There’s Something About
A Fielding Boy

Chapter Three

“Every sweet hath is sour; every evil it’s good.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

One word, “family,” is all he uttered, immediately flashed images of the movie “The Godfather,” severed horses heads in beds, cement shoes, and other just as graphic characterizations of mobsters as depicted by the media, racing through my head as my overactive imagination worked it’s magic.

“My god,” I thought, “what the hell have I gotten myself into and who in the world are the real owners of this bar and the ‘Rusty Scupper’?”

Before I could quiz Robbie on his answer, we were joined by another, slightly older gentleman, dressed in white shirt and tie, but a sport jacket as well.

“What the hell happened here, Robbie?” he quickly asked, but before Robbie could respond, the man turned his attention to me and asked, “Who are you?”

“Ease up, Pete,” Robbie interjected, “he’s the guy that saved my ass from being plowed and planted by those three assholes the guys are taking care of.”

Pete returned his attention to Robbie, “You’ve a few cuts and bruises on your face and your knuckles are skinned.  Bet your ribs are sore as well, by the looks of the black, blue, and yellow starting to form on your left side.  By god, Robbie, it looks like you made ‘em work for it.”

“Yeah, Pete, but there was three of them and they were bigger.”

“Well, you’re going to get checked out by the EMT’s and hauled to La Crosse so the docs can check you as well.  Your sister would have my hide if I didn’t; she’ll be pissed as hell anyway for not keeping an eye on you. I thought you and Lee would be coming home together; where is he?”

“Lee will be home tomorrow sometime; I came ahead with his truck, full of stuff. I left it his sister Molly’s place and was going to hitch a ride home in the morning.  He’s planning on staying there until he can get things sorted out, job wise and all.”

The bartender popped back in, holding a pair of black pants. “I think these’ll fit, Robbie,” he said, handing them over.  “They were some extra’s in the supply closet; anything else?”

“Yeah,” Robbie responded, “check for my billfold, keys, and other stuff in the can, will yah?”

“No prob!” and the bartender took off again.

Finally, Pete turned to me again and introduced himself, “Pete Donovan,” he said, extending his hand. “This sorry looking mess is my brother-in-law, Robbie Fielding,” pointing over his shoulder while Robbie was putting on the loaner pants.  That boy did have a nice ass, I must admit!

“Chad Bentley,” I replied, gripping his hand, and then looking behind him as Robbie turned to the front, slowly hitching up the pants. He was a beautiful young man, naked as David, slim hips, dark bush, and an average, flaccid cock.  He could make any man or boy’s cock stand!

“As soon as the police get the garbage hauled out to the squad, one of them will want to take a statement from you Mr. Bentley, so if you don’t mind waiting here while I see if they want a statement from young Robbie now or after he’s been checked out at the hospital.”

Pete Donovan wasn’t absent from the room two minutes when he returned.

“Robbie, they’ll take a statement now and then you’re going to the hospital for a checkup.  You can ride with the rescue squad- they’re transporting one of the assholes.  Evidently he fell down and cracked some ribs and maybe broke his jaw.  The other two are having their eyes flushed now, so they’ll ride in the back of the squad.  They’re going to the emergency room also just to get checked before they get locked up in the county slammer.  You can ride back with the rescue squad after the docs check you, okay?”

Pete took Robbie out and I waited about five minutes, pacing, anxious to leave, before two uniformed officers, one a town cop and the other a county deputy sheriff, along with Pete Donovan, entered, introduced themselves and asked for some sort of identification from me.  I produced my driver’s license, which they duly noted and wrote down the information from it. The town cop called in on the radio seeking “warrants or wants” on state or NCIC postings concerning me.  While he did that, the deputy began a low-key courteous questioning of me.  His first question concerned why I was here- sightseeing, summer student, or what?

I saw no reason to disguise my intentions so I told him I was free-lance writer and was trying to develop a story surrounding William Iverson and Daniel Fielding, mentioning my interest was sparked by the campus newspaper article I’d read while traveling in Iowa.  The police officer glanced quickly at Pete, said nothing, but it was clear to me, some sort of understanding or message was communicated between them in that glance since Donovan gave a slight, almost imperceptible sideways movement of his head. The rest of the time was spent with me detailing what I saw, when I saw it, and what I did.  I thought I handled the situation well when I fogged the brutes with the fire extinguisher and said so.  The cop thanked me for my statement and Pete Donovan stepped forward, shook my hand, and said, rather sincerely I thought,  “Thank you so much for stepping in and helping Robbie; other people would’ve just walked away,” and added, “Other than calling the campground office, is there any way you can be contacted?”

