Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil
Chapter One: Out of Touch
Chapter Two: The Fossil
Chapter Three: That Ain’t Gangsta
Chapter Four: Old Nigga
Chapter Five: Unfashioned
Chapter Six: A Corrective Statement
Chapter Seven: Cool at Last
Mr. Perry stood over Thumper like a pagan idol, aiming his frowns down at Thumper’s mug. Thumper ain’t let it shake him, which was what Mr. Perry wanted. In prison, he stood down honkies who coulda, woulda, gonna, loveta and done did eat a dozen workface sumbitches like Mr. Perry for lunch, and they’d follow it up with meatloaf straight out the prison mess! Thumper bin telling Mr. Perry he worked for Bangor Night Security, and Mr. Perry only just now realized that meant bouncering at Lipsweet.
Soon as Thumper said the names ‘Lipsweet’ and ‘Mr. Gregarian’, Mr. Perry started inquisiting. All Thumper did at Lipsweet was check idees and make sure men don’t nip at ladies. Mr. Perry got a hankering that bouncers was gang enforcers and drug dealers.
Technicably, Thumper was a enforcer for the Bloods still — since Thumper got parole breathing down his neck, the Bloods wasn’t assigning him tasks right now — but Mr. Gregarian got nothing to do with that. Bouncering was a real job with a paycheck they take taxes out of.
Mr. Perry seemed unlikely to give Thumper permission to visit Baltimore. He was gonna axe today, but he thought better of that plan. Best to wait until he might say yes.
“I’d appreciate it if you got a better job, Wendell,” Mr. Perry said. He called him ‘Wendell’ cuz he thought ‘Thumper’ was a gang name. It wasn’t, it was a boxing name. Back in Thumper’s day, he did thump bunchesa niggas and a nickname popped outta ’em. “Bouncering at a strip club is practically gangsterism, and don’t think for a second I accept Mr. Gregarian as a law-abiding citizen — he’s a gangster, and you do what he says. That makes you a gangster.”
Thumper shrugged. “You said I gotta have a job. I got a job. It ain’t illegal. I do what I is told. I pay taxes, got a bank account and e’rrything.” He phoned out to show Mr. Perry the bank app. “The bank is on my phone, swear to God, Mistuh Perry, it’s real. Rajesh showed me how. You just tap on it. Paychecks is on the phone too. Tap, zoooooop, boom, there it goes, paycheck gets emailed to the bank, taxes go out, money all gone. You don’t even gotta spend it. You know strippers get paid by phone too? You can text a eggplant to a pussy. Modern world is bullshit, suh.
“You better take this seriously,” Mr. Perry said. Him and Thumper was in his office at the parole board’s building downtown. His office was a rinky-dinky closet that was mostly fulla desk. The laptop on it be looking creaky, like it ain’t got turned on in years. Mr. Perry was a analog honky. That was his best quality.
“I’s stickin’ with the rightness of the law, suh,” Thumper said. “Don’t seem fair to say I gotta-“
“I will tell you what’s fair. I can tell you to quit any job I think isn’t conducive to your rehabilitation,” he said. “It means ‘helpful to-“
“I know what it means!” Thumper said with a snapdown. Mr. Perry was stacking lips at Thumper, like Thumper was a retard, but he lived beyond Mr. Perry’s expectations of a ex-con. “You said to work full-time. I’s workin’ full-time. Ain’t do nothin’ wrong, nothin’.” He sat and glowered in the chair. “Lipsweet is propuh, suh.”
Mr. Perry was quiet for a long time. As if on cue, he stood up and looked down his nose like Thumper was in the backstage of his mind plotting against him. Thumper be stone-facing and pitching flatness at Mr. Perry’s dreamy-owl eyes. “Lipsweet still got that blonde? Caitlin?”
“Caitlin Smiles, suh. Yes, yeah, she still there,” Thumper said. Mr. Perry was looking misty now. Thumper kept his mug still. “She pretty as a pumpkin, suh. Tits like a ol’ country buffet.” He didn’t mention that, when he talked to Caitlin Smiles the other day, she done snicker the whole time like she was too perfect to talk to a uncool old man who smell like a laundromat.
That was Thumper, but it was Mr. Perry too.
“Hmmm-hmm…” Mr. Perry murmured soft-like. He put one hand on Thumper’s shoulder. “I don’t go to Lipsweet no mo’, mind you. I got a wife. But I do recall her from back when I was letting my stiffies guide me, insteada Jesus.”
“Yessuh,” Thumper said.
