s text messages sat in his phone unanswered along with dozens of others. It was as if the virus was back. Your mom refused to leave the house. You decided to give your former friend a visit. Maybe tell him what a sad state your mom was in so he could pick up on some vulnerable sloppy seconds. You hadn’t heard from him in weeks, and you hoped that he’d have calmed down enough to let you come see him. If not that, you could at least count on him being too cowardly and non-confrontational to stop you.





When you got there, the house was empty, except for a mess of scribbled sheets of paper, some freshly drafted, others from the lab where you all spent the last 9 months of your life. It felt like so long ago that the 7 of you worked those 16 hour days to save the world. Those were good times, and you’d always remember them fondly.





You cautiously drifted through his house, periodically calling his name. His congressional medal, unlike the one you received, which your mom had framed and put on her wall, was sticking out between the arm rest and cushion of his couch. On his coffee table was a giant book filled with beautiful images he drew of your mom, along with some of the best poetry you had ever read. Your mom was an angel. She was the mankind he had worked so hard to save. She was mother nature. And she was God.





You are still the beam of light that spill in through my window





was the last line of his very last poem to her.





You found him in his closet, suspended by his ratty belt.





There was a suicide note in his breast pocket detailing how to make sense of the mass of papers on his kitchen table, proving him as the lead genius, and the savior of humanity. He did the only thing he could do to get the attention needed to turn the public’s ear. The only thing left he could do to stop the herd in its tracks and have it turn its head towards him, even as the dust continued with them, and have them gawk towards the sunlit truth.





And as far as sunlit truth went, there was another note in his pocket dedicated entirely towards your mom. He couldn’t leave this world not letting her know how he felt. His writing style was your mom personified in prose. It was miraculous.





The note was so miraculous, in fact, that you almost felt guilty throwing it in the fireplace along with all the books and paper from his kitchen and coffee table.





Almost.





You spent the rest of that afternoon, as the sun slowly dipped behind the horizon, and the kitchen got darker and darker with each passing minute, and both his life’s works rose in blackened ashes up his chimney, drafting your own version of his suicide note.





In it, you made the cause of his suicide his guilt for almost getting in the way of the vaccine. You wrote that he made a mistake that set your team back two months from finally discovering the true vaccine, leading to countless deaths, and that the real hero of this story was too kind to not let that fact hang over his head. But he never forgave himself. You wrote about his obsession with your mom and about his fantasies of raping her, or at least watching her get raped. And about how his only solace in death were two: that your mom got fucked by his intellectual better, and how you are so stupid that you were oblivious to this entire thing.





As you laid down these finishing touches at the kitchen table under an orange lightbulb, and your friend sat still in his closet, your former colleague railed Ivanka Trump from behind in a Norwegian hotel room. Even if he weren’t busy enjoying the moment, and enjoying it thoroughly, he’d still have no way of predicting what he’d be in the press for come tomorrow, and how, serendipitously, he’d be the only one coming out on top again.





He was about to cum, and wanted really badly to pull out and finish on her face. But he decided to hold back a bit. He was going to wait until early in the morning and urinate on her face as she slept. Then he’d leave. That’s what he did to your mom on their last night. You could smell the urine from the hallway as you looked in at sleeping alone in her bed peacefully. Her beautiful ass and the soles of her feet exposed to the sunlight spilling in the through the window.





As he stepped out of his hotel room, he wiped his feet on the mat, smiled to himself, and walked away with an empty bladder. He had his fun, and now had grown tired of her. He was moving on to his next prospect. And given what the news would be reporting in the next few hours, he’d have prospects coming for the forseeable future. Or for at least as long as you were alive to give him a little boost. Which, thanks to the end of COVID19, you would be for a very long time.