I gave him my cellphone number, really expecting not to hear from him again.  I’d given it to the interviewing officer so I thought, if I was correct in what I’d witnessed previously, Pete was well acquainted with him, he could have just as easily gotten from him.

On my drive back to the campground, I thought over Pete’s remarks, my mind replaying the events occurring earlier in the evening.  There was no way I could not have done something! I was angered at the attempted rape, disgusted someone, or in Robbie’s case three someone’s, would perpetrate such a deed, yet knowing it wasn’t an unusual occurrence.  Most perpetrators of rape, on either females or in this case, a very good looking somewhat vulnerable appearing young man, know full well the victim is reluctant to report the crime either because of embarrassment, shame, or self-blame.  Rape victims are the victims; they are not responsible for the act being committed on them!

Given what I know about rape cases,  from what I’ve read and my own experience, the investigative process with all of the poking and prodding in taking semen samples (if there is any) or DNA (again, if there is any), the intensive questioning and the attitude of some of the investigators (not all mind you; there are some great people out there working for the victim) when dealing with male on male rape, can make the victim feel like the criminal or a brazen hussy or prostitute willing to let someone fuck him stupid!  Sorry- rape is rape; the taking of someone’s so deeply personal, so intimate, so precious part it can never be returned.  The scars left, not so much on the body, but in the mind can be debilitating, but relief can be found in support groups, counseling, and love!  The sexual act should be consensual, willingly entered into for mutual gratification for each party, pleasurable and without remorse or with a person you love!  Rape is a crime more despicable than almost all others, except homicide!

It’d do my heart good, I thought, to see those three criminals incarcerated for a very long time! I felt great sympathy for Robbie knowing what he would have to endure during the process leading up to their conviction.  Testifying against those three wouldn’t be fun; sitting on the witness stand, being cross examined by the defense attorney after you’d spilled your guts telling your attorney, under questioning, the pain, the humiliation, the shame, the anger you felt at the time, would be extremely stressful. The defense attorney would do all he could to get the lightest sentence he could for his client since, even though it may seem wrong, everyone deserves a good defense, no matter his or her crime.  As a result, the defense would try to throw any doubt possible out for consideration by the jury- if there was one.

The camper was a welcome sight! Safely inside, my mind still all akimbo, continuing to relive experiences I thought I’d placed behind me after that demoralizing and terrifying incident during my freshman year at the university. Pouring myself a glass of wine, I sat in my easy chair in the camper, the interior lighted only by the security lights of the campground, the clock on the microwave, and the nightlight in the bathroom and sorted through the evening and the triggered memories.

Finally realizing fussing about it would accomplish little and knowing the man who did it to me, and others I found out at the trial, was now safely locked up in the Columbia Correctional Facility at Portage, I drank the last little bit of wine left in my glass and went to bed. At least in Robbie Fielding’s case, the bastards hadn’t penetrated him; unfortunately the charges would probably be attempted rape for one and aggravated assault for all three. They’d probably walk on bail or, if first timers, receive suspended sentences and probation. I sure as hell hoped not; they deserved more!

Morning seemed to arrive all too soon, but after the events of the previous evening and waking at my usual hour (why in the hell can’t I sleep past five in the morning I’ll never know), my first cup of coffee for the day tasted so damned good!  The caffeine gave me the boost I thought I needed to start the day.

I was in no particular hurry to get about my business- mainly trying to arrange an interview with the two subjects of the campus news article, so I puttered around in my boxers for an hour or so.  Hell, I didn’t know if I could even find them or whether or not they’d even give me the time of day!  My thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of my cellphone.

“Odd,” I said aloud noting the time on my watch, “who the heck would be calling me at six-thirty in the morning?”

The only ID that came across on the phone was “cellular caller.”  Well, I answered it anyway even if I didn’t know who it was.

My tentative “Hello” was responded by a pleasant male voice asking, “Mr. Bentley? Bill Iverson here – how are you this fine morning?”

Somewhat flummoxed since the caller was one of the individuals who were the object of my quest was on the phone, so I just said, “Fine!”

“Good,” Iverson answered back, “Have you had breakfast yet?”


“Please join us then; Dan and I understand you’d like to visit with us!”

Naturally, I said yes and after receiving directions to their house, south of town a couple of miles, Iverson continued, “Can’t miss the place; it sets back up on a small bench on the east side of the highway and overlooks the river.  Our names are on the mailbox at the end of the drive along with the address. Okay?” In case I couldn’t read the names on the mailbox, he gave me the address (the same as the fire number) just to make certain.