He cleared his throat. “The problem I have with this, with you working at Lipsweet… It don’t show no dedication to cidivism. It suggests you’s tryin’ to dance on the edges of the law. I have a hard time believin’ Mr. Gregarian never asks you to do nothing illegal.”
Thumper shook his head. “It ain’t like that, suh,” he said. “Mr. Gregarian don’t want his bouncers gettin’ in trouble — city council, he said, they got rules for him, they ridin’ his ass ’bout crime and shit, had a bartender caught selling coke couple months ago, he don’t want the heat. He say bouncers gotta stay squeaky-clean, and he a righteous honky, suh. He go to a ethnic chuhch.”
“Hmmm-hmm…” Mr. Perry said, standing tall next to the seated Thumper. Mr. Perry stayed deep in his ponders, maybe wondering if Thumper was telling the truth or could be he was still on that Caitlin Smiles train. “You willin’ to prove to me that you got dedication in ya heart, Wendell?”
Thumper nodded. “Yessuh.”
Mr. Perry unzipped his fly and let his cock plop out. It jabbed Thumper in the forehead. It was spongy and soft still, and it had that familiar clammy-skin texture. Thumper done taste a tog or two in his time. He ignored it. Mr. Perry prolly wanted him to react like a inside-nigga, so Mr. Perry could treat him like one.
Thumper weren’t gonna give him the satisfaction. He did learn in prison that a nigga who do what’s expected of him gonna end up in low places cuz folks got low expectations of niggas. Thumper ain’t a default nigga.
He kept his mouth shut, like he ain’t notice Mr. Perry’s dick ramming his nose and teasing his upper lip. The taste hit his tongue, but Thumper bit back his revulsion. Mr. Perry grabbed Thumper’s hand and dragged it to his cocktip. Thumper gripped it, but he ain’t stroke it. Mr. Perry ain’t even told him to, so Thumper sat there like a topaz.
Thumper winced when he heard Mr. Perry moaning, and his cock thwacked Thumper on his lips and teeth. His meat firmed up in Thumper’s hand. It was kinda lor but not small enough to laugh about it. It was a normal honky-sized dingle, and you know Thumper know his way around them.
Still don’t wanna taste it.
Neverthelessly, Thumper ain’t gonna complain, cuz that was what Mr. Perry wanted. Mr. Perry ain’t even demand he open his mouth or slurp on the knob or nothing. Pussy-ass honky. If Thumper gonna throat a nigga down, you best believe that nigga is gonna gape his gullet.
But all he gotta do for Mr. Perry’s chowder-white dingdong was not bite it off, and anyway, crackers all taste crackery. Thumper ain’t close his eyes neither, so Mr. Perry wouldn’t think he was shook.
Soon enough Thumper’s mouth was open enough for Mr. Perry to stick his worm in and out, and it hit Thumper in the backa his mouth but not deep enough to make him gag too hard. He did retch a couple times when it rammed him deeper in there. Mr. Perry weren’t trying-a get all the way down though, he was just humping the tip on Thumper’s tongue.
Precum flowed like a river and coated Thumper’s gums. He felt it oozing into his mouth. Thumper hadta hold back a cringe, cuz he ain’t wanna look submissive. The taste was salty and intense.
He squeezed his lips around the shaft to give some friction — Thumper don’t wanna drag this out, after all — and that made Mr. Perry break out in baritone walrusy moans, rabbit-daggering his bunny into Thumper’s mouth. The precum be flowing plentiful now. Thumper knew better than to wipe it off his lips — it’d seem like it’d reduce the taste, but it would just smear it all over — so he kept his hands down.
Then, without a word of warning, Mr. Perry shot a fat load into Thumper’s throat. He pulled out to finish his self off with his hands — that’s some weak-knee honky shit — a nigga do finish inside. Great big gobs of goo coated Thumper’s nose and cheeks, and it dripped down to his chin and shoulders.
Not a huge cumload. Thumper done took more bigger ones than that from uglier honkies than Mr. Perry. Ain’t fun though. He let Mr. Perry jack off right on his face. At least he ain’t make Thumper open up again and swallow. He was content to get his own self off onto Thumper’s face, and when his dingdong done ding its last dong, he let it flop afronta Thumper’s mouth.
Thumper sat there stony, his face dripping with cum. He weren’t gonna gasp to wipe it off like some fresh fish whiteboy. Mr. Perry was watching him for a reaction.
“Good. I’m glad you’ve developed some self-control. You can go,” Mr. Perry said. He leaned against his desk with his dingle dangling out the fly of his workaday khakhis.
