Popcorn 9: Page 5 thing's going to be alright, George, trust me. Just let go of his neck. It will all be fine. Just take a breath and let go of Michael's neck. Yes, George, I promise I won't call the police.     But something else kept him latched on, something else forced him to reduce that neck to the circumference of a ballpark frank, to hold on to that man for dear life. Given the preoc-cupation of all of his fingers, George could not put one on exactly what kept him throttling Michael. Perhaps it was the same something that made his heart race like an Indy 500 cham-pion, that kept his penis erect while he straddled a dead man, that denied him an ejaculation while granting Michael a stupendous one, given his moans and yells and the amount of hot liquid he had deposited in George, even though he had promised he would pull out first, before he lay back, limp and finished. "Don't come, don't come, DON'T COME," George had bellowed a wet, pasty second after the fact.     Finished. George had sat there, still aroused, still in motion, with the sated, jism-depositing, lying Michael already trying to wriggle out from underneath him. George's teeth, set in a crystal-meth clench, had ground down a bit further. He was not a tissue in which Michael could just leave himself. Yes, his stomach stuck out more than a little, and he was not particularly good at making conversation, and sometimes he had bad breath without realizing it, but despite what Michael and some others seemed to think, he did not exist merely to satisfy them when nothing better appeared.     This time, George would take satisfaction. He had tried to stuff Michael back into himself, had tried to push that soft appendage back into the space it had so painfully conquered minutes