Chapter Text
The D.E.N.N.I.S. System isn’t just an infallible method of banging chicks. It’s a discipline, a way of life – an artfully crafted, revised-to-perfection ethos to live, sleep, eat and die by. Every aspect of existence revolves around self-control, and how a man acts and reacts to the opportunities given to him. Consider, just how many barely legal teens has Dennis stopped himself just short of exploiting? Oh, they gaze at him with awe and adoration – wide-eyed and bursting with boundless, nubile possibility – as he turns on the patented Reynolds charm, but a man has to stand by his system. Without order, chaos would reign supreme and even fat sacks of shit like Mac, or (God forbid) even Frank would be able to reap the rewards that only years of regimented training can effectively afford.
Occasionally, he’d yearn for the days when such meticulous doctrines were no more than seeds waiting to sprout their tendrils. As a child (although Dennis scoffs at the notion of ever being a child; his ideologies and thought processes were always light-years ahead of their time), he’d always delighted in being the catalyst for destruction, and his unsettling urges were easily brushed aside as the cruel curiosity that even the most well-behaved children are capable of. Testing the tensile strength of several crow necks (weak, laughably weak and “really, nature?”) had been nothing more than a simple exercise in cause and effect. At that juncture of his life, everything existed to be experimented on – to be pushed to its limits.
Regardless, this – whatever the fuck this is – should never have gone down. Dennis sneers with disdain at the viscid, semen-soaked tissue in his hand, and the monitor in front of him playing nothing more than static after its eye-opening erotic extravaganza appears to be mocking his preposterous lack of restraint. This should not have happened. It’s unorthodox, uncouth, and about as far removed from Dennis’ code of conduct as possible.
****
It had all started with one of the most nonsensical schemes Charlie had ever concocted. At approximately 12:15 last Thursday night, he’d burst from the basement with all the bluster of a man amped up on a cuntload of amphetamine with his ass on fire. Dennis was alone at the bar on this occasion, conducting scrupulous research with regards to that redheaded piece of tail who’d started working at the Wawa – whose wallet he’d pocketed earlier with the intent of getting to know her every intimate detail. 1998. A good year.
“Dennis! Good, you’re here,” Charlie shouts. “Listen, man, we got a major rat problem brewing.”
He’s panting and covered head-to-toe in dirt, sweat and – from the smell of it – shit, which knowing Charlie, could or could not be his own. Rats are the least of their problems.
“What are you telling me for? I don’t give a shit. Go take care of it,” Dennis says, his face scrunching as he eyes Charlie’s rat stick, glistening with fluids that are dangerously close to dripping all over the floor. “And don’t bring that thing up here anymore. It’s disgusting. This is a bar, for Christ’s sake.”
Charlie chucks the weapon down the stairs and slams the door behind him. Well, he followed half the instructions. That’s progress.
“No, dude, you don’t understand. I’m telling you, it’s not like a normal rat – it’s like,” Charlie thinks for half a beat, his eyes widening with manic possibility, “it’s some kind of mutant!”
Dennis can’t quite pick an appropriate emotion to display – incredulity and anger and disbelief have all somehow cancelled each other out – so he simply stares at Charlie and tries not to bite through his tongue. “A mutant rat.”
“Yeah! Dude, it’s gotta be. With wings! Nothing else could chew through brick way up high like that. So, I got a plan to-”
“I- I want you to stop and listen to yourself,” Dennis interrupts, endeavouring to channel an aura of calm even though he’s boiling inside as he tries to fathom the utter stupidity on display before him. “You’re suggesting to me that a rat has somehow – somehow! – gotten into, I don’t know, a vat of radioactive bullshit, has sprouted wings, and is now taking up residence in our basement. Of all the basements in Philly, this godforsaken crime against nature has picked ours. Is that what you’re telling me right now, Charlie?”
“Yeah man, that’s exactly what I’m telling you, and we gotta catch it before it mates and has a whole bunch of mutant rat-bat babies. We’re not equipped to take care of those things, dude!”
Rat-bat babies. Oh, Christ.
“I just need a camera so I can track its movements, learn its habits,” Charlie explains, balls-deep in rambling mode now. There’s no telling how much of what substance he’s had, or if this is simply the brilliance of Charlie Kelly on full display. “Frank says he’ll pay for it. And you could set it up, I mean, you’re good with shit like that, right? Hell, man, we can probably have it stuffed and sell tickets for people to come and see it. If it don’t get bashed too bad,” Charlie chuckles, swinging an invisible rat stick for added effect.
It’s idiotic, is what it is. There’s no goddamn mutant bat-rat or whatever the fuck it is Charlie hopes to catch. Of course there’s fucking not. But sometimes it’s easier to just let him have his dumbass schemes, especially if it’s Frank’s dime they’re spending. Besides, Dennis has never been one to say no to a hidden camera.
“Whatever. Sure,” Dennis says, waving him off and turning his attention back to the wallet. “Just don’t speak to me of this again. And take a goddamn shower.”
