Be Proud. Entitlement erased
The day reaches its midpoint.
Ryker's stomach starts to growl.
Luckily for him, amidst the chaos of the Pride celebrations—surrounded by countless stalls selling fetish gear, leather, and toys to spice things up—Ryker catches the unmistakable scent of well-cooked meat.
It doesn't take him long to track down the source.
Leather & Flame.
A food truck serving up greasy, meat-heavy food that gives off a mouthwatering aroma, decorated in the bold colors of the Leather Pride flag. The long line of hungry people waiting to be served makes it clear the place is a hit.
Ryker smirks.
He recognizes the truck immediately. It’s been a while, but you could say Ryker played a big part in the owner selling greasy meat out of a truck today, rather than pursuing his old line of work.
But something is off.
Time ticks by, yet the line doesn't move an inch. People are starting to get restless. Ryker realizes it's as if no one is actually working inside, and when he steps up to take a quick peek, he confirms that's exactly the case.
Then, he catches the sound of a heated argument coming from behind the vehicle. Puffing on his cigar, Ryker decides to go check it out.
"Haven't you heard a fucking word I said?!" The older man roars. "I told you to pay for the damage, you asshole, or we’re going to have a massive problem!"
"No fucking way, old man!" The younger guy spits back. "You’d better dial back that attitude. Lay a finger on me, and I’ll make sure you never sell your shitty meat in this city again."
Ryker recognized the first man instantly. He’s dressed almost entirely in leather, save for a tight, stained white T-shirt. Everyone used to call him Mr. Burton, followed by some high-sounding surname, but ever since his path crossed with Ryker's, everyone just knows him as Food-Truck Burt.
The second guy is about fifteen or twenty years younger, built like an athlete, and wearing a tight soccer kit decked out in Pride flag colors with the number 69 plastered across his chest. He looks like a complete, arrogant prick.
"What's the issue here?" Ryker asks, stepping into the alley.
Both men snap their heads toward him.
"Who's this guy? Your fucking pimp?" The soccer player sneers with a cocky, sarcastic smirk.
"Ryker!" Food-Truck Burt stammers, completely caught off guard. "What are you…?"
"We can catch up later, Burt," Ryker cuts in smoothly, taking a drag from his cigar. "Now… tell me what's going on."
"The thing is, this asshole tried to cut the entire line to order food for himself and his buddies," Burt growls. "When I told him to hit the back of the line, he threw a tantrum—started kicking the truck and knocked over several boxes of prime meat… and now he refuses to pay for the damn damage."
"You better watch your—"
"Pipe down, punk. The grown-ups are talking," Ryker cuts him off coldly, barely giving him a glance. "And tell me, Burt… why haven't you beaten him to a pulp yet? I personally made sure you were built tough enough to handle trash like this yourself."
Food-Truck Burt blushes slightly, shifting his weight.
"Because… because he's the son of the main organizer of the Pride celebrations in this city, Ryker, and…"
"Everyone calls me Slick, old man," the kid interrupts, grinning from ear to ear as he relishes Burt’s obvious frustration. Though his grin quickly fades into a uneasy silence under Ryker’s heavy, stern glare.
"He struts around all the stalls and businesses, demanding freebies and discounts in exchange for not telling his daddy to revoke our operating permits!" Burt continues, his fists clenched. "And then—"
"Okay. I’ve heard enough," Ryker says, silencing Burt with a calm, commanding gesture. Taking a slow drag from his cigar, Ryker steps forward, positioning his massive frame directly in front of Slick.
"So, you think this whole city is your own personal playground."
"Pretty much, yeah," Slick smirks, puffing out his chest.
"And you think you can do whatever the hell you want."
"That's how it's been so far."
"All because your daddy is someone important."
"For a slow-witted old man, you catch on pretty quick."
Upon hearing that, Ryker lets out a genuine chuckle around his cigar. He finds the kid's sheer stupidity amusing. Slick clearly has no fucking clue what he just stepped into—but he’s about to find out real fast.
Taking a deep, long drag on his cigar, Ryker exhales a thick cloud of smoke straight into Slick's face with such terrifying precision that the vapor seems almost alive.
"What the…?! Dude!! Gross!"
Slick coughs, frantically waving his hands to push the smoke away. But no matter how hard he tries, the dense mist clings to his face, creeping into his lungs and making his eyes water.
