This one broad-and-bulky type, a literal red neck and a figurative redneck who wore the sweats and sleeveless tee marked with the logos of several college football teams. He was blond and scruffy, with a thick, bushy beard and unkempt hair, wild eyes with drunken bloodshot veins around his irises. He had a certain white trash look that made Avery’s blood boil. The trashy musclegod was constantly taking his backwards baseball cap off, touching his head as though rubbing his fingers through his hair — he didn’t have enough hair to actually do so, but he touched his scalp like he wanted to — and then put the backwards baseball cap back on. He had that awkward thick way of walking that heavy, strong-bodied men had, like his feet didn’t know how to carry a man of this size. He had Bad Boy tattooed on his neck
Avery had thought at first he might have been talking shit, but Avery had jerked off enough guys to taste the different kinds of men. Hitch had a musky metallic quality, like jerking on a copper penny that had been marinated in ball-sweat for hours, and Avery had learned long ago to associate that with ex-cons. It was like those steel corridors and handcuffs and rough-hewn, poorly-washed clothing had seeped into their skin — more prosaically, Avery thought they tasted similar because they ate the same, mostly canned food and wore the same brands of clothes washed with the same brands of detergent. He preferred to imagine it as the taste of prison life though.