“Mr. Bentley,” Iverson continued, “can you be here say within a half hour or forty-five minutes?  Dan gets a little grumpy if he has to wait a long time for breakfast,” and laughed.

“No problem, Mr. Iverson,” I responded and he rang off.

Man, did I hustle getting dressed, gathered up note pads, pens, and my small tape recorder, along with plenty of tapes and batteries, stuffed them in my brief case, and headed out the door.

Ten minutes later I was at the end of the drive leading to the Iverson/Fielding house.  The home, looking well maintained and comfortable from a distance, did sit back from the highway on a bench of land, tucked into a Coulee or narrow valley reaching back into the bluffs.  The small valley was well populated with trees, but the immediate area surrounding the house harbored only a few; enough to shade the white, two story wooden frame home from the sun’s glares on a hot afternoon.

The gravel lane leading to the home was perhaps a quarter of mile in length and fenced on each side with a white, well-maintained,  four board fence similar to those one might see in horse country or stable areas.  A circle drive rounding a large flower bed led visitors to the main entrance of the home or from it, depending whether you were coming or going as it were.  Another drive off of the circle drive led, I presume, to either a garage or outbuildings.  A long, three-season porch extended across the front of the home and a railed balcony, centered above the porch, appeared to be accessed by a set of French doors. I was impressed to say the least!  It certainly was bigger than my camper and my home outside Madison.

I stopped the truck near the front entrance and steps.  I gathered up my brief case, exited the truck, and stepped around the front with every intention of proceeding to the front door.  Before I’d taken four steps, I was met with a friendly “Good Morning!” and standing on the front steps, awaiting me, were my two hosts, giving me a warm welcoming smile, setting me at ease!

The three of us stood a moment, silently taking the measure of each other.  In front of me were two elderly gentlemen, with somewhat thinning white-hair, but not excessively so; clad in blue jeans, tennis shoes, short sleeved shirts, and wearing glasses.  They both were relatively slim in stature, but not weakened as some older people tend to be or “tend to the gut” as I once heard said, but more wizened with age, proper care, and an active life style. One, approximately six foot or so, was taller than the other by perhaps six inches and probably weighed around one hundred seventy or eighty pounds; the other gentleman, smaller in stature, weighed perhaps one hundred forty to fifty pounds. If they carried any excess weight, which I doubted, it wasn’t visible from where I stood. Their faces carried the usual wrinkles one might expect seeing on older people, but from the smiles on their faces, I’d bet many were the result of happiness rather than worry or sadness. As handsome as they now were, in their advanced ages, and with a sparkle of the “old devil” in their eyes, I was willing to be they were a lively pair when younger and a couple of fun guys to be around!

I like them both immediately; relaxed, appearing comfortable in their own skin, they were the picture of the grandfather or uncle everyone wished they had or did or do. If first impressions counted for anything, as I looked at these two handsome older gentlemen, it scored big with me.  I could only hope they viewed me in like manner!

I replied to their “Good Morning” with a wide grin and a “Good Morning!”

“Bill Iverson,” said the smaller of the two and extended his hand.  As I gripped it, I felt the strength of a younger person, yet the grip was not aggressive, more securing, welcoming, clasping his hand in mine in friendship.  Releasing his grip and dropping his hand, he stepped aside to allow the other gentleman to step forward.

“Dan Fielding,” announced the second man with a glowing, almost magnetic smile and eyes the twinkled mischievously, perhaps revealing an inner fun-loving-streak not tempered with age, but enhanced by it. His grip was just as strong, lingering longer than Bill’s, but just as welcoming.  Again, if first impressions were accurate, I could easily see why Bill, according to what I read in the campus newspaper article, fell in love with him.

“Welcome to our home,” he continued, “and breakfast.  By all the gods, I’m hungry,” and ushered me into their home.

“Would you like me to take your briefcase to the living room while we breakfast?” Bill asked.  Although not quite a request, I took it as such and handed him my briefcase. He took it to their living room while Dan escorted me to the dining room.

“Ordinarily,” Bill said coming from behind me, “we don’t eat breakfast in here but in the kitchen.  Dan thought today, since we have a special guest, we should eat in here.”

There was one place setting on one side of the table and two on the other.  No doubt in my mind where they’d be seated and where I’d be.  It’d give me the opportunity to visit with them while we ate, without having to turn my head, diverting my attention from one to the other.

“Please be seated,” Bill said, and pulling the lone chair from the table as in invitation.

After I was seated, Dan poured the juice and coffee, indicating “cream?” (yes), “sugar?” (no, thank you), while Bill placed a large bowl of scrambled eggs, a platter of sliced ham, and a bowl of freshly sliced fruit (berries, apples, oranges, pineapple, peaches, grapes) on the table. He looked over the table, Dan raised his eyebrows slightly, and Bill, evidently getting a message of some sort, apologized, “I almost forgot the cinnamon rolls!” and winked at Dan, teasing him I should guess.

