Category: Forceful Alphas

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter Ten

The Scarred Bouncer

Chapter One: An Affectionate Touch

Chapter Two: The Liminal Space

Chapter Three: A Glorious Face

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Connection

Chapter Five: A Deserved Choke

Chapter Six: A Good Friend

Chapter Seven: A Present of Sorts

Chapter Eight: That Sweet Release

Chapter Nine: A Plan for Repayment

Chapter Ten: An Unpleasant Chore

Chapter Eleven: A Sweet Release

 Lance Barrymore felt disgusting. Dried cum clung to his cheeks and ear. His legs were weak because he was hungry — Knuckle and Buck took half his food. He had just signed over the money from his prison job too.
“You our punk. That’s like a slave,” Buck said this morning. “So what’s yours is ours.” He got a big grin on his hillbilly face.
Lance’s stomach rumbled as he came to the next cell, where two black men sat in lawnchairs. The thicker one, with a belly, sat in the threshold, while the skinnier one was a bit further back — they switched who got to be further out every night.
Lance winced. “Hi,” he said. “I can jack you off however you want. I’m real good at it.” His voice cracked. The black men laughed and waved him off. “I can deep-throat anything, and you can pound me as hard as you want.”
They again waved him off.
Lance only needed one more pack of cigarettes. If he got one more guy to pay for his mouth, he’d have ten packs to bring back to Knuckle and Buck. They’d let him have a package of ramen before lights-out then.
So he trudged up to the next level. Another pair of black men were in the first cell by the stairs. They sat in lawn chairs hooting and chatting with men in the other cells. They leaned forward as far as they were allowed so they could see the men in lawnchairs doing the same thing at other cells.
“Dance for us, then, bitch,” said the older black man with a scruffy gray beard when Lance approached them with his standard sales pitch. “Lemme see you shimmy.”
The cell erupted in laughter and jeers as Lance did so. He shook his ass at them, dancing the best he could without any music.
“Fine, here.” The older black man tossed two packs of smokes at him from inside the cell.
With a wince and a sigh, Lance picked up the smokes. “I can do it with my mouth damn good,” he said as he pushed past the lawnchair into the cell. “I swear.” He only needed to get one pack tonight, so this two-pack job was extra. Lance thought using his mouth was better than his ass — which was sore already and loose.
But the older black guy just scoffed. He pulled down Lance’s orange prison pants and whistled. “Dance for me more,” he said. He sat on his bunk with his pants around his ankles, limp dick in hand.
Lance shimmied and shook his ass. His pants were around his ankles, so he couldn’t move much, but his ass was bared because he wore boxers with the butt torn outta them. Buck called that “lingerie”.
Both the black guys laughed, the older one slapping his knee and making his dick bounce. He stroked it lazily with one hand, while he motioned for Lance to continue. “Slower,” he said. “Sexier.”
Another wince of humiliation ran up his spine, as Lance did as he was told. He swayed back and forth, so slow it wasn’t even really dancing, but he did twerk his ass at the older black guy while trying to ignore the guffaws of the younger one, who remained by the door.
“Oh shit!” said the younger one with a laugh, speaking to the Bloods in the cell next door. Lance ain’t hear what them other Bloods said, cuz he was in their lotion-scented cell and dancing. “He j’st dancin’ right now. Nah, he dance like a retarded monkey. But he got nice booty. They done rip the back outta his drawers. Yeah, yeah.”
Finally the older one motioned for him to come closer and to sit on it. Lance closed his eyes and did so, sucking in his breath when it entered him. He was loose enough now that he didn’t feel a ton of pain, but it was uncomfortable just the same. He hovered there like he was above a dirty public toilet. The older black man’s knob sat right at the entrance to Lance’s asshole.
“Sit on it,” the older fellah said. When Lance didn’t immediately sink any lower, he gripped Lance’s shoulders and pushed him down.
“Ow, shit!” Lance cried out quietly. Buck would hit him if he knew he had complained, so Lance tried to stay silent. He bit his lip. This guy’s dick wasn’t that big. He could take it. He gritted his teeth and focused on moving his ass up and down.
That rock-hard shaft rubbed between his cheeks. Lance grimaced. He sped up once he felt slimy precum, and he worked his ass up and down despite the intense pressure. He had learned that this was just like using his hand, basically, he was just using his buttcheeks to stroke it.
With a little concentration, he could get a man off lickety-split, even an older fellah like this one. Soon enough, Lance felt a spurt of creamy hot cum jet into his booty, and he pulled off.
“Nah, whiteboy! Shit!” The old man grunted and yelped. He clawed for Lance’s hips, but Lance hurried away and pulled his pants up. The last two jizzwads landed on Lance’s back and his ankle, then he was too far away — he was scurrying out past the younger fellah in the lawnchair — as the older man stroked the last couple drops out. “Fuck you, I’ll complain! I’ll tell Buck you ain’t do it proper!”
But Lance knew Buck wouldn’t care. Buck and Knuckle were going to be released soon. They wanted Lance making money for them as quick as possible, not ensuring customer satisfaction. He’d just tell them he was eager to get to his next “client”.
His ass still smarting, Lance snuck back onto the stairs. He walked very slowly, partially because he was in pain but mainly to waste time. Since he’d made eleven packs of smokes, he just wanted to get back to the cell. Knuckle and Buck would tell him he should keep walking the beat, but his assignment was only to come back to the cell with ten packs, and his pockets were full of eleven — he’d gone the extra mile.
He had no sooner made it to the landing and breathed a sigh of relief when the door from the level below opened. It was Officer Grinharder — so called because he smiled all the time.
“Barrymore? That you?” He came up to the landing Lance was on, stretching his legs.
“Yes, sir,” Lance said. “I was just returning to my cell, sir.”
“You ain’t slackin’, is ya? I’d have to tell Buck,” Grinharder said.
“No! I just made a couple packs off this level. I was gonna try the Latin Kings before lights-out. How much time do I have?”
He looked at his watch. “You got nine minutes. Don’t worry about the Latin Kings, I’ll do it. My wife is at her sister’s,” Grinharder said. “I like the empty house. It’s nice to have the whole place to myself. But I ain’t got no female to get my nut off.” He dropped Lance’s pants and handed him a tub of kool-aid powder — to improve the taste of toilet wine — that’s what the guards usually paid instead of cigarettes. Kool-Aid was cheap on the outside and easy to smuggle in. “I got the cherry kind, cuz Buck said he likes that.” He wrinkled his nose. “Ew, your back is covered in nut.”
“I know.”
Grinharder didn’t even let him get into a comfortable position before he plowed into his asshole. His dick had been hard all day because he was used to his wife giving up the pussy most nights. He sighed like scratching a long-bothersome itch when his dick got into Lance’s well-lubed hole.
“Shit, man, I gotta admit, I kinda like a slack man’s booty,” he said with a chuckle. “Grip the wall.” Lance did as he was told, jutting his ass back. He bit back tears. Officer Grinharder was already ramming his whole dick in and out. “There you go, there you go, oooooh, fuck…”
At least this one was over quick, and his dick was pretty small. Jism again filled Lance, and it trickled down one thigh. He grimaced and expelled Officer Grinharder’s cock as soon as he felt cum, squeezing it like a disobedient turd. Grinharder ain’t realize that sensation was Lance forcing him to stop, so he just sighed and moaned with pleasure as his cock plopped out with a satisfyingly moist sound.
“How much time till lights out?” Lance asked. He slowly pulled his pants back up.
Officer Grinharder blushed. “You got six minutes to get back to your cell. Did I blow a nut in three minutes?” He laughed at himself. “Damn, I must really miss my wife.” He kept muttering to himself as he tucked his dirty dick away and headed off.
Lance limped in agony down the stairs to his own cell. Buck sat in a lawnchair, while Knuckle paced behind him. When he got there, Lance handed over his eleven packs of cigarettes and kool-aid packet.
“I got eleven,” he said. “I did better than I was even supposed to, right? I did good-“
“You done fine,” Buck said, “But you’re early.” Buck handed the eleven packs to Knuckle, who added them to the stacks of smokes they ain’t yet convert to cash. Buck put the kool-aid by the bucket hooch. “You got four minutes.” He pointed down the row of cells. “If you don’t take one more load, we gonna stretch you tonight. Best get a wiggle on.”
Lance bit back tears, but he went down the line of cells. His legs were weak. He felt jizz drying there.
“Jack you off for a pack of smokes. C’mon, I swallow real good,” he said to the tubby black man he first passed. He just grimaced and shook his head, so Lance continued on.
“Hey, I only got a half-pack,” said the burly silver-haired black man in the fourth cell down. He held up a full pack of smokes, but then he emptied half of it into the palm of his hand and he showed them to Lance. “What’ll you do for that?”
“I’ll get you started,” Lance said. That meant he had to jack the man off with his mouth, but he would pull off when he tasted precum then finish the customer off with his hand.
The man nodded. He was Rennie, and he had a fat ugly cock. He let Lance put the tip in his mouth, but then Rennie gripped him by the head so he could hump his throat. As far as Rennie was concerned, that was the whole point.
Lance gagged.
Rennie sighed and closed his eyes. A smirk appeared on his face. He got good leverage on Lance and was able to pound his throat so hard Rennie’s balls slapped on Lance’s chin. Rennie liked hearing that thwack-thwack sound, and he liked the feel of Lance’s struggling-to-breathe nose squashed into Rennie’s hairy crotch.
When he tasted precum, Lance smacked Rennie in the ass to tell him to let go, but Rennie didn’t.
“Shut the fuck up,” Rennie murmured.
He pumped his hips, forcing his dick all the way down Lance’s throat. He sighed grandly, gripping Lance’s wriggling head to keep it still. He used it like a sex toy, keeping his cum-spewing shaft deep in Lance’s gullet.
Great gobs of jizz filled Lance’s belly. He squirmed, but he ain’t fight back, aside from gripping Rennie’s asscheeks instinctively. Though it was painful to take a load deep in his belly — and Rennie ain’t pay for it — Lance preferred that to tasting it and then swallowing it.
He gasped for air when Rennie finally pulled out. His limp dick throbbed and leaked spit, dangling between Rennie’s legs.
“You gotta pay — the rest of — that pack,” Lance said between gasps, wiping his face off. “You didn’t pay — for me to — swallow it.”
Renny scoffed. “You was s’posed to pull off. Not my fault.” He tucked his dick away.
“You wouldn’t let me!” Lance said. He put his hands on his hips and whimpered as he wiped his face off and then pulled his pants up. “You have to pay-“
“Nah, punk,” Rennie said. He lit a black’n’mild.
With a harsh frown and a stabbing pain in his sensitive butthole, Lance limped away. Guards were announcing lights-out over the loudspeaker, so he would be in trouble if caught out of his cell.
When he got back there, Buck still sat in his lawnchair at the threshold, while Knuckle rubbed lotion onto Buck’s back. Lance sniffled and explained what happened with Rennie. He wiped more cum that was trickling into his eye — he didn’t even know where that cum came from? Was that Rennie’s? Or had someone else cum in his hair earlier and it now leaked down his forehead? His voice was weak and wobbly. “That’s why I only made a half-pack. He’s s’posed to pay the rest. I tried to get a whole pack, and he did it, he did cum in my mouth-“
Buck hit him. “You s’posed to collect it, jackass.”

Knuckle ain’t say a thing. He just left the cell and went straight to Renny’s. The guards ain’t come by yet to make them go into their cells for the night, so Renny was still in his lawnchair. Knuckle punched him square in the jaw and took the half-pack of cigarettes that remained.


Renny was rehearsing how he would argue when Buck came to collect, and he ain’t expect Knuckle’s silent ass to be the one to come to him, so he ain’t even come up with something to say before Knuckle wordlessly decked him.
Blood spurted from Rennie’s nose, and he fell limp, sprawled out on the threshold of his cell. Knuckle found the half-pack of smokes in Rennie’s pocket, then grabbed another full pack as well.
“Next time, pay it right,” Knuckle said. He left Rennie there to crawl to his feet and get back to his cell before a guard saw him. Knuckle was less concerned — Officer Grinharder was the one who would check this cell block first, and he was on Buck’s payroll, so Knuckle wouldn’t get in trouble for being outta his cell.
He returned with a pack and a half. He and Buck had accumulated a big pile of cigarettes to sell — the Latin Kings would gladly convert them to dollars. Knuckle kept a running tally of the smokes they had acquired, and he was wondering now if selling them all in one batch to the Latin Kings was truly ideal. Some black guys paid extra for menthols, for example, so maybe they should separate out the menthols and sell them to the Bloods, Knuckle thought.
But when he walked in, Knuckle stopped short at the sight of Lance gasping, Buck behind him ramming his butt. Buck’s big hairy torso took up most of the cell. His eyes were closed, a grin on his face as his shoulders shuddered.
“Owwwww!” Lance cried out, as Buck filled him with cum. Buck’s furry chest was shiny with sweat, which dripped down his body. Knuckle put the new pack and a half with the other smokes.
By then, Buck was pulling outta Lance, and Lance sucked in his breath, closed his eyes and readied himself for Knuckle. “C’mon, guys, I made a whole pack. Two packs, really,” he said, motioning to what Knuckle had brought. “I did what you said…”
Knuckle took his place behind Lance and plowed in next, before Lance’s asshole could tighten up. He was damn loose nowadays, gaping widely. It was in some ways worse than a tight intact booty, but Knuckle kinda liked it this way too — it took little effort, like fucking a nasty slut. It ain’t as nice as a virgin, but it was so much easier.
Officer Grinharder came to the door to shut it then, just as Knuckle was about to blow a nut. He muttered, “Nasty fuckin’ convicts” at the sight of Knuckle ramrodding Lance. Grinharder ain’t leave the cell door though, like he was watching a trainwreck he couldn’t look away from.
As another wad of jism flowed into Lance, he looked up at Officer Grinharder’s smiling face. “Help me…” Lance murmured softly. That could be counted as “snitching”, so he tried to be quiet.
But Knuckle was engrossed in orgasming into Lance’s slack ass, while Buck was washing his dick off in the sink. Neither paid any attention to Lance. Officer Grinharder ignored him too though, sneering at the disgusting sight of Knuckle’s scarred body finishing off in Lance’s booty.
Then he turned around and left, the cell door slamming shut and locking behind him. Lance grimaced, his ass empty now. He raced to wipe up cum with a wad of toilet paper, lest Buck complain that he was leaking a mess all over the floor.
Then Lance gingerly wiped himself clean the best he could. He tried not to make any noise, lest Buck or Knuckle go at him again. They both drank bucket hooch talked — or rather, Buck talked a lot, and Knuckle barely said a word — while Lance settled down on the floor.
They talked about making money in here and the best way to convert those cigarettes and kool-aid packets, plus some other contraband that would be valueless on the outside, into dollars. They had a half-ready bucket of hooch, a bunch of empty bottles, a sleeve of red plastic cups, poppers and anchovies, whipped cream canisters, a lifelike drawing of Jessica Alba, five extra pillows, a shower curtain and incriminating photographs of Officer Manboobs. All that was valuable, but it ain’t easy to determine who would value them each the most. Knuckle in particular was insistent that he leave here with as much money as possible.
Lance quietly laid on his belly to avoid causing any more pain in his tender ass. Soon, he thought, these two would be gone, and he could find a way back into the Gray Snakes’ good graces.
Or so Lance hoped.

The Scarred Bouncer

Chapter One: An Affectionate Touch

Chapter Two: The Liminal Space

Chapter Three: A Glorious Face

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Connection

Chapter Five: A Deserved Choke

Chapter Six: A Good Friend

Chapter Seven: A Present of Sorts

Chapter Eight: That Sweet Release

Chapter Nine: A Plan for Repayment

Chapter Ten: An Unpleasant Chore

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter Eleven

The Scarred Bouncer

Chapter One: An Affectionate Touch

Chapter Two: The Liminal Space

Chapter Three: A Glorious Face

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Connection

Chapter Five: A Deserved Choke

Chapter Six: A Good Friend

Chapter Seven: A Present of Sorts

Chapter Eight: That Sweet Release

Chapter Nine: A Plan for Repayment

Chapter Ten: An Unpleasant Chore

Chapter Eleven: A Sweet Release

Knuckle had offered Teddy a free fuck of any of the Gray Snakes’ prostitutes. Knuckle was allowed a free fuck because that was a perk of doing time on the Gray Snakes behalf (the bare-knuckle bout he was arrested for was put on by the Gray Snakes). Knuckle was willing to give the lay up to Teddy. But Teddy refused.
He was just glad Knuckle had made it out of prison in one piece.
So after Knuckle got his free fuck from a bad-ass biker prostitute, he came by Teddy’s place. He was going to stay there for a few days, since that’s where his belongings were anyway, until he rented a place of his own.
“When I get drunk,” Knuckle said as soon as Teddy shut the door behind him. “You can do whatever you want to me. Ramrod my butt if you want. Your dick ain’t big enough to hurt. I’ll get drunk enough to pass out cold. I ain’t been able to get very drunk in prison.” He undressed, as Teddy made them both a drink.
“Really?” Teddy handed Knuckle a drink, then started sipping his own.
But Knuckle took the drink, chugged the whole thing, then grabbed the bottle and chugged from that. “I just wanna get drunk,” he said when he was done, rum spilling past his lips and wetting his shirt. “You sure you don’t wanna fuck a slut? I can get a Gray Snakes bitch like that.” He snapped his fingers. “She gonna be as butch as a baseball bat, not like one of Mistuh Gregarian’s ladies. She be a biker bitch, likely.” He chugged again from the rum.
“No, no, I don’t, uh, I’m sure she’d be very… No thanks,” Teddy said. “I’m saving myself for marriage.” Knuckle cradled his belly like he was gonna be sick, but he took another swig from the bottle anyway. Teddy said, “Don’t rush yourself, you’ve got all night. I’m sure your tolerance has gone down.”
Knuckle nodded, but he already looked blitzed. He leaned back on the couch.
Teddy unzipped his jeans and pulled Knuckle’s dick out. He’d fucked a ho a few hours ago, so it still smelled rancid of old pussy, plus Knuckle hadn’t showered in days, so his ball-stench was intense. Teddy put the tip in his mouth.
“I ain’t shuh….” Knuckle mumbled, trying to take his dick away. He wanted to explain to Teddy that his dick had been in his bitch’s asshole a couple times since his last shower, but he was incomprehensible, and Teddy didn’t care anyway.

He gobbled down Knuckle’s dick. It took awhile to get hard since he had cum this morning — in Lance’s asshole — and then again in a biker bitch’s pussy a few hours ago, plus Knuckle was drunk enough that his dick flopped around in Teddy’s mouth for a few minutes. Teddy didn’t mind a bit. He enjoyed playing with a limp dick and savoring its funky, sweaty taste.


Finally Knuckle’s manhood firmed up, and it leaked precum into his mouth. Teddy smacked it upon his face. He thought Knuckle was passed out already, but when he looked up, Knuckle was bleary-eyed looking at him. He had a faint smile on his flat face.
“Hmmmm… Shigggarette…” Knuckle murmured. He lit a smoke. It cleared his mind a little, so he could talk. “I had a fine-ash bitsh in prissshon, Teddy.” He chuckled. “You’d-a liked him. Till me and Buck wreckt him.” He sighed and exhaled a long plume of smoke.
“Really? A real prison bitch?” Teddy asked with a guilty grin. “So you, like, made him turn tricks?”
Knuckle nodded. He opened up the duffel bag he had brought. He had to lean over to pick it up, which he managed to do without letting his cock pop out of Teddy’s mouth again. He withdrew a thick stack of cash. He dropped it at Teddy’s feet. “Here. That’s what we made off him.”
Teddy looked up at him. “What? You’re giving it to me. All this?”
With just a little nod, Knuckle slipped his dick back into Teddy’s mouth. Teddy tried to say something else, but Knuckle held his head in place. Knuckle shrugged. “It’s less than it looks. It’s all small bills.”
Teddy tried to say that it was too much, that Knuckle didn’t need to do that for him. But Knuckle was gently humping his throat still, and the taste of precum was strong, so all Teddy could do was swallow and savor it.
The wad of cash turned out to be seven hundred dollars. Knuckle and Buck had split fourteen hundred dollars — not just from pimping out Lance. It also came from smuggling in porn, brewing bucket hooch and extorting protection fees from newmeat, plus they sold Lance to the Crips on their last morning. He was pretty well used-up by then, his asshole so slack he couldn’t walk straight, but the Crips didn’t mind crowding into a ruint butthole.
Teddy was still recounting the cash to be sure he got the correct total, because it was hard to count with Knuckle’s cock spilling precum into his mouth. But then all of a sudden, Knuckle spewed a thick jizzwad into Teddy’s mouth, and he moaned sleepily.
It was a shock, so Teddy choked and spat most of it out. He dropped the cash mid-count and resumed stroking Knuckle through his orgasm. Knuckle’s muscles all flexed as he filled Teddy’s belly with creamy seed. Knuckle groaned again, but his eyes were closed.
“Hmmm… Your cum tastes good,” Teddy said softly, checking whether Knuckle was awake.
Even as a few more drops of jizz spilled into Teddy’s mouth, Knuckle began snoring. Teddy licked up every bit of cum he could find.
Then Teddy stood and kissed Knuckle on the lips. He didn’t respond. Teddy kissed him again, his tongue pushing into Knuckle’s mouth. “You okay, buddy?”
Knuckle nodded, but then laid down on his side on the couch. He tottered drunkenly and nearly fell off the coach, then climbed down to the floor. He lifted his head when Teddy got him a pillow. Knuckle laid there stark-naked on his back. Soon he was snoring, as Teddy re-counted the cash more carefully and played with Knuckle’s limp wang.
Finally, Teddy got on his knees and touched Knuckle’s cheek with his dick. “Knuckle? You awake?” He slipped his cocktip into Knuckle’s mouth. It was wet and warm, and Teddy moaned. He instantly roared to full erection.
Teddy’s fingers massaged Knuckle’s cheeks and throat, working him loose. Knuckle kept snoring when Teddy’s dick didn’t go too deep in his throat, but when Teddy really got it in there, Knuckle’s snore turned into a choking sound. Each one made his throat clench around Teddy’s dick and was followed by a big ball of spit leaking from his mouth.
“Sorry, you okay?” Teddy said a couple times, but Knuckle was sound asleep. “You okay, Knuckle?”
Knuckle’s pecs gleamed with his spit and Teddy’s precum, and thick tendrils of those fluids connected Teddy’s twinky little body to Knuckle’s scarred face. After a few more chokes, Knuckle’s neck relaxed.
That meant Teddy could get his whole dick in, until his balls rested on Knuckle’s chin. Knuckle’s square jaw worked up and down a little as though trying to snore, but all that came out was a moist gurgling sound. The movement resulted in his tongue caressing Teddy’s shaft.
“Oh god, fuck yeah, oh god, thanks, Knuckle…” Teddy moaned, leaning on Knuckle’s massive head as he pumped a load down his unconscious throat.
Teddy filled Knuckle’s gullet with his jizz, and then all at once, Knuckle’s muscles tensed, and he vomited up Teddy’s dick. “Oh sorry,” Teddy hastened to say as he pulled off. Knuckle blank, bleary eyes were wide open.
But Knuckle just covered his mouth with one hand, retched and tottered drunkenly to the bathroom. It wasn’t far away, and the door was open. He vomited right into the toilet.
“Sorry, Knuckle. Sorry!” Teddy said a couple times in between heaves.
“Nuh-urry ‘out it…” Knuckle murmured as he leaned over the toilet bowl. “That wasssh the boooze.”
“Really?”
Knuckle nodded. He slumped over, unconscious again. His naked body wrapped around the commode.
But this time, his muscular asshole was accessible. He was crouched at first, leaning on the toilet bowl. Teddy sat down behind him and massaged his back.
“You done throwing up, buddy?” Teddy asked. But Knuckle didn’t respond. So Teddy pushed his limp dick into Knuckle’s asshole. He had cum just minutes ago, so he was still totally soft. But Knuckle’s butt was warm and inviting, and in his crouched position, it was easily accessible and stretched open.
So as Teddy groped Knuckle’s unconscious muscles, he got hard again and instantly slipped it in. Knuckle let out a little grunt when Teddy got in.
He wasn’t intact, Teddy noticed. He didn’t feel much resistance. He moaned into the meat of Knuckle’s back as his dick slipped right in.
His butt clenched tightly around his dick, while Teddy worked his dick up and down. Intense pleasure overwhelmed him, and his gentleness gradually diminished as Knuckle didn’t respond, aside from some instinctual flinching at first.
With a load moan, Teddy shot a massive wad deep into him. Though he had already cum not long ago, Teddy still managed to fill Knuckle up. Since Knuckle was crouched and slumped over the toilet, all Teddy’s jizz immediately spilled out onto Teddy’s crotch and the floor between Knuckle’s feet.
Knuckle’s muscles were soft, relaxed as could be, though his body jerked every few seconds with Teddy’s dick in his butt. Teddy lightly massaged his shoulders.
“Thanks, Knuckle,” Teddy said. He didn’t pull his dick out. He just wanted to let it marinate in there a little while. He let it soften in Knuckle’s body, as Teddy leaned against his face against Knuckle’s back and groped Knuckle’s firm, scarred shoulders. “I’m glad we’re friends.”

The Scarred Bouncer

Chapter One: An Affectionate Touch

Chapter Two: The Liminal Space

Chapter Three: A Glorious Face

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Connection

Chapter Five: A Deserved Choke

Chapter Six: A Good Friend

Chapter Seven: A Present of Sorts

Chapter Eight: That Sweet Release

Chapter Nine: A Plan for Repayment

Chapter Ten: An Unpleasant Chore

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter Four

The Scarred Bouncer

Chapter One: An Affectionate Touch

Chapter Two: The Liminal Space

Chapter Three: A Glorious Face

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Connection

Chapter Five: A Deserved Choke

Chapter Six: A Good Friend

Chapter Seven: A Present of Sorts

Chapter Eight: That Sweet Release

Chapter Nine: A Plan for Repayment

Chapter Ten: An Unpleasant Chore

Chapter Eleven: A Sweet Release

On Friday night, two bouncers worked after nine o’clock. One worked inside, the other worked the door. Tonight, Knuckle kept the peace inside the bar. He preferred working the door. Inside, there was too much going on, too many spinning plates to take care of, lights flashing on and off, music booming boisterously, waitresses coming and going and dancers in and out of the champagne room and the dressing room and the back closet where they snorted drugs with men. Men ain’t allowed to touch the dancers, but the dancers could touch the men and even put the men’s hands wherever they wanted. Men ain’t allowed to be drunk, but they was allowed to get drunk. Men ain’t allowed in the back unless a dancer was escorting them to the champagne room. Inside the bar was a night stuffed with inconsistencies and unpredictable decisions. Knuckle hated it.
Not that any of that showed on his face. He was placid and firm, and his staggering stare stopped baddies from trying any tricks.
Knuckle stood by the bar, arms across his chest, legs slightly spread. He ain’t put on a tough face like the other bouncers, like Chuy, who worked the door, and he ain’t put on his smiling-brah face like Davon or his burly-daddy face like Wayne.
Conversation was subdued when Knuckle looked over the bar, and nobody sat at the tables nearest him.
Sanders Clampett sat closest to him. He was a regular, a middle-aged black man who often chatted with Teddy. He liked a couple of the girls enough to stare mouth agape every time one came near, and the girl he fancied most was Lace Laceright. She was big, buxom, heavily tattooed.
Tonight, she waitressed, so Sanders nursed his beer and flirted with her every time she passed him.
“Hey, baby, love ya top,” Sanders said when she came to the bar with orders from a table. It was obvious he been brainstorming ways to start a conversation with her. He flashed a grin at her.
“Thanks, sugah…”
“Hey, baby, you busy tonight?”
“Sure am, sugah…”
“Hey baby, you look thirsty. Wanna drink?”
“Hmm, I’d love a Sweetlips Sour,” she said. That was a mostly-water cocktail that the girls were encouraged to order. They got a bonus for it. Teddy made it for her, with the extra shot of tequila Lacey Laceright always requested.
As she bent over the bar to take it, Sanders looked at the tattoos on her back. “You got a redhead whiteboy tattooed on you, sweetums. That ya boy?” It was on her left shoulder. Teddy had noticed it too, but he’d never asked after it. Lacey Laceright had a lot of tattoos.
“That’s Skinny Malinky. He’s from a children’s book I like,” she said. She giggled and took a sip from her Sweetlips Sour. “Gotta take that table’s order, sugah.” She kissed Sanders on his cheek. “Thanks…”
“Hmmm… Hmmm…” Sanders let out a little moan and licked his lips when she kissed him, but then she was gone.
That night, hours later, Teddy was again closing down the bar. Arthur the bouncer at the door walked the girls to the parking lot, while Knuckle drank at the bar. Knuckle’s broad shoulders stretched his too-tight shirt. He gulped from the whiskey drink Teddy made him, so Teddy made him another one.
When Lacey Laceright walked by, her purse in hand, Knuckle looked at her and said, “The War Between the Pitiful Teachers and the Splendid Kids.”
Lacey Laceright and Teddy both looked at him with questioning eyes. Teddy stayed shocked — both by the bizareness of Knuckle’s words and the fact that he spoke without a direct question to respond to — but Lacey Laceright’s eyes lit up.
“Yes, oh my god, you’ve read that, Knuckle?!”
He nodded. “I read it a long time ago. I ai’t recognize the name when you said it, but I remember it…” He blushed and took a step towards her. “I like your tattoo a lot. Ma’am.”
She patted him on the chest and said, “You’re like maybe the third person I’ve ever met who’s read that. Thanks, sugah, have a good night.” And she walked out. She didn’t wait for Knuckle to escort her to her car, and Knuckle’s knees were weak, his teeth nervous, so it didn’t occur to him to go.
Teddy was impressed. That was the most personal thing Knuckle done ever said to anyone in Lipsweet, and it was the nicest any of the dancers done ever treat him. Knuckle hurried into the back — he was still living in the backroom next to the gym.
But he didn’t go straight there.
He went down the corridor behind the dance room, and he checked in the utility closets. He looked in the alley out back and behind the dumpster. He went to the champagne room and to the private spot where you could peep into the champagne room. He finally went into the “pantry” — that was what they called the room full of unopened liquor.
And there was Ernie the janitor. He was sweeping, singing softly to himself.
Ernie was in the pantry in hopes some shelf might be unlocked. He done tried them all — he did that every night because once, two years ago, he’d nabbed an entire shelf of fancy tequila that way. He’d been drunk for a month straight.
But when he heard someone in the hall, he got to sweeping. He assumed it was Teddy the bartender, here to get a new bottle of something, and Ernie needed an excuse to be in here. So he swept the floor of the tiny closet.

And he looked nonchalant at the sight of Knuckle. Ernie ain’t care about Knuckle — sure, he was ugly, even for a honky, and he was weird. But Ernie was a crackhead who done spent years behind bars. He done met more ugly, weird honkies than normal men. Knuckle was quiet, and he ain’t never told nobody nothing, so Ernie ain’t pay him no mind.


So Ernie shrugged and stopped pretending to sweep when he saw it was Knuckle. “Bottles is all locked up good,” he said. “Sometimes up at the bar there’s some rail liquor that-“
But Knuckle paid not a lick of attention to Ernie’s words. He strode into the tiny closet, shut the door behind himself and pulled down Ernie’s loose-fitting jeans. His other hand was in his pants, stroking his rock-hard dick.
“Hey! Honky-ass bitch!” Ernie yelped. “Git-“
But then Knuckle ripped Ernie’s tight white briefs apart to bare his bony asscheeks. Ernie squirmed and dropped the broom, then tried to pick it up to use it to fend off the giant bouncer behind him.
If it ain’t happen so fast, Ernie woulda realized bending over to pick up the broom was a bad idea. His yelp turned into a howl as Knuckle’s cock sank into his loose asshole.
“Shit, honky! Quit it! You gotta use some damn lube!” Ernie panted and clawed at Knuckle’s powerful chest behind him.
“Sssssh.” Knuckle ain’t get why Ernie was fighting him, but he ain’t care, he just sunk his dick in deeply. Ernie was a crackhead and a prison punk, and Mr. Gregarian was always making Knuckle cornhole him — any time he saw Knuckle (or any bouncer) with a stiffy, he told them to cornhole Ernie. Mr. Gregarian was worried a horny bouncer would get fresh with the dancers. Mr. Gregarian also found Knuckle just as creepy and offputting as everyone else, so he sometimes pretended to think Knuckle had a hardon to have an excuse to tell him to go away, to cornhole Ernie, so Mr. Gregarian wouldn’t have to endure Knuckle’s intense silence.
“Why you gotta rip my drawers?” Ernie said through gritted teeth. He spread his legs the best he could, and he grabbed the bottle of lube he kept in here. He still wore his underwear, but Knuckle done ripped the back of it in half to bare his butthole.
No answer was forthcoming. Knuckle grabbed Ernie by his knappy-ass hair, and he held on tight. That had the effect of making Ernie struggle with the lube — Knuckle ain’t trying to stop Ernie from lubing up, he done simply forgot that that was normal.
By the time Ernie got his hand down to his backside to smear some lube on, Knuckle was already pumping him full of cum. Great creamy gobs of it jazzed into Ernie’s butthole with such sudden energy that Ernie jerked and twitched.
His dick slid out. A couple cumwads sprayed over Ernie’s dark, gray-haired buttcheeks and dripped down his ropy thighs.
Knuckle sighed and pulled his rod with one hand. He drained the last couple drops of jizz out and flung them onto Ernie’s legs.
Ernie scowled and slipped away. “You a shit, honky,” he said. He wiped cum off his butt and ropy thighs. “Goddamn…” he pulled his pants up, torn briefs as well, and walked away muttering to himself. “Crazy-ass honky mothahfuckah…”

The Scarred Bouncer

Chapter One: An Affectionate Touch

Chapter Two: The Liminal Space

Chapter Three: A Glorious Face

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Connection

Chapter Five: A Deserved Choke

Chapter Six: A Good Friend

Chapter Seven: A Present of Sorts

Chapter Eight: That Sweet Release

Chapter Nine: A Plan for Repayment

Chapter Ten: An Unpleasant Chore

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter One

The Scarred Bouncer

Chapter One: An Affectionate Touch

Chapter Two: The Liminal Space

Chapter Three: A Glorious Face

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Connection

Chapter Five: A Deserved Choke

Chapter Six: A Good Friend

Chapter Seven: A Present of Sorts

Chapter Eight: That Sweet Release

Chapter Nine: A Plan for Repayment

Chapter Ten: An Unpleasant Chore

Chapter Eleven: A Sweet Release

It was a quiet night at Lipsweet, but Teddy was terrified. That was because the peace was kept by the bouncer Knuckle, and Knuckle was terrifying.
Teddy worked the bar at Lipsweet, a rough-edged strip club on the outskirts of Martinsburg, West Virginia. Knuckle was the bouncer there. Like all the bouncers at Lipsweet, Knuckle was big and strong and tough. Unlike the other bouncers at Lipsweet, Knuckle was also badly scarred, bizarre and scary. He was scary-looking enough that nobody tried anything while Knuckle was on duty. Nobody groped the dancers. Nobody tried to get free drinks. Nobody got loud or obnoxious. Nobody picked fights.
So it was a quiet night at Lipsweet.
It was hard to finger exactly what was scary about Knuckle. Part of it was obvious: his badly scarred face, with a thick cheek scar that gave him a permanent sinister smile visible from one angle, a burn scar that spilled like lava from his shoulder to the side of his face, a long beheading-type scar on his neck, a cut running from his sideburn to his forehead as though an eye was almost sliced open and a constellation of pinprick scars and marks all over his bare arms when he wore a sleeveless shirt.
And aside from the scars, Knuckle glowered and stared with flatness, his face unreadable, his voice low and growling, without emotion, and a lot of what he said was just plain weird or incomprehensible. Nobody liked talking to him.
One benefit of Knuckle working was that folks always left promptly at closing time. The other bouncers had to drag the drunks and the sticky-peepers away from the dancing ladies. There were usually a couple brawls — not serious, as anyone left by then was too drunk to fight effectively, but most nights, somebody refused to leave.

Not when Knuckle worked the door. He gave one glowery look at the last couple drunks, and they hightailed it outta there. The bar was empty before Teddy even put the pre-sliced limes away.



After that, the dancers and waitresses left one by one. Knuckle escorted each of them to their cars in the parking lot. In between that, he sat silently at the bar and downed a drink Teddy poured for him, while Teddy added up the day’s receipts and shut the register down for the night.
He was always nervous on a Knuckle night, so Teddy was glad when Knuckle disappeared. Teddy finished with the receipts, totaled up the cash register and locked the booze cabinet. Then he poured himself a cheap drink of whiskey, soda water and the last of the apple juice — the only juice in an opened bottle besides cranberry juice, which Teddy didn’t drink this late because it would keep him up peeing. He was past the point in his life where he could drink cranberry juice late at night.
Before leaving though, Teddy went in the back to do a final check — to make sure the dancers were all gone, that none of them had been attacked by a “boyfriend” in their dressing room, that no drunks were passed out in the bathroom, etc.
Plus he was curious where Knuckle went. Lipsweet had a large back area, including dressing rooms, champagne rooms, a locker room and gym for the bouncers, a couple offices and storage spaces for the Gregarian family (who owned Lipsweet) and a locked warehouse that Teddy was pretty sure was full of guns. He didn’t ask about that door though.
“Hello? Knuckle?” Teddy called out before the flickering hall light turned on. The bathroom was deserted. The dressing room was empty — the dancers had left it a pigsty, with clothes and makeup detritus strewn about — Mr. Gregarian was gonna get het up about that if he saw it, Teddy thought.
But there were no signs of Knuckle. So Teddy ought to just go home. He was only supposed to check for drunks passed out by the toilets, and he’d done that. Now he could go home.
Yet the more he thought about it, the more Teddy wondered about Knuckle. Why was he so weird? Why did he act like that? Where did he go? Knuckle had come in after escorting Caitlin Smiles to her car — she’d called him an “ugly ape”, and Teddy distinctly remembered Knuckle coming back in after that; he’d finished his drink at the bar, and then he’d come into the back as though to escort another dancer to the parking lot. But Caitlin was last to leave, so there were no more dancers.
Knuckle was in the gym.
Teddy scampered to hide next to the door into the gym so Knuckle wouldn’t see him. He didn’t know why; Teddy was allowed to be here. Knuckle was just off-putting and odd, and Teddy’s first reaction was to avoid talking to him. Teddy stayed beside the doorway into the tiny gym.
Mystery solved, he thought. Knuckle was working out. That wasn’t so strange. Mr. Gregarian put the gym behind Lipsweet so the bouncers would use it. Knuckle was doing bicep curls. It was a little weird to work out at four o’clock in the morning, but that was hardly the weirdest thing about Knuckle.
The “gym” was a glorified closet with a couple weight machines and a treadmill in it, and he was on the bowflex in the center of the room. His big fleshy arms were sturdy, dotted with sweat. On his left bicep was that burn scar whose edges stretched up onto his neck and cheek, and since he had taken off his button-down shirt to reveal a raggedy wifebeater, Teddy could see now how big it was. He had been very badly burned at some point, it seemed.
There was a bandage on his side, near his back. It looked fresh — from tonight? — because it was still pale white and clean around the edges but soaked in crimson right above the wound. He must have struggled to put the bandage on, because it only partially covered the wound. Where it stretched onto his back, the bandage didn’t quite cover it. That made sense, because Knuckle was so muscular and thick-chested that he probably couldn’t reach that section of his lower back.
“The dancers is all gone,” Knuckle said. His voice was grim, flat, emotionless, like a deflated balloon, but scratchy like his lungs were made from sandpaper. It sounded painful for him to speak, and his voice made Teddy’s hair stand on end.
Why did he say that? Nobody else was in the room. It took Teddy a few seconds to realize Knuckle said that to him. Knuckle knew he was there.
“The dancers is all gone,” Knuckle said again with stopping his bicep curls. “I made sure they left okay.”
Teddy went into the gym-room then, since apparently hiding hadn’t worked. Teddy was just a bartender — he wasn’t in charge of ensuring Knuckle escorted the dancers to their cars, boyfriends or johns, but Knuckle had said that as though proving to Teddy he had done his job. It wasn’t even Knuckle’s job — Mr. Gregarian never said the bouncers had to do it. The other bouncers generally only did it if the girls said they were worried about a stalker. Teddy said, “Oh. Okay. Cool. Thanks, Knuckle. I just wanted to make sure no one was in the backrooms. I gotta lock up.”
“Yes.” Knuckle kept doing bicep curls. The bandage came unstuck from his bare side, which was slick with sweat. He didn’t seem to clock it. The bandage dangled from his muscular back.
What on earth did “yes” mean? Teddy hadn’t asked a question. See, this is why, Knuckle, everyone thinks you’re creepy. Teddy couldn’t tear his eyes away from the thick scar bisecting his neck. Did Knuckle survive getting his throat slit?
“I, uh… Okay. You have your key, right? So you can leave-“
“Yes.”
There was a long pause. Teddy normally liked the bouncers and their muscles. He often rubbed their shoulders when they were done with their shift.
But not Knuckle.
Not that Knuckle didn’t have nice muscles. Mr. Gregarian only hired large men with powerful bodies as bouncers. Knuckle was a muscle-hound and tough enough to have done years in prison. His shoulders were as thick as volleyballs.
A weak sigh came from Teddy’s chest. “Let me help you with that bandage. What happened?” Teddy said. He felt bad about Knuckle apparently unable to take care of his own injury. Teddy inhaled the gloriously zesty scent of Knuckle’s workout sweat.
“A knife.”
What about the knife, Knuckle? Did it come alive and stab you? Did you fall on it? Did Freddie Krueger attack you in your dreams last night?
But Teddy didn’t ask those questions. He went back to the bar to get a first aid kit. When he returned to the gym, Knuckle was still weight-lifting, like he didn’t think Teddy was going to come back to help.
“Who stabbed you? When?” Teddy asked as he disinfected the cut. It didn’t look like Knuckle had cleaned it. He had just slapped a bandage halfway on the wound. Why? What on earth was the point of that? Dried blood had trickled down the side of his back and stained his workout shorts, which looked to be decades old — the kind of basketball shorts they wore when professional basketball players were mostly white. The shorts were too short by modern standards. Knuckle looked ridiculous in them.
And now, they were blood-stained. Knuckle had cleaned off the blood on his skin, so he knew the shorts were bloody. Why hadn’t he changed them?
And this is why the dancers think you’re a creep, Teddy thought but didn’t say. You’ve been working this whole shift, presumably, wearing blood-stained shorts.
He had to admit the scent of Knuckle’s sweat made his dick twitch. He didn’t mind the extensive burn scar on his shoulder, neck and cheek either. It wasn’t classically handsome, of course, but it gave him a certain simmering intensity that Teddy found arousing.
“The man with the whiskey stabbed me,” Knuckle said, his voice rugged with rasps.
“That man who wanted Jim Beam tonight was… Wait, tonight? You got stabbed tonight?” Teddy’s hands stopped when they gripped his shoulder, which was firm like rock. His skin thrummed and buzzed beneath Teddy’s touch.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say? Why didn’t you call the police? That man — wait, you mean the man in the suit? The one who raised a fuss about me being out of Jim Beam and-“
“Yes.”
“And then came back to the bar and settled on vodka?”
“I dunno what he drank after.”
“Knuckle…” Teddy sighed. That man had been drinking at the bar right in front of Teddy. Teddy had no idea he had just stabbed the bouncer. He simply filled the man’s orders. The man went into the champagne room with Caitlyn Smiles! “That man could have been waiting in the parking lot with the knife for you to get off work! That’s dangerous, Knuckle-“
“I’s stayin’ here. In the backroom. Not leaving through the parking lot.” That flat murder-hobo voice made Teddy’s spine quake. Knuckle was still doing bicep curls, having not missed a beat.
Knuckle’s claim didn’t solve the problem Teddy had pointed out. At all. The man still had a knife in the bar all night. He could have been waiting for Knuckle in the parking lot. If Knuckle didn’t come, he could have stabbed one of the girls. Or Teddy. He could have been too drunk to know who he was stabbing. He could have had a gun as well. He could have raped Caitlyn in the champagne room. Somebody else could have taken the knife off him when he got drunk. He could have gotten furious when Teddy cut him off for being too drunk. He could have stabbed another customer for looking at Caitlyn.
He hadn’t been banned from Lipsweet! He could be back tomorrow with a bigger knife!
But Knuckle had apparently not told anyone he was stabbed. He just half-bandaged-up and resumed bouncering. He hadn’t even taken a break tonight — had he bandaged himself standing at the door?
He must have guessed what Teddy was thinking because Knuckle said, “Mistuh Gregarian don’t like it when the cops come.”
“He doesn’t like it — that doesn’t apply if you’ve been stabbed, Knuckle,” Teddy said. “You could at least kick the guy out.” Teddy’s hand lingered on Knuckle’s belly, next to the stab-wound from tonight. There was an old puckering circular scar there. “Is that an old stab-wound?”
“That’s a gunshot.”
“You poor baby…” Teddy said, more out of a desire to suck up to the scarfaced weirdo than because he really pitied him. Knuckle was too intimidating to arouse much sympathy. He patted Knuckle on the biceps in lieu of hugging him — Teddy didn’t know if he avoided hugging Knuckle because Knuckle seemed like he might not like it or if Teddy was too intimidated by him. Knuckle was still doing bicep curls too, so it would be awkward to hug him.
But the dancers did treat him badly. They treated all the bouncers like shit — the dancers mostly had high-class boyfriends who were bankers, coke dealers, heirs, etc. The bouncers were a bunch of ex-cons, boxers and freaks like Knuckle. The dancers treated the bouncers like insolent ponies.
And Knuckle wasn’t a jerk like some of the bouncers, like Davon, a prettyboy who seemed nice but never wanted to get his face mussed up and had a side-hustle as a pimp. Teddy didn’t like him.
“Who’s Emma?” Teddy asked as he washed dried blood off Knuckle’s back. EMMA was tattooed on his nape in small Gothic lettering.
“She was a girl. I loved her. That was a long time ago,” he said, and for the first time since Teddy had known him, there was a trace of emotion in his voice. “That was before I looked like this.”
“Oh, Knuckle… Knuckle, I’m sorry — did she…?-“
“She married someone else,” he said.
Teddy hadn’t meant to start rubbing Knuckle’s shoulders and chest like he did with the other bouncers, but as Knuckle talked, that was what he did. Knuckle was tall and thick-bodied, and Teddy had to strain to reach around his thick barrel chest. His pecs flexed, and Teddy found himself hugging Knuckle’s sweat-dappled chest from behind.
“I worked for a traveling carnival when I met her,” Knuckle said. “She had a nice boyfriend even then.”
“You were a carnie?”
Knuckle nodded. “I ran the strength-meter, the one with the hammer.” He paused. “I miss her.” He sounded like he was getting drunk now, his words a little sloshy, and he swayed even though he simply sat on the edge of the bowflex.
His dick twitched in his shorts, and Teddy was glad to see it was huge. He stroked it through the fabric. He was about to ask if Knuckle wanted to be jacked off, but before he could, Knuckle said, “Yes.”
There was no need to ask which question he was answering. In moments, Teddy had Knuckle’s hot, foot-long cock in hand and stroked it slowly. It was even bigger than the other bouncers, he thought. He spat on his hand, then Knuckle grabbed him by the wrist, hocked up a thick loogey of snot and put it back.
Well, that was weird, Teddy thought, but slimy and soft and warm, and he nuzzled the sweaty meat of Knuckle’s scarred shoulder as his hand wrapped around Knuckle’s dick again. The burn-scar was partially orange down the back, and then green towards the spine, the shape distended because it used to be a tattoo — maybe a dragon breathing fire? Teddy didn’t ask because Knuckle leaned his head back, then chugged the last of the liquor in the drink Teddy gave him.
He took his flask out from the pocket of the shorts he had pulled down to bare his cock. He guzzled the rest of that liquor too, as both of Teddy’s hands brought him to orgasm.
A huge wad of cum sprayed over Knuckle’s chest. He moaned — a creaky, flat moan like a malfunctioning grandfather clock — and Teddy licked a few drops up where they landed on his shoulders.
Knuckle groaned like he was either sleepy or drunk or both. He grunted and burped, the sound cavernous to Teddy because he was still behind him on the bowflex. Knuckle pushed back to signal Teddy to leave. His jizz dripped over his chest muscles. Some had gotten all the way up to his chin and lower lip, but Knuckle ignored it.
“I’ll pass out here,” Knuckle said. He glanced up at Teddy, his soulful eyes peering into him. His words lumbered out like a distant volcano. “Thank you, Teddy. For being nice.”
“You’re welcome,” Teddy said. Knuckle was already half-asleep, it seemed. He wasn’t going to wipe the jizz up off his chest or put his dick away. Teddy found a towel in one corner of the gym.
“You can nut on me. Hump my dick, or my chest if you want. Or my mouth when I pass out,” Knuckle said. He shrugged and closed his eyes. “Not when I’m awake.”
“Really?” Teddy furrowed his brow. He often jacked off with the bouncers. They sometimes let him frot their dicks or hump their muscles, as they worked out or drank their post-shift liquor.
But not when they were passed out. And not their mouths.
“Knuckle?” Teddy said softly, his hands rubbing Knuckle’s shoulders lightly. He said it a few more times, then poked Knuckle’s scarred cheek to see if he was awake.
He was out cold.
Teddy giggled and touched his scarred face again, gasping like he was getting away with something. Knuckle’s jizz clung to his chin. Teddy leaned in and sucked it up. The taste was salty and bracing, and when Knuckle didn’t react, Teddy did it again. Then he kissed a trail up Knuckle’s face.
Teddy took out his own dick and frotted it with Knuckle’s giant limp member for a few minutes, until he was sure that Knuckle was fully unconscious. Knuckle snored as Teddy mounted the bench and rubbed his dick on Knuckle’s chest.
He had massive pecs the kind only men in movies had, Teddy thought with a grin. He leaked precum all over those pecs. He found that, when his balls dragged over a nipple, both pecs twitched. He did it again and again, massaging Knuckle’s scarred shoulders.
Then he slipped his dick in Knuckle’s mouth. A hoarse choke came from his throat, but if he was awake, he gave no sign. His mouth was warm and wet, and the sensation sent a shiver up Teddy’s spine.
He moved his dick in and out, rubbing it over Knuckle’s tongue. He twitched a couple times but otherwise didn’t respond. Teddy pushed all the way in, until his balls slapped against Knuckle’s chin.
An intense orgasm overwhelmed Teddy, who moaned out loud and gripped Knuckle’s head. Cum sprayed all over Knuckle’s chin, mouth and neck, but Teddy stuck it back in his mouth, in time to fill it up to overflowing.
A retch and a shake came from Knuckle’s body, but he spat up all that cum, as Teddy’s dick still jizzed, and moistly sputtered, but he didn’t wake up. His big square face was coated in creamy white cum.
“Thanks, Knuckle,” Teddy said softly, still not wanting to wake him up. Teddy dismounted him and pulled up his pants. He was about to leave, but he saw Knuckle sitting there with his pants down, dick out, face and chest dripping with cum.
It seemed undignified, Teddy thought. He wiped off Knuckle’s dick, face and chest, then put his dick away and did his fly back up. He couldn’t put a shirt back on without lifting Knuckle’s giant chest up — an unrealistic proposition — so Teddy left him like that, snoring soundly.
“Have a good night, Knuckle,” was all he said before walking out.

The Scarred Bouncer

Chapter One: An Affectionate Touch

Chapter Two: The Liminal Space

Chapter Three: A Glorious Face

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Connection

Chapter Five: A Deserved Choke

Chapter Six: A Good Friend

Chapter Seven: A Present of Sorts

Chapter Eight: That Sweet Release

Chapter Nine: A Plan for Repayment

Chapter Ten: An Unpleasant Chore

Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil: Chapter One

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

Inside the bar was smoky and slow like a steamed cigarette. Thumper White got there just past five o’clock, and the jawn was quiet. He worked the door at the strip club Lipsweet. Outside, it looked like it might rain. Thumper hoped it did, as he wanna feel rain upon his brow. He spent thirty-four years in prison, where the screws canceled outside time if it might rain — they thinks rain might help a nigga escape — or “abscond” if you a prison guard. He bin waiting to get rained on.
But his dome stayed dry all night as he worked the door alongside this statue-shape nigga Davon. They mostly checked idees, but Thumper saw some nice titties too. After so much time without women, that was a perk that got Thumper reeling.
The lead-up to Thumper’s release was intense. His world opened up again and seemed as limitless as the teeming night sky. A nigga don’t see many stars in prison. But now he was out, and he relied on the club’s owner Mr. Gregarian for a cheapy-deapy place to sleep above the bar and for the job he needed to keep his parole — he gotsta work forty hours or go back to prison, even if he ain’t need all that to pay the bills. He got mandatory therapist appointments and narcotics anonymous meetings even though he never been a mental nor did he ever get accused of using narcotics anonymously. He gotta answer his goddamn phone anytime day or night in case his parole officer called. No excuses. Fucking phone was like a manacle.
A manacle that beeped unscrutable-like. If anybody reading this know how to make a whoopy-doopy-whoop beep stop, let a nigga know. Any nigga wearing red will do. Word’ll get back to Thumper.
His schedule was just as determined on the outside as it was on the inside. He got more privacy on the outside, and his apartment was nicer. But he had homies and choices and free backrubs from the reverend at chapel every Sunday on the inside.
Out here, homies was scarce. Every nigga he knew before his arrest was outta his life now. World was never smaller than now that he was free to walk it alone. Shoulda “absconded” when he was young enough that living free was worth it. Now he ain’t even allowed to leave the state of Maine, so he couldn’t go home to Baltimore and dip his toes in the mighty Chesapeake again.
Thumper was sposedta start bouncering tomorrow night, but the bouncer who was scheduled for tonight done bounce without telling nobody. They was surmising he quit cuz he ain’t show up. Just gone, like a ghost. Maybe he was dead, ain’t nobody check. Cuz he wasn’t around, Mr. Gregarian brought Thumper in tonight to work alongside Davon, who was the head bouncer.
“A’ight, old nigga, we comin’ up on the night proper,” Davon said around nine o’clock, shattering Thumper’s nod. Davon grinned ear to ear. “They be bustling in now. You ready?” A foursome of cars was pulling into the parking lot, each of ’em plum with hipstering honkies lashing on liquidishly like they done start they drinking back home.

Folks did that now. It was trash-high behavior back before, but nowadays every whombody did it. Drinks was expensive for real.

“Hell yeah, Davon, I bin waitin’ for this day for thirty-four years.”
Davon nodded, with a smirky grin like he ain’t get why Thumper said that but ain’t wanna listen to any clarification. He knew Thumper was a ex-con, he just don’t care enough to think about it. Davon was a Blood, same as Thumper. Unlike Thumper, Davon was also a mud-color darkskin prettyboy with teeth like a skeleton and lips made for kissing buttflaps. He was a jubilous talkalot who pretended to pal with people like a pushy puppy. Already he be pimping palms with honkies and addressing ’em like he knew ’em. “There you is, welcome back! Love to see ya, sohn! You keepin’ it real… Scott.” He got they names off they idees as he checked ’em, but he pretended he remembered ’em. In return, they all pretended to be charmed by him. Thumper done hung out with farts that was more interesting than that nothing-muffin. His forgettable six-pack and baby-clean name-brand jeans stretched a teaspoon of charismatic gravy over two hundred fifty pounds of that nigga’s salisbury steak. If niggas was books, Davon’d be a romance novel that was ten pages long but fulla correctly spelled words. Davon was a sea of smiles and dimples, the velveeta of niggas, like a cushion and a cloud didn’t bake a cake, and that cake was sugar-free, fat-free, declawed, defanged and stuffed with puffs of nothingness. That nigga gladhanded every one them no-hoot pecker-toters who lined up to exercise they stiffies in Lipsweet.
The difference between Thumper and Davon — aside from the obvious ones — was that Davon got no problem saying all the fool-ass shit the world want him to say. He do stick to the lines he been given, and he wanna be nice to everyone in case they got more lines to give him in the future. Thumper got no choice to follow Davon.
Well, not true. He could beat that handsome nigga into a ugly stain. Doing so might be preferable one night to pushing obedience at a smooth sac like Davon.
But for now, he do what Davon say, at least as it relates to bouncering.
Not much happened, even when the club filled up. Thumper was hoping for more excitement. Prison was buncha boredom, but at least there was chances to stab a Mexican. The one time a trio of numptious niggas nipped at a dancer’s derriere without proffering payment, it was Davon who brung them a basket of dimple-fried smiles to tell ’em to lay off — nigga was smiling! Seemed nuggety to Thumper, but it worked. Davon smiled more than every nigga Thumper met in prison combined.
Eventually, as time do be doing, it went on, and night’s close drew near. This was it. Thumper was a free nigga, and he got a job, and here it was. This was freedom. He bin imagined hisself living like he did when he was nineteen and a champion boxer and got a coach and high-quality knees and a posse of niggas with plans and he couldn’t swing his dick around without knocking down a white bitch flinging her pussy at him. Now, he gotta speak up to get any fool to pay him mind. He was just another nigga, not in charge of shit, not even within earshot of being in charge.
And, as Teddy the bartender did his last-call bit and Davon began hustling drunks and skunks out the bar like it was his job, Thumper ain’t like it that he was the low soul on the totem pole here. He was twice the age of Davon and Teddy, but they was calling his shots. Shit’s bullshit, nigga.
In prison, Thumper was the nigga who did and everybody knew it. Here, he was just the creepy old head, the new nigga, nobody’s uncle, the graybeard whoever over there.
Ain’t neither of ’em, Davon or Teddy, pick up any what Thumper was putting out. That was good, cuz Thumper need this job. He be simmering though.
He was still simmering when Lipsweet finally closed, and Teddy locked the door. Davon told Thumper to take this unconscious ruddynut to the alley out back and slap the drunkness outta him. Thumper just dropped him by the dumpster and went back in, more outta desire to be disobedient than cuzza mercy. The door back into Lipsweet done lock when it slammed shut, so Thumper gotta rattle his key in the knob to open it up. He ain’t tell Davon he left the ruddynut drunk unsmacked. Davon’s prettyboy mug was putting on a show for the girlies, who watched him tell a story like they worshipped him. Thumper wanna make a shiv, stab his bitch-ass and rip the smirk off his face.
But thirty-four years of prison ran through his old-nigga mind. Thumper fights mean, but he fights clean. So he ain’t do jack shit to Davon. He helped Teddy put the chairs on the tables, so the janitor Ernie could quit spinning his wheels in the backcorridor like a haunted car and come up front to mop.
While Ernie pretended not to steal drinks from behind the bar, Davon disappeared, so Thumper escorted the dancers out to they cars by hisself. When Thumper saw him later, he got the impression Davon got sucked off by one the dancers. Prolly this fiery chowder-white Cherry. None the dancers gave Thumper a second look. Half them ain’t give him a first look.
Looks is scarce for a old nigga outsidea prison.
Thumper overheard the dancers whisper about him as the uncool old nigga, as out-of-touch as a frozen caveman. Davon too, he was joking earlier with Bud the club deejay that Thumper was “old-school but not the cool kind of old-school, he’s old-school like an abandoned orphanage”. They all looked at him like a car nobody makes parts for anymore. Thumper pretended not to hear all them all badmouthing him. That was easy cuz they thought he got old-nigga ears.
When the strippers was all gone home to they coke dealers and/or the highest bidder — they gots expectations to fill, and they fills ’em good — Davon and Teddy dipped. Thumper went upstairs. The apartment Mr. Gregarian gave him was on the second floor.
This whole jawn, the Gregarian building, was a ratmaze of renovated hallways and uncomprehendable architecture, hallways to nowhere, lor tumor-like spaces that done pop up in corridors, scatterings of solitary steps and three-stair staircases. It prolly started off as a mansion. But it done got scrambled and scattered since then, and Thumper got lost when he went looking for the laundry room or Rajesh’s office (Rajesh was the computer man for the club, and he fixed Thumper’s phone when he got a undismissable storm about a missing Spanish girl named Kia Sorento).
He stopped short at a ruffle of fabric, a off-white like light bone, billowing just outta sight to the right atoppa the stairs. “Who’s’at? Yo, uh… ma’am?”
A old-fashioned dress, he thunk, but its tail was all he saw. No way, nothing the strippers at Lipsweet would wear. Them’s the only women he got a expectation to see here now. But outfronts was all over the block in this building, so getting lost and wandering up here was plausibility for a female.
Mind ain’t working right? Wonderment on whether he was having a stroke tolled within Thumper’s mind.
The ruffling sound stopped like a timeless clock. From bottom to top, Thumper got blocked. “You — ain’t — s’posed-ta — be — up — here…” Stumbling short to cork his lungs, Thumper de-posed and unbeckoned like a unloaded weapon, unable to reckon the undead howls afronta his face and bowels.
Beneath a lacy hood like a owl’s head, battle-spike leather and satellite dish feathers surrounded around her mask. A porcelain corpse, she stood like a goblin, in a necklace of coffins, dress waffling in a breeze Thumper ain’t feel. Buggy-mugging, Thumper’s stout mouth and burnt tongue crowded about curtly, but no words emerged to be heard. She silently brayed like birds and bees. Fabric faded like a murky wheeze, silent as a lady’s pleas, lined with lace from rusty seas, the musty dress must be dusty like shaker cheese. Her flaky bust squeezing together with the mask and the ghastly dress made up a way Thumper’s brain couldn’t grasp.
She slid like dead flowers fading fast past showers of parchment in this petrified hall of broken doors in rows run nigga run dead light flowing like salted moths. His boots got rooted soft, and his broth froze awful in the cold wafting off her. He wanna go run leave flee sprint depart, but he couldn’t start, stuck tucked in to unlucky skin. Something missing within, felt like prison again, boxed in like a outfoxed hen, a would-be has-been with a fist-free tin chin who spent his ever-lasting hell in a thin cell of superlative sin. He be dropping nocked wins and bleeding blistered insight.
“Indeed, Mister White,” she said kiss-tight, voice skin-deep and slight, flinty as blight and thick as grout. “I done lost my route in this labyrinth of drought.”
At a standstill-turnt-rout, Thumper was cloudy and stout like a landfill of doubt, crowded with the devout, and his will filled without tingles at all, leaving him small and unshingled. His brain dewrinkled. Self-caging, Thumper felt hisself aging. “Wha… What’cha lookin’ for…?” Enraging in stages, Thumper face to face with her, her lacy grace hurt like a basic church.
A racing lurch under that mask was, like a bug on her face, scuttling like gutter butter into her gullet. Thumper bugged up bullets, agasp at last, after thirty-four years of crafting sass at white crap.
Her voice done did clasp tight as a flask, highly muffled and slightly rasped. “My vast dear, I did dash here to bask in the theatre of fat and fear.” Her mask skittered still as her head cocked aside like a lizard in a rancorous blizzard. Her words set off one and two thoughtful missiles. “You a actor? You come new to the Bangor official, yes?”
“I just moved in. There.” His regret at saying that rumbled soon as spores of doom, but that score was all he got in store. His point was one finger at the door above the floor. He got wishes galore he ain’t spill which apartment was his. This was one white bitch he don’t want dropping by. “The theatre — the movie theatre is closed down. It’s on the other side of the building. It outfronts on Stranger. It’s down those stairs I think.”
“No, Mister White, it ain’t closed, but thank yo’ bones.” She spoke dank as hoes.
“Who… is you?”
“I’s only the bereft wedge of empty woes,” she said, after laughter bounced her dulcet hair. “But you may call me Delsinerr.” A blot of a nod did crest her croney pall, and her blunt cunt glid smooth as a fall down the hall as though she floated above the floor, yet the clogs she wore clicked like clomps on blocks of gore. A stompy rhythm bore her stepless tour, and the wetness of her necklace did clink more and more in sync with the swirling squall of her furious footfalls, hauling gall down Thumper’s maw, for She is They, a slay-bent cabal that shall rend and maul to the end of it all.

When she was gone, Thumper’s mind cleared swift as bisquick, and he breathed normal again. Reality reordered.

Thumper scurried into his apartment and locked the door. He dragged the couch to block the door too. Only then did he start pacing and peeping through his peephole until dawn.
He was lucky the next night was a night off, cuz he ain’t sleep a nickel. He decided to move out, to go to the homeless shelter until he could find a new apartment. He ain’t wanna spend another night in that building where She might come by again, and he sat by the window until daylight flooded his room.
Seeing the sun rise made him think of prison and getting up early as roosters to start work detail, him and bunchesa niggas and Aryans bleary-eyed watching the horizon from the prison bus. He liked seeing the sun rise. Makes a nigga feel human, and watching it now made that crazy Woman in White feel like a dream.
So, in the warm light of day, Thumper decided he musta hallucinated. That was some crazy nightmare or something. She weren’t real. He peered in the window of the movie theater that afternoon, the one on Stranger Street, and it was dusty as a sneeze, unused in years, just a empty lobby and ticket window, one overturnt chair the only furniture. Scatterings of tarnished pennies dotted the counter where the concession-stand register woulda been.
It was just a dream. Thumper weren’t gonna tell nobody about it, cuz if he did, they’d make him for a notiony nigga telling tales. Maybe they would be right.
Somehow, after a full day of sunlight, he did sleep that eve. He thought he’d lay awake again, trying not to think of that masked woman whose presence broke his mind. But he did eventually drift into a fitless sleep and awoke even more tired than the night before.
Then Davon came by after noon, arriving without warning, like a bland tornado. He came to take Thumper to the private gym in the building, outfronting near that movie theater on Stranger. Thumper bin meaning to get down to the gym, but he ain’t do it till Davon brung him there. Davon gave him a doodad to wave around another doodad on the door to make it open. Doodad magic, look it up.
Inside was battle ropes, dumbbells and medicine balls, plus treadmills and one them home bowflex sets. Davon went right to the bowflex and got to flexing, while Thumper walked slow and steady on the treadmill. Felt good to exercise his lungs — not lotta chances to ambulate in prison. The sunnyskin prison doc said to go easy on his heart though, cuz he got a rhythm, so Thumper kept the treadmill turtley.
“Man, my girl sucked me off last night so much my dick hurts,” Davon said between sets. He bin talking about his girl like he expected Thumper to care and be jealous and wanna know the details, but Thumper weren’t gonna give him the satisfaction. Davon done pause his lifting as he raised his eyebrows at Thumper. He was muscled, but he was polished like glass — you could tell he never used them muscles for nothing but impressing females. If a nigga gonna lift, he oughta lift proper. Be the nigga you is pretending to be. Davon said, with a snorty laugh, “Nutted like a dozen times. She got down to the root.”
“Which one?” Thumper asked. “A dancer?”
“Not a dancer. Got sucked off by a dancer too, the other day, but Cherry ain’t my girl. She just a side thang,” Davon said with a laugh. “That side thang keeps it real too, on the downlow. She know what she is.” He resumed lifting intermittent-like, stopping every couple words to look dreamy like a disney stallion. “Shit, my girlfriend is white. Not trashy neither. She nice white, and her mama got a hunk of butt.”
While Davon bothered on about his girl, Thumper got off the treadmill. His old-nigga meat was flopping up and down as he ran, and he wanna put on a jockstrap before he got back on there. Imagineering Davon’s female made Thumper wanna bust a nut, so he took his dick out and gave it a stroke.
In prison, that weren’t no thing. Nobody complained when Thumper let his pecker swing free. That’s cuz Thumper was the complaints department for his cell block, and he do regulate complainers. No room for whining, cells are too cramped. A nigga gots to maintain.
When Davon saw Thumper’s plonker plonking in the cold light of day, he wrinkled his nose — which you could tell never done got broke. If you never broke your nose, you never said nothing pointy, so you either never noticed nothing or you did but kept your pussywillow shut about it. Either way is bad news for a nigga. Both prolly apply to Davon’s buttery mug.
“Shit, you ain’t in prison no mo’, old man. Outside niggas don’t drop dong,” Davon said. “Put’cha drawers on.”
“Nah. You ain’t the boss of me, nigga,” Thumper said. Davon bin acting like he thought maybe he was the boss, and perhaps he was — in the club. But the world outside Lipsweet was vast, and Davon was nothing in it. Thumper let his dingadingdoo jiggle near Davon’s face.
“Man, Thump-“
“Shut up when a old nigga is talking to you. You is in charge of the bouncers, Davon. You tell me how to bounce, you tell me how to clock in at the pill-” That made Davon suck on his teeth — the time-clock for the bar was on a “tablet” — which was a big phone — Thumper don’t like phones and he don’t like tablets — but a tablet was also a pill, so Thumper called the tablet a pill — Davon was too cute for wordplay. “But you don’t tell me how to do nothing else. Is there any female back here? Or kiddies?”
“No.”
“Then I’mma take my dick out when I feel like it. Get to liftin’, nigga. You ain’t big enough yet.” Thumper gently pushed Davon to lay down and do some bench-presses.
Davon turned up that perfect nose that never got broke. “Don’chu — this is a Gregarian gym, nigga. I work for Mr. Gregarian.”
Thumper scoffed. “Mistuh Gregarian work for the Bloods.” He pretend-rammed his dick at Davon’s face, but he ain’t touch Davon’s lips. Yet. Davon did look sickly at the smell of Thumper’s sweaty old-nigga balls dangling in the direction of his handsomeness. “And I did thirty-four years for the Bloods. You ain’t been alive thirty-four years. Lift, nigga. Use them muscles.” Davon did a benchpress, but he did it with a snort like he weren’t doing it cuz Thumper said so.
Looming large as a barge, Thumper remained overtop Davon’s crotch, straddling him now like a conquering colossus and slapping his stick on Davon’s six-pack. Davon kept his too-good face stoic as he lifted. Thumper pulled down Davon’s shorts.
“Whatchoo doin’, nigga?”
“Just playin’, don’t be squeamish,” Thumper said. Davon’s smooth cock spilled out, and Thumper gave it a stroke. Davon kept doing his bench presses like a smile-hard nigga who wouldn’t never challenge nothing. So he just lifted weights and let Thumper frot they wigwams together.
A hard sigh came from Davon, and Thumper felt the sigh rattle up and down Davon’s smooth shaft. Davon rolled his eyes. “Don’t be a freak, Thump. Get with the times,” he said softly, like he don’t expect Thumper to respond. Thumper got no response to that. He was getting with the times. He stepped outta time for thirty-four years, that was all. Thumper weren’t sure yet he even wanna catch up.
Thumper liked the feel of Davon’s prettyboy meat, limp as lips, rubbing on his shaft. Soon enough Thumper was firming up. He humped his erect cock onto Davon’s softness. Felt good to touch tugboats with another nigga again. Thumper ain’t done that since prison. Davon ain’t never been locked up, so he weren’t used to it and he ain’t get hard. That was fine. Made his dingaling squishy and moist and warm and fun to rub up against, like humping pudding.
“Yo, Davon, you know a masked woman? You seen her around this building?” Thumper asked. Davon looked at him like a crazy old fool, and Thumper added, “She like… wearin’ a dress, got a mask like a owl. She… weird. Weird as hell, nigga.”
Davon shrugged. “Maryanne wear a mask when she dance sometimes.”
“I met Maryanne. It weren’t Maryanne,” Thumper said. Precum oozed outta his cocktip and soaked Davon’s shaft. “Does that theater ever do plays?”
“The theater? On Stranger? That’s a movie theater,” Davon said. He stopped doing bench presses. “And it don’t even do movies no more. Shut down years ago. Nothing in there.” He looked down his body at his own cock, which was fat and juicy, glistening with Thumper’s precum. Thumper be stabbing his own manhood atop Davon’s over and over, like he was fucking a invisible pussy.
Thumper nodded. “Thought so, nigga,” he said like that was the answer he was expecting. He threw his head back as he orgasmed all over Davon’s limp meat. Thumper do love frotting with a squeamish nigga like Davon, who screwed up his face like a screwdriver, as a long flow of jizz sprayed atop his chest.
He got them perky chest muscles that girls love, pecs that’s big but never see no use aside from flexing to impress the females. Thumper’s first jizz was a big-ass splat of nut that went all the way from Davon’s shoulders to his glamorous six-pack — shit, don’t that nigga ever eat a carb? Then it puddled in his sternum, and Thumper scooted forward to aim his spasming pecker for Davon’s mouth.
That jizz only reached to his chin and lower lip though. It was enough to make Davon sour up, and Thumper shot yet another burst of cream onto Davon’s soap-opera jawline. Davon’s eyes wrinkled. Cum roped over his cheeks and nose.
“Ewwhhh, ni-hha!” Davon clenched his mouth shut.
All that cum lay congealing in a soup on Davon’s stomach and face. Big creamy wads of jism kept on coming out, until Davon’s entire face gleamed in the dim gym light. Davon twitched and writhed like he ain’t never before struggle to show off his nonchalance. Thumper chuckled and kept on humping Davon’s shaved cum-splattered chest till Thumper’s dick was just as soft and spongy as Davon’s.
That nigga weren’t so clean no more. That was good to see. Thumper do enjoy making clean niggas dirty.
Thumper got off him, and Davon sat up. He wiped nut off his nose. “You is one nasty old nigga-” He stopped to gag cuz some salty cum slipped into his mouth. “Be cool-” Another gag rippled through him, and he spat up jizz like a burping baby. “Nigga, be cool, shit, Thump…”
“Never forget, Davon, that you is only in charge of my bouncering,” Thumper said. He flicked his dick in Davon’s direction, making a few drops of jizz splatter over Davon’s shoulder. “In e’rrything else, this nasty old nigga do pave his own road.”

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

Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil: Chapter Two

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

Thumper recognized the humpty-dumpty nigga who came into Lipsweet late on Thursday night. It was only a half-hour till close. The sky done gone dark like it might rain, but it never did. The stars hid like shy cockroaches.
“Yo, Thumper? That you?! Aw, hell!” said that nod-happy nigga who approached the door. His name was Rashid Jenkins. He was cold-shouldering the couple niggas he lined up with, and he gave Thumper a pip and a dap when they gazes met.
“Oh, shit nigga!” Thumper’s eyes opened wide, as him and Rashid hugged it out. Thumper stacked lips at them other niggas waiting in line. Back inside, couple years ago, him and Rashid was in the same cell for awhile. Rashid was a top-heavy nigga, squishy and dense like overstuffed pillows. Thumper ain’t see him in years, and he recollected hard with his arms around Rashid. His fingers gripped that nigga’s thickness. “Goddamn, I ain’t know you was still kickin’ around Bangor. What’choo bin up to, Rashid?”
Rashid scoffed and sucked on his teeth. “J’st keepin’ it real, holdin’ it down, Thumper. You know how a nigga do.” He sucked on his teeth again. “That’s all. You ain’t go back to Baltimore?”
Thumper shook his head. “Parole officer won’t lemme leave the state.”
A harsh air spilled between Rashid and his niggas, plus the dozen or so lippy whiteboys and one Asian impatient-waiting in line behind Rashid. They all finna see some dancers in the club, and they dim-eyed Rashid and Thumper chopping it up. They mumbled on the underhush that Rashid shouldn’t be slowing the line down and that Thumper was a doddery old nigga who dresses like a fossil. Thumper woulda told them to spit and sit, and he’da flurried up a couplea fisty cuffs if they ain’t show the proper respect with a quickness. If Thumper was in prison still and some young cats fussed at him to hurry, he’d correct them kittens sans mercy. Sans mercy as hell.
But the owner Mr. Gregarian was in the club tonight. He was at the bar drinking something tasteful and tasteless. He want Thumper to behave, and Thumper gotta do what he say. So Thumper gave Rashid a hug and a shrug and said he’d talk to him later. Rashid got entranced by a tangerine-cream bitch with tits like sharks. He floated after her like a tasty surfer, and Thumper proceeded to check the idees of them dour niggas, whiteboys and that one sunnyskin in line.
When the tide of hungry horndogs dwindled well into the early morn, Thumper took a break and let Davon watch the door, while he rushed off to piss. He went up to the floor his apartment was on though, rather than use the club’s bathroom. He was self-conscious of how long it took to get a flow going. The prison doctor said he got that old-nigga bladder. His “bladder neck” be bugging. He don’t want Davon to know it took him awhile.
But he ain’t dawdle in the bathroom. He wanna get back down there so Davon don’t fuss. Thumper ain’t trust hisself to react like a outside nigga if that young-body pretty-face jive-white smile-hard nigga Davon tried to correct him.
Davon wore a lor band-aid on his cheekbones. Nigga musta got a rainbow of band-aids cuz he steady wore one to match the drawers he displayed under his sagging jeans — Mr. Gregarian was mad on the “trousers” trip and curled his lip at sagging, but Davon could smile through any of Mr. Gregarian’s tut-tuts. So Davon rumped pink drawers tonight and a pink band-aid to match. Thumper ain’t even got the words to call that out.
When his old-nigga bladder done empty, Thumper hustled to the stairwell.
A glossy piece of paper was on the floor on the stairs. It caught Thumper’s eye cuz it couldn’t-a been there when he went up the stairs. He woulda noticed it for sure. He prolly woulda done slip on it.
He picked it up. It was a playbill for a show called “The Invocation”, and the picture on it featured a familiar woman wearing a barn owl mask.
It was that woman, Delsinerr. That woman he dreamed of, with the dress of screams and beaming tresses of horrid hair. He was gonna recognize her forever.

He ain’t know how long he stood there, eyes agogging that playbill. He was roused only when he heard some hubbubery in Lipsweet. He hustled hisself down and stalked into the backa the bar. He hushed up a heap of honkies, and he made sure to do it loud so Davon would hear. That way it looked like he be working, not shirking.


But before Thumper made it back to the front door, a storm of shouting kicked up. Couple clumps of niggas was standing off at each other, and Rashid was involved. Rashid done step to some slimfire kitkat, and both him and he got posses at they back. Both niggas and both they posses was fronting and saying all the shit niggas and they posses do say.
“Fuck this shit, nigguh!”
“You wanna step?”
“Come at me then-“
“Shit, nigga, I will end you-“
“Fuck that, fuck — fuck — fuck this shit, nigga-“
“I’ll go backta prison, I don’t care-“
“Who the bitch now?!”
Classic nigga shit. Ain’t even much point in saying it out loud. Might as well skip straight to holding a gun sideways and firing into a crowd. Thumper was glad he was a nigga with class. If everybody knows your lines, you might as well leave ’em unsaid.
“C’mon at me, nigguh!”
“Step to me then!”
“You best come correct-!”
Thumper put the fight down before it began. He slipped between them chin-to-chin niggas, finna slap the belligerence off they faces. “Simmuh down, you two-“
Before Thumper could finish, Rashid threw a fist at the slimfire kitkat, knocking him down like a disrespectful domino. Gravity hit him hard too, and the kitkat staggered around on the floor doing his best impression of a spreading piss-stain.
“Settle yaselfs, niggas, why you gotta act like that?!” Davon said, smiling handsomely into the club, laughing all along like he was a joke-a-day nigga and ain’t nothing in the world really matter. He ain’t risk his precious mug by getting between Rashid and the kitkat though.
“You can’t be like that,” Thumper said, pulling Rashid away with his shankin’ hands on Rashid’s jelly. Rashid do be like that though, always was. Thumper hugged Rashid close and talked straight into his ear. Rashid stiffed up like he ain’t notice Thumper, but he ain’t fight against him neither. He kept eye contact with that slimfire nigga and his posse until Thumper had him out the backdoor and into the corridor behind the club proper. “Nigga, slow yo’ roll!”
He pulled down Rashid’s pants and drawers in one quick motion. Rashid got a big pair of juicy brown orbs. Thumper recollected slamming into them on the regular while inside — Rashid got self-control troubles, and he put hisself in big-time debt throwing dice, drinking hooch and smoking cigarettes he couldn’t afford. Thumper ain’t mind forgiving that debt in exchange for breaking a nut off.
“Ah, shit, Thump, you into that booty bandit trip, we ain’t inside no mo’. E’rrybody alway knew you was gonna stay a ramrod, old head. That ain’t how a modern nigga act-“
“Shut up, nigga,” Thumper said. His hands ran up Rashid’s back and front, underneath his shirt. Rashid was one them niggas who get chunky in prison — he ain’t got the will to work out on the regular or to stop scarfing down commissary honey buns. He do buy what the candy folk sell him on. Now that he was out though, he be dropping his dollars on calorie-free blunts and nibble-size sluts. Tale as old as time. Even slimmed down, he was still thick as alfredo though, and you know Thumper love a high-carb booty.
Now that they stood in the cool and the still of the corridor, Rashid stayed calm. He was mad on a reluctant front, all lifting hisself up and sucking on his teeth like he was too good to let a old head knock on his backdoor. He weren’t too good for nothing though, and under his gotta-fight shell, Rashid was cool as hot oatmeal. “Shit, Thump, shit…”
“Why you gotta go after that slimfire nigga in there?” Thumper asked with a cluck of his tongue. “Mistuh Gregarian curl lip at niggas who start fights. City council expect him to keep peace.”
He scoffed. “Mistuh Gregarian — that that cracker who own this place? He a damn fool, Thump, he was steppin’ to me couple weeks back. I was ’bout to lay him out like Thanksgiving dinner, somebody gotta do it, shit…”
“You bettuh not, nigga. He keep it real,” Thumper said. “He will dig you a very shallow hole to lay down in, and he won’t think twice about it. Might make me dig it, and I dunno if my back can take that, nigga.” Thumper weren’t sure how much he was exaggerating that honky’s proclivities, but he ain’t want Rashid testing his ire. Mr. Gregarian got a gangster in his mind to live up to, and he seen some violent gangster movies. “Don’t go ruckusin’ in his club.”
“Aw, shit, Thump, shit…” Rashid bristled, as Thumper’s hands spread his buttcheeks. Thumper kissed his meaty shoulders too, over the shirt and then under it when he took Rashid’s shirt off. Rashid stood there with a glumness, pants around his ankles, his jelly browns jiggling beneath Thumper’s firm fingers.
“You ain’t in prison no mo’, you can’t be actin’ like a cast-iron nigga,” Thumper said. “How long you been out?”
“Like six months,” Rashid said. His head hung weary on them shoulders. Rashid stay submitory when he got to. He know how to say ‘yes, nigga’ when the proper kind of nigga was behind him.
“You havin’ trouble cividatin’?”
Rashid shrugged. “Don’t go up my backdoor, Thumper. Be cool,” he said. “C’mon, nigga. You can just stick it ‘tween my thighs. Do that, feels damn good. That’s what-“
Thumper chuckled. “Nah, nah, nigga. I’ll use buncha spit. You know I got good spit. Know that!” He spat on the palm of his hand, then resumed stroking hisself off. One finger on his other hand jammed into Rashid’s asshole. “You done tighten, nigga. I like that.”
“Ain’t nobody do that booty bandit shit on the outside, Thumper,” Rashid said. “You on the ramrod trip, that’s whack, that’s crackerjack-“, then he sucked his breath in as he felt Thumper’s knob touch his asshole. Rashid bent forward and leaned against the wall.
Thumper rammed his cock into that paira roundnesses behind Rashid. His buttcheeks dimpled bright despite the dim light of the back hall. Rashid threw his head back and looked this way and that, his hands fluttering fast behind hisself. Rashid winced and grimaced, but he ain’t struggle. Even when Thumper’s cock slipped outta Rashid’s hole, he ain’t try to get away. He let Thumper jam it right back in.
“Sssh, take yo’ dickload, nigga,” Thumper said. “Don’t play wit’ me.” He pushed it in deeper, and Rashid’s butthole spread open like a wedding invitation. It sucked Thumper’s shaft right back in, like his booty and Thumper’s manhood was best friends.
“Ow, shit, Thump, c’mon, go gentle…” Rashid gulped.
“Relax, I’mma nut real quick, relax, nigga.” Thumper clucked his tongue and plowed hard. His orgasm was coming on swift — something about the smell of Rashid’s backsweat gave him fond memories of prison, and it got his motor going good, like Thumper made a turn and was now driving on a road he recognized. Rashid was a well-trodded road, with little resistance left in his butthole, so Thumper could drive in and out with powerful thrusts. “Aaah, shit, see, already done…”
A fat load of cum sprayed into Rashid’s booty. He hung his head low but took every bit, wincing only when Thumper rammed his meat in deep. A long hot flow of jizz filled Rashid up, while Thumper’s moans echoed in his ear.
“C’mon, Thump…” Rashid muttered. He leaned his face against the wall. He shuddered and shimmied like a shameful snake.
When Thumper was done, he ain’t pull out right away. He let his wang marinate in the warmth of Rashid’s guts. His breath condensed on the backa Rashid’s neck.
Finally, his dick plopped out like a greasy sausage. Thumper swang it between his legs and rubbed the goo off in Rashid’s buttcrack. The last couple drops of cum dripped there between his cheeks. “Hmm, lemme see ya gape, nigga,” Thumper murmured. Rashid’s asshole did gape, whether that was cuz Thumper told him to or if it just happened, Thumper ain’t know. It was a satisfying sight regardless.
When Rashid pulled his jeans up, Thumper was still playing with them buttcheeks. Then he wiped his dick off with paper towels from the janitor’s closet, and they both went back out to the club. Davon was shooing niggas out the door, so Rashid went out to the parking lot too. Thumper helped Teddy shut down the bar and watched Davon get in one the dancer’s cars, then Thumper went up to his apartment on the second floor.
He got a shower and a snack. Thumper microwaved a brick of frozen broccoli and cheese, cuz he was pretending to like broccoli, cuz the world was like that these days, cuz Obama ain’t do nothing! Then he laid his weary head down on his bed. Moonlight shined through the window, and Thumper was glad to bask in the nighttime’s rays without trying to slumber.

The door to his apartment opened with a slow creak, and Thumper rose to stand upon his old feet. He wanna take a shank and shiv whichever nitwit just did strid into his crib unbid.

But no more sound was to be found, and Thumper done dumbfound, dumb as a mute tongue or a brainless hound in a pound of sin.
With thin skin, his breath sucked in and ceaselessly spinned, cuz the air did unfold, as dead and cold as a mortician’s walk-in. That Bitch in White Delsinerr, it must be, cuz of the grim air and his mind behampering, she do be doing that to a nigga. His pot of cheese got the unfriendly gollygees.
“I wholeheartedly offer the sincerest of apologies, Mister White,” she said at her best, looking unlined in a new right-fright dress. She took Thumper’s find, the glossy flier, from his pants pocket. Her dashing socket then faced his dismay like a twist of fate. “This got mislaid, I’m afraid.” Her words clotted and clogged her wave, hobbling wakes and gobbling up meaning.
Thumper nodded, agoggling at that fiend steaming, his noggin beboggling by notions dropped in, misbegotten, stuck in a war he forgot to have foughten in. Layers of bog, his thoughts was tucked in, like befuddled puddles fog goggles — shit! — he was too rotten-hot fried to toggle his hide-or-fight side or even to think and blink when she pried and whitened his wrinkles, too lightened to abide.
She did ride astride his brain a-sprinkling pain, and she tightened her ugly head. “You ain’t frightened of me,” she said.
Thumper again slightened a nod. “I… I… can’t think when you’s around.”
“My words finely decline, making humankind ruint like by fumes, by the tombs of time, by the climb of crime, by a broken rhyme, by plumes of foul weather. Y’all’s cries is all mine.” The gray owl feathers that lined her scowl splayed out like a rainspout, as she peered fears and doubt into him deep as a well. “I hope to see you in hell when you die. Or before, for I like a bride will wait forevermore in store.”
“Why do you talk like that?” he asked like a unironed sheet.
“I don’t speak,” she spoke like a freak. Her mask’s beetley bug scuttled sleek as a sulfury lugnut in the sea of time. “I hammer seeds into yo’ mind. The grammar is your’n that you cling to like a daft raft in a slammer of slime.” The leathery feathers of her mask then did retract, unfit, and drift together into a rift. “I wish to give you a gift, He Who Thumps, a token of hope unsunk.”
Thumper was stumped as oaks. What kinda gift would a goat like this rhyme a nigga like him?
“The gift I chime is time. You had thirty-four years to deplore, but now, with the price of gore, you can go back to before. Be a young nigga again,” she said, her words singing bigger than laws or figures.
A long pause came up like the claws of riffing wiggers rilling open flaws upon prison lawns. Thumper narrowed his paws and stiffened ’em into fists like kisses by his side. “What?”
Looking snide, she unsheathed mist for miles beneath that mask of denial. “Just a fact to flout and file, Mister White. I do offer to undo yo’ last bout in style. You can tout thirty-four vile years of bother and clout. Fear not a rout.” She slipped out like a fatherless shout, leaving Thumper aloner than ever to ramble and pout and fail at draining the heeby-jeebies all the way out.

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

Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil: Chapter Three

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

Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil: Chapter Four

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

The Bloods meeting was at the barbershop on the same street as Lipsweet. The Gregarian building was built around the barbershop, a forgotten story of bricks whose backyard done sprout that monstrosity that grew to take over the resta the block. Thumper’s bladder neck be bugging when he got there, so he first went to take a piss, the sound of niggas gathering in the barbershop growing louder as they arrived in small groups. All the hoopdey-hoos in the Bloods came to the meeting.
He ain’t understand why Carson wanted him — Carson was the head nigga in the Bloods of Bangor. Thumper was a Blood, but he wasn’t involved in any Blood business, and he was on parole, so he couldn’t do much. His parole officer be riding his tail for real, and parolees got no constitutionals against being recorded, followed or searched.
So putting a parolee on anything important was foolish as tossing beans.
Still, it felt good to be surrounded by real-time niggas again, just like in lockup. He got to the barbershop early, so he got nothing to do. That was just like lockup too. He ain’t know none the niggas who gathered, which was unlike lockup, except for Davon, who showed up like a smooth sac of pointless dimples, smiling at everything but responding to nothing, like he ran outta reality, looking like a charred koala bear, shit, he just sat there, like a boatload of cuteness collided with a glacier of too-good-for-this and went down in a sea of swooning females. He got on a shiny shirt with like Chinese letters or some shit all over it, like Davon was too handsome for the English alphabet. He wore a white band-aid on his cheek too. As if he’d ever risk letting his cheekbone get cut.
Them niggas Thumper don’t know was milling and filling the air through with gab and daps and hairdos, but Thumper sat alone. They all avoided watching him brood like a bothered tiger. That’s what Thumper woulda thunk too, thirty-some years ago, if he saw a cast-iron nigga sitting on his lonesome surrounded by young cats he ain’t talk to. He ain’t put out menace, but they all picked it up. Outgoing ex-cons get a million nosey questions from numptious niggas, so Thumper was glad to scare ’em off. If they all got to chatting at him like lightbulby poppa-rot-seas, he’d-a most likely dropped one or maybe all. So he gloomed around like a ex-con who pretty niggas should stay away from, and they did so, wise as newspapers.
A young nigga named Rico came in just before Carson got to talking. That grabbed Thumper’s attention — Rico was the other nigga from that script Delsinerr gave him. The name sounded omens to Thumper.
Rico also attracted Thumper’s eye cuz he was young and high yellow, cool as a pear and dimpley like a golf ball, dimpley like Davon — but Rico’s dimples was less arrogant. Rico was the kinda young nigga Thumper woulda got to know real good in prison. Thumper woulda shared a bunk with Rico, and he’d-a bin got Rico to feel some love deep in his heart, deep enough to make Rico bend over and spread his cheeks. Rico was handsome as a kangaroo, handsome enough to make Thumper forget about women during the cold of a empty night. Thumper would teach Rico how to get a nut off without women, and Rico would teach Thumper all the cool modern lingo that handsome young niggas say.
Doing time for the Bloods meant Thumper still got respect here. Frightened respect, but that still counts. When Thumper told Rico to come sit by him, Rico got no choice but to fulfill every one of Thumper’s expectations. Namely, to sit next to him so Thumper could go grope-a-dope during the meeting. Rico and Thumper got naked as noodles too — all the niggas in the meeting got naked, as Carson requisited. That was to ensure nobody got no recording devices and so nobody could palm no heroin when they weighed it out into lor baggies later.
Not a matter of trust. If it’s a rule you enforce every time, it’s no big deal. If you only make a nigga do it when you don’t trust him, then every time you do it, it’s a big deal, it’s telling a nigga he ain’t trusted and prolly won’t never be. So Carson made ’em do it every time, and no nigga felt singled out.

Thumper did feel singled out due to his out-of-fashion clothes. All the niggas snuck secret snickers at his old-school jeans, which he bought at a thrift store cuz he couldn’t find a normal men’s clothing store. They looked at him like a accidental dinosaur.

Naked, Davon looked like modern music sounded. Goddamn Thumper do hate him. He held Rico close like it would protect Thumper from Davon being a tubba shit. Rico was high on his frowns when they all took they clothes off. He was bitsy and cute like a baby snapping turtle, both skinny and muscular, and he carried hisself like he ain’t realize he was young and pretty and short. Once he stripped outta his fancy shirt and his pokeymon shoes, he was looking even littler and handsomer. He sat down afront Thumper, who wrapped his arms around his back. Thumper’s hot crotch touched Rico on his spine, which felt good as candy to Thumper.
“Hmm-“
“Nigga…” Rico bristled, but he ain’t fight. He let Thumper hug him from behind. Lotta niggas was touching muchly in they nakedness during the meeting, as Carson went on about the need to send niggas to the college campus. That was untapped territory, Carson said. But it was a men’s college. Nobody wanna do it cuz a nigga never gonna get pussy on campus, and Carson bin telling them for months to sling there.
“Ssssh…” Thumper said soft as a teddy bear into Rico’s ear. Rico’s muscles rippled beneath his touch, as Thumper’s hands drifted up and down Rico’s arms. Rico stayed tense. His head looked around frantic as a llama like he hoped the touch-police noticed Thumper’s fingers. Not a nigga noticed cuz him and Thumper sat in the back. Carson musta seen, but Carson let Thumper do his thing — Thumper’s current thing was Rico. Thumper done his time for the Bloods, and he was allowed to take liberties with a nigga when he need to.
Finally Carson ordered some bangers to sling heroin at the college campus. He told ’em he’d send some hos they way if they did good enough, and that was enough to quiet they rumbles of discontent. Carson wanted the gang to take every inch of this city, cuz otherwise the Crips or the Latin Kings or somebody else would take it.
Or the Seventh Street Playas. They was some rap-eyed niggas who done peel off from the Crips. That was good. They ain’t join up with the Bloods though. That was bad. They was “gramming” videos in a instant, and in ’em, they claimed Bangor was all Seventh Street Playas territory. Thumper ain’t wanna axe what gramming is, less he confirm he was a out-of-touch old head. If they wanna claim a whole city, why’d they name theyselves after one street? Dumbass niggas doing dumbass nigga shit. Mention of ’em caused the naked niggas all around to erupt in naysays and whoops. It got the whole room worked up enough for they dinkydoos to jiggle like excited baseball bats.
“We need some niggas to strike at the Seventh Street Playas. They a buncha triflin’ niggas, they ain’t shit. We know where they got they HQ,” Carson said. “We know they schedule. You can hit ’em when they ain’t barely got nobody there. Might have to shoot some niggas, and you’ll come away with weight for sure.”
Ain’t not a nigga say a word.
The silence grew taut as a wire, and Thumper reckoned that Carson expected him to volunteer hisself. Thumper done time for the Bloods, so they was obligationed toward him. But duties went both ways. Thumper could still get gived a assignment.
Still, he kept both hands around Rico’s waist and kept his lips shut, despite Rico standing up on his frowns. Then some other nigga spoke up, and he said he could do something, but from the murmurs hushing under and the unconfident look on Carson’s face, Thumper gathered that that other nigga wasn’t regarded as capable of doing what it took.
But Carson ain’t say peep to Thumper. He just moved on without a solution to the Seventh Street Playas problem. They finished up Bloods business, and then they all got to weighing out heroin. Thumper ain’t weigh much, he focused on rubbing Rico all over. Rico focused on frowning and scooting away, you know how a young nigga do! All them other ugly niggas focused on not looking at Rico or hearing him protest. Nobody wanna see where Thumper’s hands went.
Davon ain’t stick around, cuz he gotta go home and polish his dimples. He prolly got honkies to suck up to and women to agree with. Or maybe he worked at Lipsweet tonight. Anyway, Thumper still be hating on him till he walked out the door. His drawers was plain white tonight, as was his band-aid, but you could tell them drawers was some name-brand, prolly something Italian, bet they cost a pretty penny and he’d throw ’em away if they ever get a skidmark, goddamn, he too good to fart. Thumper ain’t gonna fixate on that nigga though. Not when he got a young pretty thing like Rico to touch all over. Rico be mad on that frown train, choo choo! His frown made his muscles pucker and ripple and shine! Davon wouldn’t never allure a nigga, that was the difference between him and Rico.
“Rico, Thumper, you two stay behind fo’ a second,” Carson said when the weighing was done. He told the rest them niggas to put they clothes on and bounce.
They all did as told, while Rico tensed up like a bossy tambourine. Thumper hugged tight on Rico’s shoulders from behind him, and his hands roamed up and down Rico’s chest. Rico be bugging. All the other niggas whisked off into the rainless night, and the now-dressed Carson looked at Thumper and Rico — who stayed naked — like he ain’t notice Thumper’s hands running up and down Rico’s tight body.
Carson done met a booty bandit, so he weren’t shook up. All them niggas was prolly laughing about it soon as they left the barbershop. Thumper looked silly to young eyes. Rico was just eighteen, and he ain’t know a booty bandit was a real thing, he thought it was the nigga equivalent of a werewolf, something to be afraid of but not believe in. Rico pouted like a teapot beneath Thumper’s leathery hands. His dick throbbed where it lay hot as a rocket against Rico’s back.
It wasn’t erect, but if Thumper moved it, it prolly would be. So Thumper kept his stick still as a statue while his hands did they exploratories.
Then Carson said, with a wrinkle of his wide nose, “Rico, Thumper, glad you two met. Rico, you gonna be livin’ ‘bove the bar, in Thumper’s place.”
That sounded fine as fuck to Thumper. He ain’t live alone for a long time, so a roommate would be nice. He liked the idea of having a prettyboy nigga around to touch bunches. Rico got a nice shiny booty too, and you know Thumper love a shiny nigga.
Rico got less love for that idea. “What? C’mon, Carson, I don’t wanna live with old nigga! He lame! He could be my grandpa! Be cool, nigga!”
“Shut up, pup,” Thumper said, still hugging Rico from behind. Rico’s perfectly seductive muscles stayed as firm as his frown. Thumper wondered what Rico was gonna do if he met Delsinerr — prolly run away screaming and live the resta his life in a asylum. That was how almost everyone responded, Thumper was pretty sure. He was different cuzza his time in prison. He lost the flight part of his fight or flight instinct, but he was smart enough not to fight Delsinerr. Rico would flight and lose touch with reality. Prolly wouldn’t be pretty no more.
“You said you’d get me a place to live, not a spot on old nigga’s couch-“
“I got a bed, nigga!” Thumper wagged a finger at Rico.
“Old nigga smell like a band-aid! He prolly watch the news! Drinkin’ tea and shit, damn, Carson, I can’t bring bitches ovuh wit’ him there-” Rico shrank back when Thumper shot a dirty look down at him.
“Yes, you can,” Thumper said. “You got a female, bring her ovuh! We can double-team her. Go dick to dick in her pussy if she loose enough. Or you can lick her clit while I fuck her. You can slurp my jizz out her asshole, nigga. Shluurp! Hmm-hmm, yummy-“
“Step off, old nigga!”
Carson held out one hand and scrunched his face into a discomfitted mug. “Shut the fuck up, Rico. You needed a place to live. I got you one. Quit yo’ bitchin’, nigguh,” he said. “Go get settled in, Rico. I’ll come by later.”
They moved to get dressed as Carson left. Rico was conducting the frown train that whole time. Looking like he’s owed the world, damn did that nigga have a cute frown. Thumper wanna stick a dress on his frown and marry it.
After grabbing a duffel bag he done left in the barbershop, Rico walked with heavy steps up to the Gregarian building and then up to the apartment. Thumper was more eager. He felt like a lor boy having a sleepover back in Baltimore again.
“C’mon, nigga, we go’n have fun, swear to God. You go’n love livin’ wit’ me.”
But Rico clucked his tongue against his teeth, and he ain’t say nothing. He was still sullen as a stew when they got into the apartment, and Rico aimed his frown at that solo bed. Rico weren’t a share-a-bed kinda nigga, it seemed.
“You only got one bed,” Rico said.
Thumper nodded. “You some kinda mathematician or something?”
“No, I just… You said you had a bed for me.”
“I said I had a bed. It’s right there. We go’n be snug as a hug, my nigga.”
Rico looked like he was brainstorming a way outta this, as Thumper pulled down Rico’s pants. Rico was took unawares. He was one them niggas with dimples so perfect on his face that they spread to his asscheeks too. Shiny as wine! Thumper licked his lips. Rico was pretty like Davon, but Davon was easygoing, while Rico go some bite in his back. And Rico was a decade younger than Davon. Maybe in ten years, Rico be smiling like Davon, but for now he was frowning like a faggot of sultry sticks.
“Hey, old nigga, whatchoo doin’?” Rico threw his eyebrows back, and he shuffled off the best he could with his pants around his ankles. Thumper ain’t pay his guff no mind. He pulled down his own pants and took off his shirt. Rico be facing the other way. Fool-ass nigga aiming his pretty ass at Thumper’s old-ass nigga face. Lotta ass in that apartment.
Thumper’s fingers kneaded Rico’s plump buttcheeks, which made Rico turn around finally and see that Thumper was naked too. Rico frowned so hard he liketa grow a second mouth just for frowning.
“C’mon, nigga, watchoo doin’? Quit playin’,” Rico said. Thumper pulled him closer, planted his lips on Rico’s and stuck his tongue right in that prettyboy mouth. He tasted like a daffodil, or whatever flower got the sexiest frown, Thumper ain’t a florist. Rico sputtered and pulled away. “Quit playin’, old nigga! Whatchoo doin’?”
“Shush. You go’n be my nighttime female,” Thumper said. He grabbed Rico’s shoulders before he could get far away, and he gripped Rico by the tit — Rico got nice lor apple-sized pecs, too firm to be tits, but Thumper could pretend. Thumper got a great imagination for women’s bodyparts. “C’mon, make sounds like a female. We go’n get hot and dirty, Rico, dirty like rice, hot like spice-“
“Get off me-“
But Thumper kissed him again to make Rico stop his complaining. He kept going, but Thumper swallowed them protestations up. Rico got lost in Thumper’s massive arms. Thumper’s hands kept at Rico’s titless pecs.
In prison, Thumper woulda put a padded bra on Rico, plus makeup and a wig and these big-girl panties with a life-size pussy printed on both the front and the back. Thumper don’t need that to pretend, but it was fun to do anyway, and once Rico was used up, Thumper could pimp him out to all the ugliest niggas in that place.
Eventually he’d get to begging Thumper to be the only one to make love to him, and Thumper would oblige.
Out here in the real world though, Thumper couldn’t do that. Not enough ugly niggas. All the ugly niggas was in prison, doing they part to turn handsome men like Rico into uglier niggas.
Anyway, when Thumper had enough playing games, he bent Rico over the bed they was gonna share. He slammed Rico’s face into the mattress, keeping Rico’s ass high enough to spread them buttcheeks. He got them beautiful dimples dimpling like dumplings on Rico’s dumptruck, like his asshole was smiling at Thumper.
Thumper returned a smile to Rico’s ass with interest — “interest” being Thumper’s tongue, which he slammed in there to open him up. Thumper don’t got lube handy, so he used his spit. Rico howled.
“Old nigga, what-?” Rico sucked in his breath. Thumper lapped at Rico’s asshole with plentya spit. It tasted pretty as a petunia, or whichever flower got the tastiest butthole, Thumper ain’t a botanist. Thumper rammed his tongue in there deep as steeping tea! He be tasting all the unexplored flavor of that nigga asshole, and Rico’s ripe apple-cheeks swelled and jiggled like tits around Thumper’s face. Rico tried to get up, but Thumper punched him hard in the side.
“Stay still.” Thumper’s tongue ran all the way from Rico’s taint up to the small of his back, and Thumper’s sausagey fingers teased his tight hole. Rico’s back curved up like a seductive arch.
Kisses running up Rico’s smooth spine, Thumper groaned and moaned and slathered spit on his scalp. Then he rammed his dick at Rico’s butthole. Rico cried out, and he clenched hard. Thumper ain’t mind. He knew how to break a nigga open. Just the tip went in. Rico sucked on his breath.
“Shit! Nigga!” Rico howled. He panted and clawed at the bed.
“Ssssshhhh…” Thumper said. He ain’t need Rico to shush. He kinda liked hearing that prettyboy voice ring out like a girlish bell. But Thumper was used to hiding the sounds from the guards and from the Aryans — who do tease a nigga for being a booty bandit. Thumper don’t like being teased by Aryans, ‘specially when they got factual accuracy on they side.
He wrapped one arm around Rico’s neck, and he squeezed just enough to make him stop clenching. His asshole opened. Thumper’s dick slid in. A shiver of intense pleasure ran up Thumper’s spine.
“C’mon, c’mon! You can’t! Carson ain’t — Carson ain’t-“
Thumper laughed. “Whatd’ya think Carson sent you to me fo’, nigga? He knew I wanna bust a nut,” he said. He sighed like Rico’s butthole was scratcing a itch Thumper couldn’t reach. “Shit, nigga-“
“Ow, c’mon! Quit playin’!” Rico said.
Thumper’s moan intensified in Rico’s ears, making him wriggle and jiggle like a seductive dolphin. That made his booty squeeze Thumper’s dingdong most pleasant-like indeed. Thumper leggo his neck, and Rico’s ass loosened enough for Thumper to ram in deeper. “Damn!”
“C’mon, old nigga-“
“I love you, nigga,” Thumper said with a chuckle. He be working his dick in and out, and Rico’s tightness gripped it the whole time — that’s what was so nice about a intact nigga. His guts don’t wanna let a nigga meat go.
Stopping moving, Thumper let out another moan. He be getting close now. He stopped moving with his manhood all the way up there, throbbing in Rico’s guts. Thumper got a foot-long dick, plus some to spare, and Rico’s whole body be writhing and massaging it, as Rico panted and heaved.
“Shit, nigga, shit, nigga, shit, nigga-” Rico be broken.
It did get Thumper going though. He stayed motionless to make this last longer, cuz he could tell any motion on his part gonna make his balls explode. Rico be writhing enough anyway. “Hey, nigga, tomorruh go to the store and buy some hog fat.”
“Shit, nigga, shit, nigga… What?”
“Hog fat.” Thumper frowned like Rico. From the silence, he gathered Rico don’t know what hog fat is. That’s the best lube in prison, maybe the best in the world. Outside niggas don’t know. “Hog fat, nigga! Lard. Get lard.”
“What?”
“Get lard! It’s at the store!” Thumper said. “Damn, a modern nigga is stupid!”
Through his clenched teeth, Rico said, “Why?”
“Cuz then I can ramrod you more easy,” Thumper said, and his voice broke. Rico squirmed, and that was enough to send him over the edge. His moan turned into a deep-chambered sigh of relief, as his first spurt of jizz filled up Rico’s guts.
That was Thumper’s cue to get back to humping his butthole, which he did, using powerful thrusts. The movement got Thumper’s muscles tensing up, and Rico’s too, as Rico clawed at the bed beneath him and tried to crawl away.
With a grunt, Thumper lay atop him, shifting his weight left and right in lieu of back and forth. Cum sprayed into Rico’s backside, great big creamy gobs of it that kept coming and coming. Rico shuddered, and the movement awakened a wave of pain.
“Shit… You a good nigga,” Thumper said into Rico’s ear, pulling his chest off Rico’s prettyboy back. He lifted up Rico too, so he could kiss Rico on the side of his cheek, square on the sexier of his two dimples. “Now go clean up.” Rico’s scream of pain was swallowed up by the mattress as Thumper withdrew his manhood, every inch of cum-marinated dickmeat sending another wave of sensations through both them. Rico’s till-now-intact asshole held onto Thumper’s dick and made his orgasm last until the tip popped out, and Thumper’s final jizz dribbled out into a puddle in the small of Rico’s back.
“Owwww, fuck, old nigga!” Rico cried out, then jumped up. All that creamy goo spilled out his gaping asshole and down his legs. “Shit!”
With a mummy-like chuckle, Thumper grabbed Rico’s underwear and wiped his dick off with it, while Rico frowned and cursed and moved around the apartment like he thought the old-nigga lifeguards was gonna come rescue him if he kicked up enough fuss.
“Go’n and take a shower,” Thumper said. He gotta say it a couple times cuz Rico was stuck on transmit.
“Shit, old nigga! C’mon! What the fuck?! Shit, old nigga! Quit playin’! Shit, old nigga, c’mon! What the fuck?!” He stalked in a lor circle stretching his frown out. “What the fuck?!”
“Go’n take a shower,” Thumper said again and again, in between Rico’s whatevering. Thumper gripped his cock and balls to get his attention. Thumper’s callused fingers was like a sandpaper purse, and Rico sucked up his breath and clenched his teeth again. Rico trembled when Thumper licked his face from his chin to his forehead. “Go’n take a shower, nigga. If you wanna shower alone, do it now, or I’mma shower wit’cha later. Wit’cha and inside ya.”
His frown turning to open-mouthed surprise, Rico went to the showers to scrub himself for what felt like forever.
Thumper waited for him. He fully intended to ram that boy again. That was why Thumper don’t shower now. He wanna let Rico get clean and give his ass a couple hours to recover. Then he gonna wake Rico in the night with a bootyfull of dickmeat. Then he’d let Rico shower again, and if his old-nigga dick could get hard once more, he’d shower with him and plow Rico for a third time when he dropped the soap. That’d be funny as hell.
It’d make Thumper’s dick hurt, but it’d be worth it. Thumper was too old to be busting nuts multiple times a night. It don’t stop him, of course. Thumper was too old to do alotta the things he do. A nigga is only as old as he feels.
Before Rico returned from his shower, there came a knock at the door. It was Carson. He stood there in the doorway with a long look in his eyes and a bag of fast food in one hand. Then Carson came in without Thumper telling him to. Thumper couldn’t complain much, as Carson and the Bloods was paying for this apartment, but he ain’t like it anyway. In prison a nigga’d get shanked for that.
He put the fast food down. “I got some chow for Rico. And you,” he said. “Burgers and hot cherry pies from the Ruby Pearl’s on Broad.”
“Hell yeah,” Thumper said. He opened the bag. “I’mma take both the cherry pies from that Rico nigga. I sent him off to shower anyway.” He put the cherry pies aside. “What’d you come here for, Carson? I know it ain’t just to drop off hamburguhs and cherry pies. This nigga connects dots easy, so if you want something from me, come right out and say it.”
Carson nodded. “I said someone gotta rob the Seventh Street niggas,” he said. “You heard that, right? In the meeting?”
Thumper nodded. He cross his arms over his chest.
“I was expectin’ you to volunteer for that.” Carson cleared his throat. “You done time for this organization, Thumper, and I know prison ain’t make you soft. I got mad respec’ for you. You know I do.”
Actually Thumper ain’t know that. Thumper only met Carson after his release. He gave him the apartment, but that was a rule. He got to. He ain’t gotto have respect for a nigga. Ain’t no way to force respect into a nigga. All the honky judges and parole officers in the world couldn’t shove respect into a nigga.
“But I need you to hit the Seventh Street niggas and hit ’em hard. They got a safehouse on Broad,” Carson said. “Go in on a Monday afternoon. I know they schedule, it’s when they got a minimum of niggas there. I’ll get you guns. You can take Rico.”
“He know his way around a gun?”
Carson nodded. Then he leaned in and said, “It would be fine if Rico ain’t come back from this. That would be… ideal. I’d love it if you returned but he didn’t.”
“What? Why?”
“You don’t need to know the details, just… He’s not gonna be parta this organization fo’ long,” Carson said. “So I’m organizin’ the easiest, cleanest exit for him.” He mimed shooting a gun at a imaginary nigga. “Pow, pow.” He chuckled. “You gonna ramrod his booty, right?”
Thumper wrinkled his nose. He ain’t wanna say he done do it. “Come by around midnight tonight and see,” Thumper said with a shrug. “Bring lube and a clothespin to shut yo’ nose with.”
That made Carson frown like Rico! It was contagious, it seemed. Carson got a plumpbody nigga body though, and he wasn’t handsome. He was ugly as a cumrag and dark as a used-up barbecue. Carson be darkskin, but he talk like he was lightskin, like nobody told him how dark he was. He wore glasses too, and they shifted up and down when he wrinkled his nose. “Nah, nah, I’ll let you handle that.”
He nodded at Carson, but they was interrupted then by Rico bursting his frowny face back into the apartment. Rico froze in surprise at seeing Carson. He looked down behind hisself like he was making sure there wasn’t a nigga dick sticking outta his booty. Then he widewalked in, his ass no doubt smarting, holding his towel around his waist.
“Rico, Thumper has the plan for you two,” Carson said. “Don’t disappoint me again.”
Rico nodded. Thumper clasped him on the back, lifted up his towel and held his naked body close as Carson left. He liked the moist heat coming off Rico’s smooth back.
But Carson’s words lingered in Thumper’s mind: don’t disappoint me again. That meant Rico done mess up. Rico was a fuck-up already. Thumper gonna hafta get the whole story outta that pretty nigga’s insides. That story must be why Carson wanted Rico gone.
“I don’t like how niggas come and go on the outside,” Thumper said with a sigh. He went to the window and watched Carson leave the building, scurrying through the cold city streets to his SUV. “Ain’t nothing permanent.” He sniffled. “We go’n to church on Sunday, Rico. Be ready.”
“You been locked up too long, you notiony nigga,” Rico said. He hurried to his duffel bag and found some clothes to put on, which he labored to do without taking off the towel around his waist. “You gone crazy.”
Them words made Thumper’s blood run cold. He recognized that snippet of dialogue.
That was in the script Delsinerr gave him. Them exact words.
Thumper’s next line felt natural as rain. “Shut up, nigga. If you got a girlfriend, bring her over.” That made the apartment quiet, cuz Thumper said it weird and Rico sensed that. Thumper ain’t say it like he meant it, though he did mean it, he said it like a actor reading his lines. “We can double-tap her.”
Rico sucked on his teeth. Thumper mouthed along with him, as Rico said his next line. “You know that bitch Cherry? The dancer? I bin seeing her on the side. She got tight booty. She won’t get double-teamed though, not even for coke. She don’t like it.”
Thumper knew his next line clear as a cloudless sky. He ain’t wanna say it. He wanted it to be said, but it ain’t feel right — he was sposedta tell Rico to drag that bitch here by her hair. A nigga shouldn’t let his female boss him around. If Rico want her to get double-teamed, she shoulda both bent over and spread her legs. She was a stripper, not a angel.
If he wanna accept Delsinerr’s gift, he knew how to do it.

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

Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil: Chapter Five

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

Thumper awoke in the night needing to piss on the urgent. Felt like his lower half finna explode. He got that bladder neck serious! He lumbered outta bed like a sloppy sasquatch, and he sleepyfooted outta his apartment. The hallway was cold enough to alert him into wakefulness on the way to the bathroom on this floor.
A underhushing of voices could be heard. Someone was in Lipsweet on the first floor, he thunk, as he stumbled down the hall to the bathroom.
Carson wanted him to kill Rico, but Thumper done resist — when he cased out the Seventh Street Playas, he saw a unmarked cop car surveiling the jawn. It’d be no good to strike at ’em now. Carson said to hold off for the time being.
Thumper told Carson he got a plan — hide out and wait for Rico’s mama to report him missing, then have him show up. That way if Thumper killed him later, his mama won’t be believed at first.
Plus it let Thumper think. He spent a long time as the head nigga in charge in his cell, and now Carson — a young pup — kinda young anyway — was telling him what to do. Thumper wanna buck. Rico was a brat, but he was pretty and he was young, and Thumper ain’t wanna bring the prison along with hisself to the outside.

On the other hand, Rico disappointed Thumper this weekend. Thumper done told him — and Carson did too — that the apartment him and Thumper shared was a safehouse. Ain’t no place to bring a female. Carson and Mr. Gregarian declared the apartment unlivable some time ago, so the county got no record of it as a address.

And then Rico gone and got his bitch Cherry to come upstairs and see him! Damn fool-ass nigga hiding out in a safehouse, and he got a goddamn stripper to come suck his prettyboy pickle.
Young niggas is dumb!
Goddamn stripper brung her dog! A Saint Bernard! It’s like a bus that drools!
Doing foolish shit like that? It’s no wonder Carson wanted Rico outta the Bloods. A nigga that dumb is gonna get caught and let his knowledge slip sooner or later. Cherry got sexy lips and enough ass for a white girl, and her dog was great, and both she and the dog promised not to tell nobody about the safehouse. She don’t even know no Crips, supposably, and she don’t mess with cops. Still foolish to bring a female in on it. Females got loose lips, a nigga can’t trust even the best of ’em to keep they mouth shut.
That Cherry was who Rico was sposedta rape and kill. If Thumper done read his lines from that script, that’s what woulda happened. Thumper woulda got to go back thirty-four years ago and not join up with that underground boxing league — that was how he got arrested; the nigga he fought in a unlicensed bout died, and Thumper caught a murder charge for it. He ain’t roll over on the Bloods, who put on the fight.
He coulda not joined in. He was in a legal league then, he hadn’t gotta fight unlicensed. But he could convince hisself to say no back then. He could now. He could live his adulthood with all the wisdom of a old nigga.
Rico don’t deserve shit. Let’s face it, Rico gonna get his dumb ass killed sooner or later, prolly sooner. He either gonna get killed cuz handsome niggas don’t last long or he gonna live long enough to turn into a pointless bump on a rump like Davon. Thumper kinda hoped that, when they robbed the Seventh Street Playas, Rico got killed by some other nigga. That way Thumper ain’t gotta do it. But there was no telling when that was gonna happen, and Rico prolly wouldn’t get killed during it. Thumper planned on hitting ’em quick and by surprise, so they won’t have time to fight back.
Thumper could do so much if he was Rico’s age. Rico be wasting his youth.
Buncha people was waggling down in Lipsweet. The more Thumper awokened as he pissed, the more he heard it.
Who was there? Lipsweet was closed.
“-the rehearsal-“
That was all he made out. Nobody should be in Lipsweet right now. Five o’clock in the morning of the a.m on a Tuesday. It was closed as buttoned clothes. There ain’t nobody there, not that should be there.
With his python tucked away, Thumper went downstairs. His brown hazed, mind blazed, heart and soul re-fazed. Fuck off, stay down, go out and back up, nigga, mind yo’ own business. Not a note gets paid for a nigga to poke his nose in unholy demon nonsense. And yet Thumper stayed.
Chanting emanated like lemonade from Lipsweet, and that urge to fade and stay stuck its gavel in. As reality do unravel, he be staggering, his perceptions scattering, deepness battering on the universe like bifocals shattering. Through the backdoor, he be rambling, behind dabs of gabbing voices in the bar proper.
Popping in like a spying copper, Thumper eyed a flight of hooded men, not robbers. They aura got Thumper to pant and slobber.
From they bothersome stance, Thumper chanced upon none they unhandsome pants. Flat rants came through they chants and they slow-circling dance. Thumper’s tramp ears couldn’t say dear outta the dark splendor he heared — a weak speech that sounded, not like English, another speak, like the howls of the damned in heat.
He bin sensing Delsinerr’s rowling beats, though he ain’t yet see the rays of her pitiless gaze. His grays thickened like lazy days, his blood thinned like sad spays, and his hackles got mad raised.
There she was, gliding like madness in waves through those men of sinister ways. They splayed out as if to lay down and kiss her gown like good sisters. One the hooded misters recited excitement from the script of the day, and Thumper glimpsed his face — Mr. Chambreux, a vig-swigging bigwig in Bangor, known for capitalist vapor and catapulting our savior.
“Greetings, Mister White,” she said, unwavered.
“You…” Thumper savored the rousing flavors of her thousand unspeakable sayers. “I ain’t do it. I ain’t say my lines.”
She spoke without talking, clocking his might and making him piss the kittenest of frights. “This I know,” she said in speak of her fill. “You have yet the taboo of free will.”
“What is this?” Thumper tapped his till toward the chanting pipsqueaks in Lipsweet.
“A big-meat rehearsal of curses,” she said, with heat and a guttery scutter of the bug out from under. From Lipsweet, that chant leaked in asunder like a grim fleet of blunders and blow. “You know him, no? Mister Chambreux? His words never stammer, only flow, like his riches through stealth grow.”
“I, uh… I never met him.”
“His wealth did flow from this show like snitches snow outta sour bitches. His power comes ultimately from this hour of witches,” she said. “His role is that which I did pitch him. Through ethical flinches over the torture of bitches, he sped to yes like wrecks done bled red in ditches and fed hits into misses.”
“You still want me to get Rico to kill that girl?”
“Of course,” she said without remorse. “Him and you together like mates of a feather shoulda forced Heather to gape forever and cleverly bed her to shreds the color of grapes using tethers and girders and levers to rape and murder that redhead on tape, convert her to dead, in a shape unwed, by stabbing her nape and her blurter, never let go, grab her fate and do hurt her. I could forever heave-ho on the soul of Rico and his triflin’ sac, and yo’ dearest life would come crawling right back.”
“Heather?”
The quiet she stacked spurted fast like deathbed confessions from a hearse on a rack. For the first time in this rap, Thumper felt her in his verses — she inserted herself in his gaps, searching his bellweathers for what he used to mean ‘Heather’. Then she said to boot, “The one he brung over, who you call ‘small sweet red fruit’. Currant? Raspberry?”
“You mean Cherry?”
“Yes. Her.” Laughter tarried and burst in the vastness of that mask, blasting like a train into the blackness of the rasps on his brain. Her face bug flickered and flung verbal flame at his lame mug. “Or any snack-size lady to roll like a log, if you ain’t wanna orphan her dog, you sentimental beast of a hog.” She scoffed with a start. “I can de-fog that parta yo’ heart, you know.”
“I like that dog!” Foolish indeed to naysay cuzza the stray. Thumper’s face shamed, as his mind exploded with a salad of nos. Like a salsa sans pico, he refused to kill Rico, his refusal infused with rejections of evil and upheavals of importance.
But a tournament of fortune swirled within, and Thumper want a win. He could assuredly sin. Rico don’t deserve nothing. A man deserves only what he is strong enough to pin, and Rico wrestled as weak as tin.

“Think about it,” she said like a foe and clucked her tongue of woes. “Consider it well, my biggest of niggas.” Then she bid off past his vigor, doffed the door like a broken ticker and returned to the bar. Her confusion went across with her.


Thumper went upstairs. He ain’t like getting tremorous. He wasn’t that kinda nigga, but he couldn’t deny he was shook. He sat on his bed and tried to stop thinking about That Woman and her weird-ass words. He thought he’d be unable to sleep, but he drifted right off, drenched in moonlight and craving rain.
He dreamt of prison and the cozy confines of his niggas, a place where everything made sense and there weren’t no crazy ladies noodling around his brain. All he gotta do is fight from time to time, and that felt good as grandpa’s grip to Thumper.
He dreamed about limping, badly injured after a fight he remembered well cuz he got stabbed by some Aryan in the thigh. He arrived at his cell with blood streaming down his leg. The Bloods steady sent him out to fight — he was a enforcer, that was his job in the cell block. He ain’t never apply for it, he ain’t never say that’s the job he want. When you look like Thumper, with a face like a catcher’s mitt and hands like battering rams, you best believe every nigga gonna front like you is a enforcer, so you gonna hafta enforce something. Niggas do be stepping.
A lor nigga Zeke Lampman reenacted the fight, which he done watch from the sidelines — Zeke’s role was to be the lookie-lou, keeping an eye out for the screws. Zeke done told Thumper when the guards was coming, so Thumper could stop fighting back and look like the victim.
“Damn, nigga, you fucked that mothuh up!” Zeke said with a cackling laugh. Thumper smiled, but he was in too much pain to be entertained. It took all his concentration to shield the pain from all them cellbodies looking at him. He got a reputation that nothing shook him, and he gotta uphold it. Last time he fought, he got stabbed and had trouble walking back to the cell, they all said he be slipping and some nigga stepped to him. Thumper hadta regulate with eighty stitches on his side. So now he ain’t show that he even felt the little slit on his cheek.
“C’mon, nigga, lemme stitch you up,” said Bradley Smalls. He done start sterilizing a needle with a grill lighter soon as Thumper walked in. He got the job of stitching niggas up cuz his sister was a nurse.
Thumper gritted his teeth and sat down. Smalls wasted no time in getting the needle in. Some other nigga wiped the blood off Thumper’s face, cuz that was his role in the cell — blood wiper-offer — and he did it right. The blood wiper-offer was prolly lor and got no skills, that was why he got such a picayune role. Nothing wrong with that. A useless lor nigga who know he be useless and lor and who behave proper cuzza it is fine, Thumper got no problem with that nigga. Somebody gotta be the blood wiper-offer.
While Smalls did the stitching, Thumper cleared his mind. He thought about nothing but the needle going in and outta his skin, like his flesh was made of sweater getting knitted. He let hisself take in the cloying-nigga warmth of the overcrowded cell. His skin sheened with sweat. The pain of the needle might as well be happening to some other nigga.
That was when Zeke again caught his eye. He done took off his shirt and pants to play-act Thumper stabbing that Aryan — the Aryan was in his drawers, so Zeke stripped down to play the part of the Aryan getting stabbed.
“C’m’ere,” he said to Zeke, just as Smalls finished stitching him up. Zeke was daffy-laughing with couple niggas still, cuz he was lor and cellbodies assumed lor niggas gotta be funny. If Zeke wasn’t funny, maybe he’d be a blood wiper-offer or a warm body getting shanked in the meat of life. In prison, niggas got a way of rising to or falling down upon they correct level. Only tragic thing is when a outside nigga don’t know his level of competence. Sometimes niggas learn quick in prison. Sometimes they learn slow outsidea prison.
Anyway, the cell niggas all stopped laughing when Zeke came to Thumper, who got tunnel vision and ain’t none them other niggas exist in his notions. All that mattered was him being alive right now, heart thumping, meat bumping, flesh rubbing, mess spilling.
“Whatchoo want, Thump?” Zeke said. The hubbub over Thumper’s injuries be dwindling, so Zeke’s jump-and-jive act died down. Zeke ain’t funny without a audience.
Thumper gripped his shoulders firm, and Zeke quaked a little. All them niggas in the cell turned away with a quickness, and even Bradley Smalls fucked off to clean his needle. They all sensed where this was going. They knew how Thumper do, and they knew what was expected of ’em. When Thumper first got locked up, any nigga who never ramrodded got teased for it. A real man do need to blow a nut. Young niggas see that as unfashioned now.
Smears of blood still clung to Thumper, but that ain’t slow him down none. Tunnel vision, remember. Only this moment do matter.
He pulled down Zeke’s prison boxers, revealing a fine brown booty. Thumper whistled slightly. The other niggas in the cell was getting involved in a craps game, and they all stayed facing away like polished butlers. “Sssh, Zeke, you might wanna go grab the hog fat.”
“Aww, shit, Thump, c’mon, don’t be a ramrod, a nigga, that’s old-ass uncool shit… Be my nigga, nigga… Don’t stick it in me…” Zeke said. He got no compinktions about being loud, it seemed, cuz he ain’t lower his voice none. He slipped away from Thumper, who held onto his shoulders so he gotta squirm like a earthquake to get out from under. Then he scurried off to grab the tub of hog fat they kept in the cell.
“Shush. Pretend you like it,” Thumper said. As Zeke returned and smeared lard on his buttcrack, Thumper pulled him close and kissed him on the lips. “Make some girly sounds. Pretend like you a bitch wit’ a Baltimore accent, nigga.”
Zeke did play the part the best he could, quiet as possible. Thumper ain’t mind the quiet tone to his flirty moans, as that was a lot like a female. But he sounded reluctant moaning around Thumper’s tongue invading his mouth, and that made it harder for Thumper to pretend he was a girl. Thumper pulled off his gentle-nigga lips. “C’mon, sound into it, nigga. I’ll give you a reacharound.” Thumper stroked hisself into full erection, as Zeke’s whining turned feminine.
Then Thumper stuck his dick into Zeke’s asshole, just the tip at first, but that pushed some of the lard in too. It squeezed Thumper’s meat, while Zeke sucked in his breath. Thumper did too, cuz it felt good as candy, and he let out the moan shuddering up his chest and out his throat.
“Shit, nigga — gimme a sec, gimme a sec-” Zeke scrunched his eyes shut.
“Sssssh, don’t talk like that, nigga,” Thumper said. He ain’t hold on to Zeke no more. Thumper preferred to make a nigga choose to stay. Zeke hyperventilated like a woman in labor. Thumper clucked his tongue. “Make sounds like you like it,” Thumper said, as he reached around Zeke to grab his cock. “You makin’ sounds like a woman bein’ raped. I don’t like them sounds.”
“Man, nigga, Thump, c’mon…” Zeke said. He sucked in his breath and stood on his toes. His cock was going flop-a-flop in Thumper’s hand, but it felt good there — it felt like a moment, like this moment.
There was a time decades ago when a nigga could plow any nigga he want, and that other nigga ain’t allowed to fight back so long as the first nigga give him a reacharound. This one warden instituted that rule. Ain’t barely a single nigga who like it, and it was hard for the screws to enforce. Thumper did like it very much, and he did enforce it in his cell.
That was why Thumper kept on rubbing off Zeke, who ain’t get hard, while Thumper stabbed his dick in and outta his asshole. He don’t care about giving him a reacharound, it just felt good to feel Zeke’s manhood throbbing in Thumper’s grip. A young nigga’s dingdong feels good. Maybe it reminds a nigga of when his own dingdong felt like that. Anyway he played with Zeke’s limpness like clay, while Zeke’s tight ass squeezed and massaged a nut outta Thumper’s balls.
“Here I go, nigga, you good, you good, almost done…” Thumper moaned into Zeke’s ear, making him shudder. That caused a wave of tightness and pleasure to rocket through Thumper, bringing him over the edge. He shot his first cumwad into Zeke’s guts, then he backed up and humped his dick in and outta Zeke’s sensitive bootyhole as an orgasm wracked Thumper’s body.
A vast wave of cum filled Zeke up, making him grimace but also sigh, grateful that this was finally over. His whole body tensed up while Thumper’s relaxed, and the jism flowing into his butthole continued for what felt like forever.
Thumper lay back, satisfied, his pain having vanished. His cock plopped out amid his flow of jizz, and he smirked at the sight of cum pouring from Zeke’s ass. More and more kept spurting out, coating Thumper’s crotch and wettening his pubes. Thumper grinned at sight of Zeke’s twitch of pain, as he spread his buttcheeks apart and stood on his toes.
“Shit, nigga, that hurt!” Zeke said. He glared at Thumper like Thumper should be wiping Zeke’s ass clean. That was technically correct. Niggas was required to clean off a nigga’s butthole when he rammed him, but Thumper was a head nigga around here. He ain’t clean shit. So Zeke limped off to clean it his own damn self.
Thumper plopped down on his bed. Now that the adrenaline from the fight done wore off, he was sleepy as a sunset. The sound of the other cell somebodies roared back into his belltower. They was all doing they shit — lifting weights, conversating, pattycake, whatever, all that shit a nigga do, filling the air with behavior. It felt good to hear it. He lay there listening. Niggas wiggled on about the weather for tomorrow’s trash pick-up — it might rain, which meant the guards was gonna cancel it. Guards don’t wanna get wet. Niggas in prison do. Thumper don’t remember what the rain felt like, but he knew it was good.
Before he fell asleep, he eyed this muscley nigga named Ruck. “Hey, Ruck,” Thumper said from his bunk. He yawned as Ruck came to him. “When you go to bed tonight, come sleep wit’ me. We doublin’ up tonight.” Thumper ain’t wanna sleep beside Zeke cuz he was too bony, like cuddling with a coathanger, but Ruck got muscles and meat and plump bits to grab onto, and he used deodorant. That made him a grade-A nigga.
Ruck wrinkled his too-ugly-to-love nose. “Yes, Thump.” Once he got outta the light, it ain’t matter that Ruck looked like a portapotty exploded. He got a ugly face, but in the dark that don’t matter. Only the moment matters.