Thumper walked out and wiped his face off as soon as Mr. Perry couldn’t see. He spat up all the salty cum he could get outta his mouth, and he wiped his tongue off with a paper towel from the shitter in the parole and probation building.
Damn, the taste of jizz do stick to a nigga tongue. Thumper gotta smoke a fug to get rid of it.
He went home, walking like a nigga who ain’t just take a honky hullabaloo in his mouth. Walking with a low-hanging expression was begging a nigga to lay you out, so Thumper kept it real. His chin stayed high. The sky stayed higher, sun beating down, no clouds to block its rays.
Despite keeping his chin up, he felt low, even after he got home and took a shower. At least he felt clean then, and eventually, Thumper drifted to sleep on the couch..
A brilliant bulb awoke him, and Thumper stumbled in place as his face braced to smite. An array of bright lights at height laced into him like some kinds of whites might. His mind now did kite upon a stage that stank of shite and shame. Thumper was tight, lame as a sudden name, and he did fight to awaken his bacon.
Shaking his fakest of flanks, Thumper’s noodle be baking, making the opposite of bank. He dim as done beats took in a lake of empty seats, aching his knees right. The blinding lights be lining his sight with nothing but ruinous white like luminous bricks. Lurching right, a-twitch with fright, he done slipt, like a zombie out a crypt.
A script. In his mitt. One piece of paper, to wit. Words that bit, in a font that fits and that tapers fine to the tightest of tips.
It was a script with lines for a nigga to sip, highlighted in white — a dialogue to rip. The script had lines between so many lips of nigga-amigos named Thumper and Rico.
Thumper don’t know no Rico or the words the script do speak of.
Then like a leaky glove, she shoved into sight, reeking of the weakness of love — the Woman in White, whose skin flowed together with her multi-folded dress and the owl-like feathers surrounding her horrible mask. Before him she stood like a conquering avenging murdering invading angel of odd angles, and Thumper spiraled like bells into bangles, while her mask from hell returned him to that mousy cell, where he couldn’t run or fly or hide or ride.
“Mister White,” she said like a lie without pride, and once again, the movements of her mug and the motion of her mouth like tides behind her mask of flowing whys ain’t match the scurrilous fly that crawled out the sides. “Glad to sight yo’ eyes.”
“You again… Delsinerr.” Amid sighs, Thumper meant to go on, but he was dumb-struck like by a dumptruck. Again he be stuck in the muck of her pityless pluck and his debonair suck, and her foul air made him slouch and tear, his thoughts nowhere, not a wrinkle unspared. “Where am I?”
“On stage. You see the pages in yo’ face?” she asked like facts.
“Why… ? It — am I dreaming? Is this real? I-“
“Yes, and yes,” she said unpressed in a voice from pursed bony lips cursed with toney tints. “First, look at the script.”
“I see it.” He squinted his old-nigga asians to unblur the words outta they evasions. Drying to raisins like dark violence, Thumper endured her invasions and did cry in brazen silence, as he read the script of the minute. In it, ‘Thumper’ piloted ‘Rico’ into killing and raping ‘Cherry’ like a torpedo of daring.
“Enact this squarely,” she said, “If you want the treasure I’m fairly giving, to audition for my vision for this play.”
“I ain’t a actor.”
“Needless to say. We don’t cast actors for this chapter’s phase. With blue and white grace, we raptors prefer a more true-to-life gaze,” she said in line with a maze, bleeding fine baffling laughter from her mouth’s rafters, meting rhymes like a captor casting after feeding time. “Reading lines is what but one part of the custom to start for you to drum through. Yo’ audition may yet come true.” Her blunderous wig was chewed asunder quick by the bug under it. “You must mug a ho through a young’in to steal a soul and be made whole so so long ago.” Her words feeled faux yet as real as reality goes.
Then Thumper awoke, feeling old, skin hot and yet cold.
But that was it. She was gone. His mind worked fine now, or fine as it had since he got old. He sat up in bed, sweat streaming down his neck despite his shivering with an icy chill. Pain twanged his chest, and it felt like he was infarcting. But when the sensation soon dwindled, he took a deep breath.
Even after he felt better, it was a long time before he could get back to sleep.
Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil
Chapter One: Out of Touch
Chapter Two: The Fossil
Chapter Three: That Ain’t Gangsta
Chapter Four: Old Nigga
Chapter Five: Unfashioned
Chapter Six: A Corrective Statement
Chapter Seven: Cool at Last