He then winked at me, saying, “He loves homemade sweet rolls and never misses a chance, especially when we have company, to bake a batch,” and hustled out to the kitchen, returning with a tray of fresh, warm, lightly frosted cinnamon rolls and placed them on the table.

The two of them sat side-by-side as we ate our breakfast.  The food was simple, but fantastic! The sweet rolls were to die for!

Bill noticed my delight when I took my first bite, commenting, “Dan, while his culinary skills might be limited to burgers, steaks, and fries, his baking skills are beyond belief.”

“But,” interrupted Dan softly, “when it comes to the main dish, Bill is best,” and winked at his spouse, adding a hidden meaning to the phrase. Clearly, just by observing them together, they loved each other dearly!

Bill Iverson was the first to broach the subject or reason for my invitation to breakfast. “We understand you saved one of our family members, Robbie Fielding, from a rather nasty attack upon his person,” speaking carefully. “For this, you have our most profound thanks and gratitude. We are pleased to hear the three miscreants who attacked him are wanted felons and will be soon returned to the Land of Lincoln to face additional charges there for deeds they committed before driving their sorry asses up here!”

“Robbie,” continued Dan, “just finished his freshman year at an Iowa college and returned home for the summer.  He works on his parent’s farm and part-time at the ‘Rusty Scupper’ during the summer break and my cousin would’ve been sorely upset with me if his grandson had been damaged unnecessarily! Now, if it would have been a proper dustup, then other family members would’ve been involved and that would’ve been a different matter, although it would’ve taken us awhile to bail them all out, wouldn’t it Bill?”

With that, they both laughed; not just a “laugh” but a good old-fashioned belly laugh, giving me every indication they’d been through a “proper dustup” more than once.

“Just how large is your family?” I asked, puzzled at his remarks.

Again, they both laughed.

“Oh, it’s pretty damned big!” admitted Dan.

“It seems as though two-thirds of the people in the surrounding area have roots to the Sorensons, Randals, or Fieldings, depending on what side of the river they’re on.” Bill said with a chuckle and then, almost casually, without missing a beat, asked, “We understand you’re interested in interviewing us, am I correct?”

I nodded and before I could speak, Dan said softly, “For what purpose?”

Bill held up his hand, “Dan, why don’t we clear the table, get a fresh cup of coffee, and take our conversation to the front porch.  It’s a beautiful morning and I see no reason wasting it in here.”

With the three of us, with me insisting I help, it didn’t take long to clean up, putting the leftovers in the fridge and loading the dishwasher.  It was hardly long enough for me to organize my thoughts concerning how I would answer Dan Fielding’s question.

Dan grabbed the platter of sweet rolls before the left the kitchen, “Better take these with us, just in case you know, we might want one!”

The porch was comfortable and afforded a grand view of the river valley in front of us and the bluffs on the far side of the river.  I could see why they chose this location for their home.

“Now,” resumed Dan, “why would you want to interview a couple of old reprobates like us?”

They both watched me carefully, so I chose my words with care, explaining I was a free-lance writer, read the story concerning their marriage in a campus newspaper, and hoped to interview them and either expand on the story for sale to a periodical or use it as a beginning for book based on their life story.

“Ah, the newspaper article,” mused Bill as I paused, “written by Robbie’s boyfriend. Please continue,” and waited patiently for me to do so.

“There’s really not much more,” I said.  “I just thought it would be great story for others to read about.”

“Have you published before?” Bill asked, eyebrows raising as he did so, anticipating my answer.

It was my turn to laugh; “I wish I could say Chad Bentley was a world renown author with several books to his credit, but alas, that is not so!”

They both were quiet, looking me over carefully, but each had a slight smile on his face. I began to squirm, just a little uncomfortable at the look they were giving me.

Bill Iverson broke the silence. “Mr. Bentley, do you know a Lori Randal Simmons?”


I’m double-fucked for certain now; Lori was my agent and they knew it!


Thank you for reading “Fielding Boy” – Chapter Three- “Every sweet hath is sour; every evil it’s good.”  (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

If you enjoy my stories and the many others found on this free site, please consider a donation to.  It is your donations which make all of our stories free and available for you to read and enjoy. 

Thank you. 

Nick Hall


This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental or used in a fictional content.

The Literary works of Nicholas Hall are protected by the copyright laws of the United States of America and are the property of the author.

Positive comments are welcome and appreciated at: