Mister Gregarian owned a near-beach apartment complex, the Pacific Sunrise. It was a one-story sprawl of faded-pastel flats filled with tattooed drugs dealers and failed screenwriters. The ocean was close enough that crashing waves were audible, from the other side of a line of sand dunes and sand-choked shopping centers that were largely abandoned in favor of the ritzy mall a few miles away.
From Poahi the Lackey
Author: MNManmacker
Lipsweet of Los Angeles
The nightclub Lipsweet stretched out beside the Pacific Ocean. Far from any airport or tourist attractions, it was a locals-only dive bar, with women dancing and serving and with shaggy-haired men filling out the tables that spilled onto the beach.
It was easy for Mister Gregarian to say ‘kick the dealers out’, but it was the musclebound oafs filling the gym with their armpit sweat right now who would actually have to do it. It wasn’t as simple as Mister Gregarian seemed to think. The dealers that haunted Lipsweet most nights would boil up if kicked out.From Poahi the Lackey
Carver Weatherbee
Carver Weatherbee was about fifty, and he certainly didn’t look younger than that, though he did have the body of a younger man. He was built like a boxer — which was because he, in fact, was a boxer. Or had been thirty years ago, and he’d been a boxing coach for more than a decade, helping him keep his barrel-shaped box-like stack of muscles intact.
His face was worn and weathered now, wrinkles along his cheeks and his square jaw. His hair was mostly black and streaked with gray, but his unkempt goatee was mostly gray and streaked with black. He chewed on his lower lip almost constantly.
Python (Paul Pitt)
Python was a big burly bear of a man in his early thirties, with thick dark hair and a scraggly beard. He had broad shoulders and a colorful dragon tattoo covering his chest, which was mostly bare, and a snake on his neck. He had a square jaw, and he chewed on his upper lip as the older biker introduced himself.
Gordon Hefton
Gordon is a married man.
He was Gordon, mid-forties, rustic, bearded, thick-bodied and flat-bellied but not skinny, he bulged all over, like his body didn’t realize how muscular he was. He was good with kids, which Mason had always thought was sexy. Judging from the callused fingers and the scuffed workboots in place of athletic shoes, he was some kind of blue-collar worker, but Mason didn’t know what he actually did for a living.
Mason thought Gordon was great; the way he milled about dumpily in his ill-fitting clothes (which occasionally bared a flash of his hairy belly or well-muscled back); his uncaring swagger and focus on the game, the work-built muscles — you could tell he didn’t go to a gym, at least not regularly enough to matter, but he must have worked his muscles all day every day.
Gordon loved baseball. Unlike Mason, he not only thought it was a good sport, he considered it exciting. He spent hours at the batting cages nearly every weekend; he watched every Orioles game and nearly every other major league game; he even watched the Japanese, Mexican and minor-league teams (he had favorite teams in every league). He owned all the gear and could recite all the stats for his favorite players. He knew every World Series victory, the points and the plays — he could give you the play by play of every World Series game, and he could name every player and their vital stats too.
So he did get very frustrated watching the children play, dropping the ball over and over, failing repeatedly to swing the bat and generally just making more errors than Gordon had ever thought possible. But on those rare occasions when a kid did do it well, when it all worked — when his boy had caught the ball and dived for second-base to successfully tag a runner out — it seemed like a magical sport. Gordon thought less of anyone who considered baseball boring. It was the most elegant sport in the world.
When it worked, it was like ballet, he thought, not that he’d ever say that out loud.
Somehow being a blue-collar redneck had gone from stud to ugly tubby lardass even though his appearance hadn’t changed that much — women just interpreted it differently now that he was older and still had a blue-collar career and his thick body didn’t have that almost-six-pack he’d always had. He’d gained about fifteen pounds on his high school body, but it seemed like so much more.
Banner “Chopper” Wilde
He was blond, but a very dirty, nasty blond, like he had had a beautiful amber head of hair like a Viking god but then fell to Earth and doused his head in brambles and mud, giving him a torn and tattered half-curled mullet of dingy yellow highlighted with brown and black and a few strands of gray. His forehead was lightning-bolted with an ugly rill of scar tissue, his left eye droopy underneath it like it had been damaged in whatever incident left his eyebrow slashed. His front tooth was chipped too, and he ran his tongue over the jagged tip of it as he looked down Mason’s body.
Banner was powerfully built — a semi-pro baseball player until he got too old — and strong without being heavy or bulky. He had that pseudo-nice face, like if he had lived a clean and wholesome life he’d be a leading man with a charismatic pair of dimples, but since he was craggy and worn all over, those dimples gave him an almost menacing aura, like he was trying to trick you by looking so handsome despite being as “ugly as a pile of dirt”, as his ex-wife had said.
Banner crossed his arms over his chest, his leather sleeveless vest moving with it to accentuate his bare arms. The tattoos on his muscles were bluish, but faded, giving him that dirty look that fully-tattooed light-skinned people ended up with when their tattoos faded to nothing but a smear of geometric smudge.
Duncan Walsh
Duncan flared his nostrils. He blanched and looked away when Mason walked to him. His bulky chest didn’t fit in his filthy overalls, and his massive pecs spilled out — he didn’t wear a shirt underneath, so his chest was bare beneath his overall-straps, aside from the smudges of dirt, faded tattoos, dense hairs and twisted scars.
Wendell Thomas
Officer Thomas is a cop.
Officer Wendell Thomas was short and bullish, with a shaved head and a squat, broad nose. He called himself a bodybuilder — he didn’t have a perfect figure because he didn’t eat well and his exercise regime was inconsistent, but he was stacked and barrel-chested, with brilliant green eyes and a dense mustache.
Officer Thomas came over to the side-porch. He still wore his uniform shirt, his badge crookedly laying over his heart. There were pit-stains just barely visible, and another stain — maybe mustard — on his collar. His face was ruddy and tense, eyes bulging out. There was a bulge in his crotch too, so apparent that Mason assumed it couldn’t be a hardon. Why would he race home with a hardon? Who even had a hardon like that, with all the subtlety of a Family Guy character? Most men would just rearrange themselves to hide it.
Humping off
Lem had a standing offer — if a man jacked him off one time “wit’ full throat” — swallowed his cum, basically — Lem would let him “hump off” on him bunches — Lem spent years prison, so he knew about all this stuff. “Humping off” was when you rubbed your dick on his back, in the crook of his elbow or between his thighs.
Mickey Garelli
His bookie — Mickey — was even the old-fashioned kind, an indeterminately ethnic New Yawker, wearing a wifebeater and suspenders and he walked around eating cold-cut subs and collecting money.