Peter B Wilder includes Brad Downey in one of his short stories.

 

Their bikes made the same noises. Loose spokes in the wheels rattled in unison. The mudguards rubbed incessantly against the tyres; whirring around like an oscillating dynamo. Brad was pissed off with the two electric rings rubbing in to his ribs. Buck had the toasted sandwich maker in a tartan carrier bag hung over his handle bars and it didn’t bother him any.
“I guess we’ll turn up a little early Buck, we’re nearly  there now. I can show you round the space when we get there.”
Akim was cooking a meal inside a human sized, cardboard oven. People were bringing their own food along and Buck had two chicken legs inside the tartan bag along with the sandwich maker. 
When they walked inside Buck put the chicken legs and toaster down on the nearest sofa. The thought occurred to Buck that he would not eat either of them. Brad threw the two rings down in disgust, heaved a sigh of relief and rubbed his side a little more. Brad showed Buck around, there wasn’t much to see.
“Let’s get a beer from the Kiosk.” Buck said. Brad took a Kindle, Buck took a Warsteiner. Akim and Rocco were still building the oven, screwing screws and banging nails. Rocco came outside for a smoke and told Brad and Buck how he needed a break from Akims’ bitching.
“He’s really stressed.” said Rocco.
Brad and Buck found a step in front of a door to sit down and drink their beer on the cold street. Brad’s friend Vincent came along and started to talk about this rich chick he’d fucked the night before. She had a flash apartment with rock boulders on the inside. Buck got the impression there was a water feature too.
Buck had a date too.” Brad told Vincent.
“Oh yeah.” Vincent already knew.
“How’d it go Buck?”
“Well, I think I fucked it up a little.”
“What’d you do Buck? Ask her if she liked it up the ass?” Brad, Vincent and a few strangers laughed.
“Yeah, you want it up the ass bitch!?!” Buck didn’t want to say that. Buck was bitter cause he’d been  on a date with this girl and it wasn’t long before he’d realised there wasn’t much to her. Nonetheless he wanted to fuck her. That night, after they’d drunk a couple of beers Lucy had to go. Buck didn’t want her to but couldn’t stop her. After she’d left Buck went to the nearest internet cafe and went a bit over the top with the words; that’s why he thought he’d fucked things up. Buck knew she was coming tonight and thought there might be one last chance. His blood was pumping.
A few more beers went down. A few more introductions took place. Buck got pissed off with shaking hands and the platitudinous streams of constant banality. 
By the time Lucy got there Buck had already drunk his introductory Jaigermesiter. Lucy saw him through the window and gave Buck a wave. Buck saw her but didn’t acknowledge immediately as he didn’t want to appear to keen. The space was starting to fill out now. Buck was particularly attracted to a redhead with black glasses and a woolen white dress. He could feel his cock taking over. Akim and Rocco were still building their oven, there was no cooking yet. There was a lot of drinking.
Buck‘s words had made Lucy feel uncomfortable, she’d told him so and it was biting away at Buck‘s insides like a tapeworm. He wanted to know if it was true.
“No, it’s just that I’ve never had anyone write about me before.”
Stones fell on stones, the air was heavier than all of them. Buck felt the reply inadequate and base.

Coming to the boil in the back of Buck‘s head was the waiter who wanted to be a Matador from an old Hemmingway story he’d read. Only this time Buck was the bull and all things shone red tonight. Leaving the Gents Buck saw Brad in front of him. 
Buck, no! What the fuck! No! ”
Buck didn’t give a shit and dove head long at Brad, pinching the nipples with a twist when he reached them. Buck‘s untimely learch forward drove Brad half-way across the room. Bent at the elbow and up high like an elephants trunk Brad scratched the top of his head like Laurel in confusion. Buck had begun his charge and he wasn’t going to stop or slow down unless a few Picadors and Banderillos came along and they were nowhere in site; he had an empty ring.
Buck went to the bar, got another beer and Jaigermeister to follow then saw Lucy at a loose end on the sofa. 
It only really happened for Buck when Indie came along. She was cute and blonde with sugar in her throat, the grains churned around when she spoke and  made her voice feel like husk. Sanded, worn down and lost, ropes in Buck‘s hair grew taught with desire as she  spoke. He was overcome by lust. It was as if the first plunge  of the Banderillo’s spear had pierced his lung; the nostrils flayed and the great bulls thighs shook in nervous spasm. Buck had all but forgotten about Lucy by now. Clouds of dust threw the ring in to disarray as the beast ran and kicked. Roars of  anticipation echoed from the stalls full of proles, hungry  for death. Ferocious eyes of blood steeped rage gripped Indie’s heart to stumble a  pulse.
Buck paused, the manifestations of his animalistic passions could be detected only by the glint of his churning brain.
“I think you’re beautiful.” he told Indie. 
Buck felt the banderillos spears ripping his  flesh as he turned sharply on his feet; recharging his muscles for another run it made him feel good and mad  inside. Emancipated by this febrile abandon every word of Indie’s sandy voice seemed to rasp at the chambers of Bucks fibrillating aorta.
Buck saw Lucy’s eyes glance at him awkwardly from across the room, they looked like concave metal spoons, matt with dull vapidity. Pain turned to strength as the wounds in Buck‘s flesh tore wider apart. It wasn’t going anywhere with Indie. She could feel Buck‘s crazed eyes raping her, penetrating the  orifice of her pathetic mind  with his manic power. The  ornamentation of her decorative sheen  stripped bare Buck saw nothing more than a whimpering, gelatinous stew of universal proportions.
“You’re a fucking cunt. Fuck you, you cock teasing bitch!”
Buck couldn’t see the people anymore. The creeping, incessant drone of multiple conversations became deaf to his ears. Buck sensed his own vulnerability. Charging through the room with the disregard of a sociopath, Buck stormed outside.
The cold air invigorated his blood before the final act. Dazed, inebriated by his own fury, Buck‘s movements became choreographed by his self-inflicted incarceration. He turned to the window and began to butt the glass with his skull, each dull and heavy thud numbing the pain in his head. The proles became silent, their baying teeth and expectorant breath turned to fear, choking their throats. Turning on the axis of his heel Buck span and fell to the ground. Grit on the pavement bore deep impressions in the skin of his palms; he felt like the stones  were still there. Nourished by the vitamins of his  own blood he raised himself up, turned and fell again. Stroked by the silky velour of night’s heavy mask, Buck lay down and capitulated to loss.

Some links to more of Peters writing. 

www.fullmoonemptysportsbag.com/mrcreosote 

http://authortrek.com/short-stories/2008/11/04/creaking-mooring

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