The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter Five

The new couch was on sale, but the delivery charges were exorbitant. That was how they got you, Teddy decided.
Well, he decided to show that snooty salesman that Teddy wasn’t gonna fall for his shenanigans. He asked Knuckle to help him move the couch. It wasn’t that heavy. Teddy borrowed a truck from his neighbor, and Knuckle came to help him move it on a day he had off.
When they got the couch off the truck and into Teddy’s apartment, they stopped to drink a couple beers and have a pizza delivered. Then Knuckle helped Teddy get rid of the ratty old couch at the dump and drop off the truck at the end of the street. Teddy hadn’t specifically planned on inviting Knuckle into his apartment again after that.
But Knuckle, in his creepy wordless way, followed, and Teddy hoped to jack him off again, so he didn’t complain. When they got into the apartment, Knuckle immediately opened another beer.
“What happened to your knuckles, Knuckles?” Teddy asked with a chuckle. Knuckles had had bloody knuckles all day, like he got in a fight, but Teddy knew his last couple shifts at Lipsweet had been uneventful.
Knuckles shrugged. “I was fighting last night. In a bare-knuckle boxing league.”
“Really? How’d you get started doing that?” Teddy asked. It was so like Knuckle to have this really interesting hobby that he literally never told anyone about, not because it was a secret, but because nobody knew to ask about it.
“I done it since my carnie days,” he said.
But back then, it weren’t no kind of league or nothing. The carnival just set up fights in the towns they visited, to attract some crowds and make a little money betting on Knuckle. He was still throwing down knuckles when he got sent up a long time ago.
The state prison was the Eastern Panhandle State Penitentiary. That where Knuckle did his nine-year bid. He came out with a crooked nose and one ear ripped up, permanent cauliflower on the other ear.
The prison sponsored the bare-knuckle fighting league to keep the inmates focused on winning insteada picking brawls in the shower or shanking shitheads in the slop hall. The prison allowed each gang to send a fighter into the league, and the prison supplied a guard to coach each fighter.
For Knuckle, the gang was the Gray Snakes. They was bikers, not that Knuckle was much of a motorcyclist, but he was doing dealings with them when he got arrested, and he ain’t snitch not a bit, not even when the sheriff truncheoned him silly. That gave him entrance to the Gray Snakes.
But the Gray Snakes got full members and affiliate members. Full members join on the outside and go through a process — Knuckle ain’t savvy to that process, but it involved bleeding in and bleeding out, he knew that much. A man who ain’t see fit to join up till he get to prison and need protection from the black boys was called a affiliate member. They wasn’t treated as good within the gang, not till they could earn they leather jacket.
So the only way how Knuckle could earn that leather jacket was winning glory for the Gray Snakes boxing with the other gangs. He thought he was gonna win the title fight that first year.
His coach was Officer Turpinelli. He strongly believed that Knuckle was the best fighter in this joint.
So when Knuckle went out there for his first prison-championship bout, Turpinelli was in his corner. He was a middle-aged guido, his black hair now salted with gray, his big milk-chocolate fists callused from a lifetime of amateur boxing and working as a prison guard. Turpinelli was from Staten Island, and he had a thick New Yawker accent. His uniform shirt was mostly unbuttoned to reveal his greasy white undershirt.
“C’mon, Knuckle, you gawt this, you gawt this!” he said when he sent Knuckle out there into the prison yard with a swat on his ass. Knuckle wore only his blue prison shorts, his broad chest — not yet badly scarred — gleaming and bronzed. He was still handsome then, boxy-faced and craggy like an action hero, his torso perfectly tapered and padded with muscle.
His gang was chanting his name. The Gray Snakes were all in one corner of the yard, wearing the full prison uniform — it was a chilly day, and Knuckle, in his shorts and nothing else, still steamed, his hairless chest overheating. Most of the Gray Snakes was eager for Knuckle to win.
But Knuckle wasn’t gonna win. He was told by Denny, the head Gray Snake at the state prison, to throw the match.
Most of the Gray Snakes done bet on the other guy – Deyon Green or Gray or Brown or some color name Knuckle couldn’t remember. Meanwhile Denny been spreading word on the downlow that Deyon was in bad shape. Ain’t nobody betting on him except the Gray Snakes.

So all Knuckle gotta do was take a pounding and make it look real. He was good at getting hit. His face was like stone, and he threw a couple good punches right back. Each time he did, the assembled prisoners erupted in cheers.

Ain’t nobody like the Crips much, so only the Crips was rooting for Deyon. When Knuckle accidentally knocked Deyon to the ground, he thought he mighta won, and his heart sank.
He paused long enough for Officer Bellyfat to hold him back from Deyon, who wobbled but returned to his feet in time. Knuckle kept his face grim and determined. Was the crowd falling for it? He ain’t wanna look to see the reactions on they faces. He could hear them, but he worried looking would make it obvious he was focused on the crowd, not on the fight.
He avoided looking at Officer Turpinelli too. He was sure Turpinelli would know, if they made eye contact, that he ain’t trying to win. He blocked a couple of Deyon’s jabs, then saw a long uppercut coming quick.
Knuckle had only a brief moment to decide — block it and prolong the fight? Or take it to the face and go down? Had the fight gone on long enough?
He ain’t sure he made a decision, but he hesitated long enough that the uppercut hit him good. He really did pass for a few seconds. He coulda got up in time, as Officer Bellyfat was still counting off the knockout, but Knuckle fluttered his eyes like he was dizzy. He stayed on the mat.
“The winner…!” The ref — Officer Brokenose — held up Deyon’s hand, and the colored boys in one corner of the yard all screamed with pride. Deyon was the underdog, so they mostly ain’t expect to win.
And Knuckle’s half-conscious mind struggled avoid smiling, cuz he done won two grand, plus he earned his spot in the Gray Snakes. Blood trickled down his face like a river delta. He heard the dull roar of the crowd and the feigned disappointment of the Gray Snakes — ain’t nobody but them know that they was the only ones betting on Deyon to win.
Someone threw a hunk of wood at Knuckle, and it thunked off his body. Then a coffee mug. Then something wet, maybe spit — he couldn’t tell who was doing what as he pushed through the crowd, blood clouding his vision. He grimaced. He was bleeding from the neck now, just a thin trickle — was somebody throwing glass?
It took a few seconds for Knuckle’s hardened mind to realize a glass bottle got smashed on the meat of his back. He was bleeding like a drain when he finally staggered on sweaty trunks into the locker room.
The lockers stank of rank underwear. The floor was bare concrete spotted with always-wet mildew. A bucket caught a leak that never would get fixed. But it was mercilessly silent.
Knuckle took a deep breath and wiped blood out his eyes. He plopped onto the bench, and Officer Turpinelli came in from the other door with a first aid kit. He ain’t say nothing at first. He just came in, opened the first aid kit, took out a needle and thread and disinfected the needle with a lighter.
He only then noticed the shards of glass in Knuckle’s back. He picked them out with tweezers. “Lotta men bet money on you, Knuckle,” he finally said. “I don’t blame ’em for gettin’ ornery. You coulda won. That Deyon ain’t worth a thing.”
“Yessuh, Officer Turpinelli,” Knuckle said. He ain’t got that raspy note to his voice yet, not till the fire years later, so his voice was low and smooth and rumbling like a distant earthquake. His square jaw worked up and down, and he avoided eye contact with Turpinelli.
“You ain’t give it y’all out there, Knuckle. No disrespect, brothah, but that was a sorry display,” Turpinelli said. He inserted the needle into Knuckle’s back without warning him, so Knuckle flinched. Turpinelli ignored it and stitched up the biggest cut.
“Yessuh,” Knuckle said. When Officer Turpinelli was done with that cut, Knuckle took off his shorts, eager to get into the shower and away from Turpinelli. He wanted back to his cell. The Gray Snakes would protect him from the others — as upset was the others were that Knuckle done lost, the Gray Snakes were gonna be overjoyed about it.