Within seconds, his frantic swatting slows down. His arms grow heavy and weak until he can barely lift them, while the hypnotic smoke continues to swirl around his head. The coughing stops. The irritation fades. It’s as if the smoke no longer bothers him at all… as if he’s completely surrendering to its heavy, intoxicating scent…
Ryker steps in close, cupping Slick's face with both hands, his heavy grip locking the kid in place.
"You rely way too much on an identity you didn't do a damn thing to earn, you little punk," Ryker rumbles against his lips. "Let's see how tough you are once I strip it all away."
As Ryker speaks, thick streams of cigar smoke flow directly from his mouth into Slick’s open lips, penetrating deep into his lungs, his mind, and his very being. Slick’s eyes roll back, completely entranced.
Suddenly, dense vapor begins to billow from every single pore of Slick’s body, wrapping him in elegant, suffocating swirls of cigar smoke. His colorful soccer kit slowly bleeds its vibrant shades, warping and hardening into deep, gleaming black leather.
The transformation is over in seconds, though to Slick’s melting mind, it feels like an eternity. When the surge finally subsides, Slick’s knees give out, crashing hard against the asphalt as the surrounding smoke begins to clear.
The flashy sports gear has vanished completely. In its place, he wears only tight black leather shorts, crew socks, and his athletic shoes—the sole remaining trace of who he was just a minute ago.
Completing his new look are heavy leather cuffs around his wrists, a thick leather collar strapped tight around his neck, and the bold emblem of a locked padlock emblazoned right across his crotch.
Where arrogance once stood, now lies pure, unadulterated submission.
"Wh… what the hell did you do to him?" Food-Truck Burt stammers, eyes wide.
"I’ve erased his identity, Burt," Ryker explains casually, slipping the cigar back between his teeth. "He’s a nobody now. Neither his father nor his friends would recognize him if they walked past him. Hell, they wouldn't even register him as a human being like you or me. To anyone who looks at him, he’s just a slave."
"A… a slave?"
"Exactly. But not the kind who gets a thrill out of submitting to a dominant man—no…" Ryker pauses, taking a slow, deep drag. "He doesn't crave it, but he doesn't hate it either. Slave is simply what he is now, and he couldn't stop being one even if he tried."
"And… whose slave is he?"
"Yours, Burt. Obviously," Ryker smirks.
"What?! No! No way! I don't want this asshole anywhere near me!"
"So you think you actually get a say in this… cute."
Without another word, Ryker takes one last drag from his cigar and closes the distance toward Food-Truck Burt. Grasping Burt’s head in a firm, unyielding grip, he pulls him in and forces a deep, smoke-filled kiss upon him.
The dense smoke instantly hits Burt’s lungs and invades his mind, escaping in light wisps through his eyes as they turn a dull, clouded gray. In seconds, his thoughts are restructured, rewriting his consciousness to align perfectly with Ryker’s will.
Suddenly, clarity washes over Food-Truck Burt.
He understands now. That creature kneeling in the leather shorts is his slave. He doesn't love him, he doesn't value him, and he certainly doesn't care about his feelings—he is simply his property. A free pair of hands to haul heavy boxes, scrub the grills, and run his household.
That was the new, unshakeable reality for both of them.
And neither had any choice but to accept it.
"Can't you move any fucking faster, you useless idiot?!" Food-Truck Burt barks at his slave in full view of the crowd. The customers, however, don't seem to care in the slightest. "We're running way behind schedule because of you, so you'd better get a damn move on!"
Slick—whom his new owner now simply calls Sludge—doesn't complain. He instantly picks up the pace to obey, flipping burgers and hauling heavy trays under the sweltering heat. Following orders without a whisper of protest is all his broken mind can do.
Standing right there in the long line are several of his old friends, laughing and waiting for their food. Yet Sludge is utterly powerless to do a single thing to catch their attention. And even if he could, they wouldn't recognize him. To them, and to the rest of the world, he is no longer a human being.
He is nothing more than Food-Truck Burt's property.
Just another piece of equipment inside the truck.
A few paces down the street, Ryker melts back into the bustling Pride crowd, completely unbothered by the chaos he just left behind.
He takes a massive, savory bite of the juicy burger in his hands, letting the grease run over his fingers. It was a good trade. He eliminated an arrogant brat from the world, gave Burt a permanent piece of free labor, and, most importantly… he got a damn good lunch out of it.
Smirking, Ryker keeps walking, already wondering what other kind of fun the festival has in store for him.