The cell was crowded with men and stank of manhood — not just the b.o. of Buck and the other enforcers, whose bump-outs, push-ups and burpees cast a scent of zesty sweat, but also the liniment of Ripley and the other old fellers, the stale air and stacks of mildewed clothes, soaked-in cigarette smoke, caked-on mud, spit-soaked concrete and pissy stainless steel, cold, stretched sacs of canned sardines for free weights, it all combined to make for the grungy-dumpy odor of prison life.
Ripley done sprawl out on his back. Cody gotta squeeze in next to him, between Ripley’s side and the edge of the bunk. The cot was sposedta be for two men, but it weren’t huge and Ripley weren’t trying-a make it work. The sheet was thin and grungy, and the blanket they shared was scratchy. It all stank awful of Ripley’s old-man armpits and the noxious liniment he done rub into his knees. Cody gotta wedge in on the edge, and Ripley put one heavy hand on Cody’s chest under the sheet.
He woke up to Ripley’s hands on him. His fingers was rough and callused, but they caressed him gentle-like. Ripley’s right hand stroked Cody’s bruised side, running from his ribs down to his ass. Cody tensed up. Ripley curled his broad body around Cody. The sound of cellbodies snoring and tossing to and fro on they bunks filled the air, muffled by the sheet hung up as a curtain around Ripley and Cody’s bunk.