Plus they’d give him liquor, which would be a better pain relief than anything Officer Turpinelli was gonna do. Knuckle ain’t got a choice about that though. He just took his shorts and jockstrap off, and his heavy cock plopped fatly on the bench.
His whole body was so sweaty his skin felt slimy.
“I know we practiced better than that,” Turpinelli said. He stitched up the cut on Knuckle’s temple. He ain’t try to be gentle like he when he did the same thing after Knuckle won a fight. He wrenched Knuckle’s head this way and that. “You listenin’? Listen to me when I’s talkin’ to you, lard-brain!” He rapped Knuckle on the skull.
“Yessuh,” Knuckle said. He winced when the rapping on his head went from playful to painful. Turpinelli slapped him hard on the cheek like a woman. Knuckle’s eyes narrowed to slits.
“You was jack-jawin’ when I know you know better, you shoulda let that punk-ass Crip tucker himself out,” Turpinelli said. He stood back and looked Knuckle’s naked chest up and down. He examined the cuts on Knuckle’s chest, then his back, to see if any others needed stitching.
Then he punched Knuckle right in the gut. Still seating, Knuckle oomphed and clutched his belly for a second. He clambered to stand only to stop himself even before Officer Turpinelli could smack him down. He stood real close to Knuckle and gripped his head with both hands.
Knuckle remained stout-faced naked on the bench. He wrinkled his nose. The smell of Officer Turpinelli’s uniform slacks — clean laundry, old-man balls and loose change — filled his nostrils, now that the swelling had gone down enough he could smell again.
“I am gonna have to teach you a lesson,” Turpinelli said. He unzipped the fly of his ironed slacks, and his stinky Italian hog flopped free. He untucked and undid the buttons on his uniform shirt, so his undershirt was bared, ringed by silver and black hairs poking out from under the fabric.
Knuckle’s loose and crooked nose wrinkled. He hocked up a loogey of blood, spat it on the concrete floor, sighed and looked away. Turpinelli leaned back to make his swarthy cock dangle forward, and he slapped it over Knuckle’s cheek. Knuckle ain’t respond.
“Knuckle?” Turpinelli said. “C’mon, you know what to do. I ain’t gonna put it in ya mouth, you gotta do that. Show me the respect you ain’t been showin’ me.”
He again thwack-thwacked his limp knob on Knuckle’s face, on his nose and lip. Knuckle cringed at the smell of Turpinelli’s crotch hair sticking out the fly of his slacks. He took hold of Turpinelli’s cock with one hand and gave it a few strokes without looking at it..
He spat up more blood onto the concrete floor of the locker room, as he gracelessly flopped Turpinelli’s shaft in one hand. Turpinelli aimed his hips to drag his cocktip over Knuckle’s face, mainly the bruised and swollen area around his left eye. Knuckle winced in pain.
“You wasn’t following the strategy we laid out,” Turpinelli said. He kept his hands on his hips as Knuckle flopped his dick around with one hand. Turpinelli frowned. “Now I look like a fool in front of the other staff.”
“Yessuh. I’m sorry, suh,” Knuckle said. He avoided looking up, his one hand lazily gripping Turpinelli’s shaft as Turpinelli pumped his hips and humped Knuckle’s grip. It was as soft as cooked spaghetti and thick like a doll’s leg.
With another wince that hurt his bruised face, Knuckle put Officer Turpinelli’s cocktip in his mouth. The salty taste of skin hit his tongue. He winced again.
“Hmmmmm, I shoulda been doing this all along,” Turpinelli said with a throaty laugh. “Maybe this is the only way to knock some sense into ya lard-brain.” A jolt ran up his cock, which began to firm. Knuckle slathered spit up and down the shaft, stimulating it with his tongue to avoid putting it back in his mouth — tasted the same, it just seemed less humiliating to lick it like a meaty lollipop. “You need a ongoing lesson to remember to listen to me. I tol’ you he got a strong right hook and a uppercut. I tol’ you what his pattern was. You ain’t look out for it, Knuckle,” Turpinelli said. He began moving his dick in and out of Knuckle’s mouth. He swatted Knuckle’s hand outta the way. “No hand. You shoulda been blockin’ — you remembuh? We talked ’bout it. He always do couple jabs.” Turpinelli jabbed the air with his left fist, above Knuckle’s head as Turpinelli humped his mouth. “Then he hit with the mad uppercut. You left yaself wide open, you lard-brain!” That was a harsh word where Turpinelli came from, Knuckle done gathered. “You got somethin’ to say for yahself?”