****
As expected, days go by without so much as a single mutant sighting, and even less time passes before Charlie gets bored of the scheme and goes off on something else entirely. The man has the attention span of a crack-addled toddler. Whatever. The camera, at the very least, was one hell of a boon.
Watching the recordings from the comfort of the back office becomes a ritual of sorts – a way to wind down and engage in a little harmless voyeurism after dealing with those imbeciles all day. Most of the footage is mind-numbing, run-of-the-mill bar bullshit that Dennis fast-forwards right past: Charlie huffing paint thinner; Mac doing laughable karate (and failing to break even the flimsiest board Charlie holds up for him); Frank wandering around in somewhat of a fugue-state, brandishing a hoagie like a weapon. Unsurprisingly, Dee never graces the basement.
Hang on, what’s this?
For a brief moment it actually appears as if Charlie is sitting down to read a book (which is hilarity in and of itself). But when he begins to palm himself through his jeans, Dennis’ attention zeroes in. What’s gotten him so worked up that he’s had to resort to self-gratification at work? It doesn’t matter, Dennis supposes, now invested to the point of needing to see this whole performance through to the end, as Charlie unzips and pulls out his dick.
For a beat, Dennis considers locking the office door. Besides, he thinks, his cock swelling within the confines of his pants, temptation can strike even the most stalwart of men. That said, those mouth-breathing morons would be fucking blessed to even witness such majesty. Fuck ’em.
Charlie doesn’t waste any time. There are no tantalising build-up strokes, no fingers caressing sensitive flesh. He goes right at it and he goes at it hard. Though the footage is far from high definition, it’s clear to Dennis that he’s perspiring, the sheen adorning his reddening features glistening with each frenzied pass of his hand. For the first time since this particular venture into casual voyeurism, Dennis dons a pair of headphones with the intent of cranking up the volume. After all, such a brazen spectacle warrants enticing more than one of Dennis’ senses.
He won’t lie and say he hasn’t imagined what Charlie would look and sound like in such a state. The fact of the matter is, over the years Dennis has nurtured very specific fantasies about each member of the Gang – God help him, even Frank. Goddamn intrusive thoughts. But it isn’t about wanting to fuck them or being sexually gratified by them that he’s getting off on. It’s the power. The dominance. Knowing so intimately how he could reduce each of them to their weakest points while he stands tall above them and rains down glorious humiliation. The Golden God demands tribute, even from those closest to him.
Seeing Charlie obliviously stroking himself does something to Dennis though. It’s like rewatching tapes of all the chicks he’s banged – but different somehow. Primal. He’s at the top of the food chain, a lion spying its prey. Charlie thinks he’s alone, but he’s not. He’s vulnerable. An unsuspecting crow in the hands of a curious child. What would it take to crush him?
Without another thought, Dennis unzips his pants.
Charlie is – just as Dennis imagined – loud as motherfucking shit. Each vulgar groan and feral grunt penetrates deep into Dennis’ core, and as he begins to stroke his own (magnificently sized) cock in kind, Dennis considers just how loud, and just how long he could make the little fucker scream.
What he’d really like to do is shove his dick down the dirtgrub’s throat and watch him choke on it. There wouldn’t be much screaming in that, but fuck, the visuals alone – eyes glistening with tears, cheeks reddened and chin glazed with saliva – oh fuck, that really does it.
Dennis picks up the pace to match Charlie’s (a little impressed that such an undisciplined cunt could go so hard for so long), gripping the arm of the chair as he settles in for a game of sexual one-upmanship to see who can last the longest.
Every motion is another thrust down Charlie’s throat, and every moan from the recording spurs Dennis further. You’d resist, but you’d like it. Who wouldn’t want a taste of a god?
Charlie comes first; Dennis will have it no other way. It’s messy and wholly undignified, but the shouts coming from the video as Charlie reaches his climax send Dennis scrambling for something to contain his own release.
Dennis allows himself a low, guttural growl, closing his eyes and arching his neck as he comes himself, one last fleeting image of Charlie – on his knees and struggling to take in the entirety of Dennis’ hammering cock – closing out the fantasy as he unloads into a tissue.
Jesus Christ, that was good.
In his post-masturbatory stupor – used tissue in hand and his dick returning to its more-than-respectable flaccid state as annoyance, revulsion and desire cancel one another out intermittently – Dennis experiences somewhat of an epiphany. It’s ludicrous, really – the very idea that one Charlie Kelly, of all people, could inspire him to renege on a lifetime’s worth of principles, but maybe a new system is in order, after all. Perhaps now is a good time to recapture the naive thrill of beheading a small, helpless creature – repercussions be damned. And, let’s be reasonable here, a master cannot be expected to play the same tired symphony over and over until he withers into obscurity. He has to create, to bestow his brilliance upon those worthy enough to receive it. D.E.N.N.I.S. is good for the ladies, of course, but Charlie is a wildly different beast. A beast that needs to be broken. Furthermore, what Dennis desires above all else at this point, is to engage physically, violate (repeatedly), orgasm and leave.
But what the shit kind of acronym is that?