He pulled outta Knuckle’s mouth, his dick still only part hard — Turpinelli wasn’t even trying to get hard yet. It poked around on Knuckle’s bruised-up face, as Knuckle took a deep breath. “Sorry, suh. I had a off-day,” Knuckle said. He kept his eyes on Turpinelli’s knob.
Officer Turpinelli scoffed. He rammed his rod back into Knuckle’s mouth. Knuckle slackened his jaw, letting Turpinelli use it. He closed his mouth to hold back a violent gag, but a moist squelching sound did come out, followed by another one.
“Don’t make that sound, it’s gross,” Turpinelli said. His voice was lower now, calmer, his dick good and hard. His veiny shaft throbbed in Knuckle’s throat. Knuckle couldn’t help himself though, suppressing a little gag only to be overcome by a painfully large one. He retched up Turpinelli’s cock. Turpinelli scoffed like he ain’t approve of that sound neither. Knuckle couldn’t help it, as the intense taste and the jab down his throat were impossible to resist.
Before he could take another breath, Turpinelli drilled it back down his throat.
“Look up at me.”
Knuckle cringed but did so. He knew he’d see Officer Turpinelli grimacing at him, frowning, disappointed in him. When he looked up, he also saw his throbbing dick and tendrils of precum clinging to Knuckle’s fingers, but what stuck in Knuckle’s mind was the disapproving look on Turpinelli’s face.
“Open up,” Turpinelli said.
Knuckle was going to say again that it was just an off-day, but when he opened his mouth, no words came out. Instead, Turpinelli’s dick pushed in.
“Don’chu fight me. I can shift you into gen-pop anytime, Knuckle,” Turpinelli said. He clucked his tongue. “I gotta teach you to respect me.” His cock slid deeper into Knuckle’s mouth.
He choked on it and closed his eyes until Officer Turpinelli clucked his tongue.
“Open them peepers, Knuckle. I wanna see your respect.”
Knuckle’s muscles flexed and spasmed as he held back a gag, and he worked his tongue up and down Turpinelli’s shaft. It tasted stale and salty, especially after precum began flowing and coating Knuckle’s mouth.
Turpinelli stopped moving and grunted with his dick protruding deep down Knuckle’s gullet. Cum flowed, and a rattling sigh escaped from Officer Turpinelli’s mouth. He made a sound like he was gonna talk, but the words were overcome by another sigh and a moan of slow-melting bliss, followed by a flood of sticky jizz into Knuckle’s mouth.
Lotta it spilled out onto his cheeks and chin, and some even got in his nose. Knuckle closed his eyes and tried not to retch. He kept his jaw slack so his mouth drained as quick as it was filled.
Knuckle choked and sputtered, but he ain’t fight back. He had done what he needed to. Now all that mattered was submitting and getting through this. The taste of cum was sticky and intense, but he avoided vomiting too hard, his throat plugged up by Turpinelli’s cock.
At last it popped out, connected with tendrils of saliva to Knuckle’s jaw. Knuckle tried to move away, but Turpinelli kept both his big mitts on Knuckle’s head. His limp dick throbbed and spewed a few final drops onto Knuckle’s forehead.
“Next time, pay attention during your training,” Turpinelli said.
“Yessuh,” Knuckle said. He held back a gag. Despite that, he was glad that it seemed Turpinelli had no suspicion Knuckle threw the match. He breathed a sigh of relief, only for that to cause his nose to fill with the scent of Turpinelli’s gooey jizz, which covered his face. Knuckle couldn’t help but gag.
“Go’n and showuh up, Knuckle,” Turpinelli said. “If I gotta ram some sense into you again, it’s goin’ in the othuh end.”