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

Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil: Chapter Six

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

Thumper held a towel around his waist when he walked from the shower to his apartment. It was right down the hall, no turns, no curves, no stairs. But somehow he got lost.
His sandals flip-flopped on the mildewy rug. Soon as he stepped onto the soggy carpet of the corridor, Thumper sensed unease. Something felt wrong. He stopped short.
His apartment was there, or it should be. Ain’t nobody use none the rooms on this level, ‘cept for him. So why done his belly gone wibbly?
Something was wrong. Something done change, maybe. The peeling wallpaper was the same, the smell of the decrepit wood and crumblesome brick of the building remained. But Thumper still felt wrong.

He padded to the left. That was correct, wasn’t it? Thumper couldn’t remember. It ain’t feel right. None these rooms looked right. There was numbers on a placard on the door. His apartment ain’t have a number placard, it had separate numbers, like on a mailbox.

And none these doors looked right — the frames had changed, maybe, the color, the peepholes, something he couldn’t quite place. Awful sounds boomed outta the shut doors he passed. Screams, whimpering, the whir of some motor, a moist splash like blood splattering on the wall.
That Woman in White popped up in his mind, but Thumper dismissed that. She made it hard to think — he ain’t struggle to think right now, he thought fine. What he saw looked wrong. He stopped outside the door closest to where his apartment should be.
But growling emanated through the door, some kinda simmery growl more human than animal. It was fierce, and it sounded like viscous goo dripped from the teeth of whatever was there, so Thumper left the door shut.
Then to his left, Thumper saw a big-ass powerhouse nigga, as high yellow as sunshine.
It was him — Thumper recognized that young cat, it was Thumper hisself, Thumper from thirty-four years ago. He got a handsome mug and just a couplea tats. His skin was taut, and his bladder neck ain’t gone batty yet — couldn’t see that, but Thumper could tell. This nigga, this cheekbone-laden young-nigga Wendell, he got the swagger of a man who do piss a reasonable number of times a day.
Thumper could tell from the tattoos that that young-nigga Wendell was from right before his prison sentence. He got them dice on double sixes on his shoulder. Thumper got that tat couplea days before the unlicensed boxing match that led to his arrest. Young-nigga Wendell ain’t got none the prison tats that present-day old-nigga Thumper got.
“Hey, nigga, hey!” he called out, but that young-nigga Wendell ain’t pay him no mind. He walked down the stairs, the stairs that shoulda led to Lipsweet. “Hey, Wendell! Wendell, hey! Hey, nigga!”
His voice ain’t seem to carry though, and Thumper weren’t sure if he was making noise at all. Young-nigga Wendell ain’t respond. He went down the stairs, and Thumper followed.
Ain’t none of it made sense, but Thumper weren’t cogitating upon reason right now. Young-nigga Wendell was from Before. Back when the world ran proper, before Thumper jumped outta the progression of time and sat in a box getting old, watching his bladder neck go buggy. Young-nigga Wendell was basking in glorious ignorance, and he don’t even know it.
At the bottom of the stairs shoulda been the backrooms behind Lipsweet. When Thumper got down there though, the back corridor was wrong — a hard marble floor, not the grimy linoleum that he recollected. There was paintings hung on the wall, ain’t no paintings in Lipsweet. They was awful abstractions of things but you could tell what they was, like one was a car, kinda, a tortured twisted car that looked haunted in every meaning of the word, like if a car could have a thousand-yard stare, this was it, even without eyes. Looking at it depressed Thumper, who forced hisself to look away.
Young-nigga Wendell done gone through the double doors into Lipsweet proper, or the place that shoulda been Lipsweet. But before old-nigga Thumper could follow, some thing walked past like it ain’t see him.
It was a horrid stack of flesh — arms and legs like flayed limbs, flaps of skin flopping as it moved, and its center was a wheel-shape, like a man mated with a rack — the torture device — as it moved, the wheel turned. The turning of the wheel caused a horrid grinding, squishing the flesh of the wheel itself and the limbs and the headless neck into a bloody paste. The wheel seemed to be what powered it too, rolling atop its legs to force them up and down.
Thumper was glad it ignored him, and he waited for it to pass. When he followed far behind through the doors into Lipsweet, the bloody-wheel fiend went to the bar and furtively swiped a bottle of liquor.
On the other side of the room stood young-nigga Wendell, addressing a crowd of reporters with microphones and cameras and notepads. They was notating every damn thing he said. Thumper recollected doing press conferences from back in his boxing days, but this weren’t one of them. This was later. He never did a press conference after getting the dice tat. It was just two days afterwards that he went to the underground boxing match, and it was only two days after that that he got arrested.
This was a press conference that ain’t happen cuz Thumper was in prison.
“Uh, yeah, yeah,” young-nigga Wendell was saying to one them reporters, who just asked some dumbass reporter question. “I been the Chesapeake champion for three years in a row, and nobody go’n take that crown away from me.”
“Do you have a strategy for tonight’s match?” asked a paltry honky with a tape recorder and a snooty nose.
In the real world, tape recorders and cameras and cameramen and microphones and boom mics and sound guys and producers and tittyfucking and factcheckers and journalists all done got replaced by a phone. But this was Before, when all them things existed.
“Uh-huh, sure do, strategy is to punch hard and punch far, baby!” Wendell pointed at the crowd of reporters who all went laughy-taffy. Youngish-nigga Wendell was like that. Thumper missed it. Everybody made fun of him now for saying that kinda shit. When you’re young and handsome, you can be silly and everyone assumes you making a joke and they sposedta laugh. When you’re old and got rickets in your knees, they assume you gone daft and they sposedta issue a corrective statement about your comments — seriously, that Davon nigga done “say a corrective about Thumper’s comments” during a all-bouncer meeting the other day, cuz Thumper said something about planking knuckly niggas out.
“Do you have a comment about the underground boxing ring broken up in Baltimore this week?” asked one the reporters. “Did you know about it?”
“Uh, I heard rumors, that’s all,” young-nigga Wendell said. He flexed a bicep, which stretched the sleeve of his button-down shirt. “They ain’t invite me cuz they knew there’d be no contest.” A tittering of polite laughter underhushed the crowd of reporters. He flexed the other bicep, and he laughed out loud like a charismatic donkey.
A long plonderous sigh came from Thumper. He wanna be this young nigga so bad he could taste it. Shit, if only young-nigga Wendell knew how good he had it. Thumper got lost in his notions until he saw young-nigga Wendell getting hot under his collar at some numptious honky.
“He don’t wanna say that to my face though, do he, you lor bitch?!” Young-nigga Wendell said. “Come up at me and say it, don’t pretend you concerned ’bout some Russian boxer, bullshit, bullshit, nigga, bullshit! I will rock that Bent-Dick Ovaltine honky any day of the week and twice on Sunday-“
“I’m just reporting on the comments, Benedikt Olvyntilvich said you will fold like an accordion-” the journalist was quaking like shake-n-bake, and maybe that was what set young-nigga Wendell off. He punched the fear offa that journalist’s mug.
The whole crowd of them burst into gasps and clicking cameras, as some couple of ’em ran off to find a phone — this was before cell phones, mind you. Blood poured from the journalist’s fist-snack of a nose.
Thumper stood in the back of the crowd, still holding a towel around his waist, shower water evaporating off them double-size shoulders he shared with young-nigga Wendell. His heart sank like this was happening to him, and it was, even if it was a different him, and he could feel that young-nigga Wendell’s world darkening as the cops arrived and put him in handcuffs. They dragged him outta the room, and again Thumper followed. The journalist with an eternal smear where his face usedta be lay on a stretcher, paramedics buzzing around him like officious bees.
In his bones lingered the same feelings as young-nigga Wendell — not just the dark ones about getting arrested but the victorious ones too, the feelings that told him he gots to punch out a journalist, that ain’t nobody gonna talk shit without getting that shit knocked outta him. Ain’t none the journalists or the cops or the paramedics act surprised. None them knew Thumper, but they expected it of him. Hell, Thumper expected it of himself. Young-nigga Wendell was default as hell.
That was the same part of him that signed up for that underground boxing ring. He couldn’t stand the fact that somebody else might win — would win obviously, if he ain’t fight in it — and then Thumper wouldn’t be the undisputed champion no more. There’d be somebody disputing. Thumper gotta be the toughest nigga around.
In prison, it’s easy to be the toughest nigga around. Easy for a tough nigga anyway. There’s a limited pool in the first place, and guards mostly keep him and his from them and theirs.
The door outside led to a parking lot spilling forth with the sound and smell of rain — actual rain! Thumper eager as a beaver followed the journalist on a stretcher and the squad of paramedics accompanying him outside.
But when he passed the doorway, he weren’t in no rainy parking lot. He was in Lipsweet, or a hellish copy of it. The layout was right, the bar, doors, tables, chairs, all that looked right. But it was filled with more of them horrid creatures, like that wheel-of-flesh thing he done saw. In fact that wheel of flesh was right over there, drinking from the bottle of bourbon it stole, the liquor dripping visibly down its open tract and lubricating the wheel grinding its flesh into loosemeat.
The fiends looked at him, or at least they shifted bits of theyselves so as to aim in his direction, since most of ’em ain’t have apparent eyes. Aside from the wheel of flesh, there was a pair of skeletons — not hollywood skeletons neither, these had rotting bits of organs attached, shattered teeth and discolored bones — some kinda reddish dragony thing and a cartoonish vampire straight offa cereal box. All them stared at Thumper like he was the weird one.
There was a young nigga Wendell again, sitting free — no cops to be seen — at one of the tables, like he ain’t notice the demons all around.
This youngish-nigga Wendell was older than the one at the press conference. He got lines on his face and one streak of gray on his temple. He was still younger than Thumper though. He swigged outta a bottle of beer, then murmured something at one hideous creature walking by. She gurgled, blood splattering out her mouth like she was chewing on glass, and then she mounted youngish-nigga Wendell’s lap so that her bare tits dangled afronta his face. Them tits was long and saggy and steada nipples at the end they both got jaws with double rows of sharp teeth, and they snapped at youngish-nigga Wendell who kept playing like he gonna suck on ’em.
Old-nigga Thumper watched for awhile. His young self laughed and flirted like he ain’t see the tit-jaws or the blood spilling outta that female’s throat. Thumper came up closer to him then, but youngish-nigga Wendell paid him no mind at first.
You know those posters that look like nothing but if you unfocus on ’em, you see a picture? Thumper saw that on youngish-nigga Wendell — he looked like the young handsome nigga he was when Thumper looked at him, but when he looked beyond him, at the demonic lady behind him, then outta the corner of his eye, Youngish-nigga Wendell looked different.
He looked like Rico.
He was wearing Rico’s soul like a suit, that was why. Youngish-nigga Wendell done will have murdered Rico thirty-four years from now. Rico weren’t even born yet.
Youngish-nigga Wendell noticed Thumper eventually and scoffed like he don’t talk to old niggas. “Whatchoo want, old man? I’m mackin’ on this female, don’chu see?”
“Yeah, yeah, I see.” Old-nigga Thumper wanna say so much more, but the demon woman made him wrinkle his nose, and her tits aimed they sharks in his direction. He wanna tell his young self to stay away, that his demon woman was trouble.
But youngish-nigga Wendell wouldn’t never listen. Never could tell that nigga nothing. Not like Thumper now, who takes in feedback and adapts to change readily. That’s on the parole checklist.
A tear-streaked young woman came in then, a real human — stall-blonde, pretty as pink but sob-a-lobbing out loud. She was followed by couple cops in plainclothes — detectives — and she pointed at youngish-nigga Wendell. “There he is! That one!”
Youngish-nigga Wendell jumped to his feet. “That bitch — you can’t trust that bitch!” Youngish-nigga Wendell squared up at the cops, and the demon-tits lady slinked off. “That bitch threw herself at me, she was into it the whole time, swear to God!” He ain’t fight back, but he ain’t cooperate neither, as the cops put him in handcuffs.
Again, old-nigga Thumper felt his heart sinking. Youngish-nigga Wendell was going to prison for sure. The plainclothes detectives said they was arresting him, and he struggled hard like a nigga should, but they got him, sure as sugar is sweet. They dragged him out the door, to what shoulda been the parking lot.
Thumper had enough of this. He ain’t need to watch hisself get arrested bunchesa times. Maybe that was his fate. Delsinerr said she could make him young again, let him live a life without being arrested that time thirty-four years ago, but what if that only lasted a couple months? What if Thumper got arrested again?
He went into the backroom and upstairs to where his apartment shoulda been. He ain’t need none this. Just got him upsetted.
You could keep your nose clean. Just follow the law. Stop wilding out. You don’t needta act that way.
But Wendell of all ages ain’t never see it like that. All-ages Wendell don’t like folks telling him what to do. He don’t like journalists and they bitch-nigga questions. He don’t like teasing young bitches who get him hard and then fuck off, leaving him with a angry dick and hyperactive fists.
Old-nigga Thumper do plow a nigga up the booty when he get a hardon that won’t go soft. Young niggas ain’t learn how to do that yet.
Since Thumper’s release, he bin focusing on how flawed the world was. Ain’t nothing work right, niggas was all tapping and dapping on they phones steada doing real nigga shit, and females was basically phones with tits attached, damn, they can’t stop facebooking long enough to suck a nigga dick.
But maybe it was Thumper that was flawed. He was flawed when he was young but was too strong and too handsome for anyone to tell him. He gotta learn that by stepping outta the world for a couple decades.
When he went upstairs, Thumper walked into a unmarked room, not the hallway he was expecting. This ain’t right at all.
In the unmarked room sat not-so-youngish-nigga Wendell — he was maybe late thirties now. Across from the table was a white man in a cheap suit. Another cop. Actually the same cop who arrested him downstairs, same hunk of honey shithead. Older now though, couple wrinkles on his jaws. Looked like he bin couching down, on the feud with the missus.
“You’re badly in debt, aren’t you? Is that why you needed money? The boxing money dried up, so you decided to rob a couple drug dealers, right? The Seventh Street Playas have gone to war with the Bloods anyway, so you might as well go in guns blasting, right?”
Not-so-youngish-nigga Wendell scoffed. “Boxing money ain’t dry up, jackass! I — I — I got surgery on my knees — my knees is rickety, but in a couple months I’ll be back in the ring-“
“So you just needed some cash to tide you over?” the detective said.
“Nah, bitch, nah, nah, I ain’t shoot no nigga,” not-so-youngish-nigga Wendell said. It ain’t sound believable though. Sounded like he was putting on a show for the detective and the camera and the inevitable judge and jury, and old-nigga Thumper could already tell where this was going.
Boxing don’t last forever. Not-so-youngish-nigga Wendell was kidding hisself if he thought he was still a contender at fortyish-years-old. What else was he gonna do? Coach some younger, handsomer boxer? Do a color commentary for some cutrate teevee channel? (or internet channel, whatever, old-nigga Thumper got no time for “streaming teevee”) After so many years boxing, not-so-youngish-nigga Wendell prolly got concussions on the brain and would make a fool of hisself getting on teevee.
So it made sense to rob some drug dealers. Coulda made enough to retire on. Instead, not-so-young-nigga Wendell was gonna go to prison and turn into old-nigga Thumper, who want nothing to do with this.
When he turned around to leave, there was the door to his apartment, right afronta him, like he done walk past it before. He opened it and scurried in before he could lose it again.
Inside at last, he sat by the window and watched the sun come up without a trace of tired in his bones. He craved the comfortable confines of a prison cell, where at least he could sleep. A prison cell was cozy, crowded in a good way. The apartment was cold and helpless. He felt like the last orphan in a abandoned orphanage.
It felt good to watch the sun rise. It all felt less real in the daytime. He went about his business as though ain’t nothing happen last night.
And maybe nothing did happen. He weren’t tired. He recollected being awake all night, but he weren’t tired his morning. His old-nigga body couldn’t stay up all night and not be sleepy the next day, so he musta slept. Maybe that was all a dream.
Or maybe his dreams was real, and the daylight was a fantasy.
Regardless, night came along at night-time, and Thumper found hisself back at Lipsweet manning the door. The joint was jumping from a early hour tonight cuz some husky lumberjacks from central Maine was drinking, having done finish they six-month contract. They was on the rugged for sure, and they smelled like a pine tree’s armpit. They got boku dollars to spend though. They was young and vigorous, and they looked at Thumper like he was old and uncool and he oughta be embarrassed to be so damn old and so damn uncool.
One them in particular catched Thumper’s ire. His name was Alain, and he pronounced it in the French fashion like he was too good to end with a consonant, but he spoke with a whole rack of trashy yuppers in his voice. He was a well-tanned straightlane with a face like a kick to the balls, and he was loud and pinchy upon the dancers.
“You best slow yo’ roll, Alain,” Thumper said when he bodied hisself to the lumberjacks’ table. A mountain of empty beer bottles peaked high above they table, and they was now mad onto the whiskey train. The dancer Alain pinched done curtsy away, and the lumberjacks was hooting for another one to come near.
“Yes, sah. Yesssah, yessah,” Alain said with mock obedience. He was sloshed as hell, and moving his head made him dizzy. He shrugged it off though, and he shrugged off Thumper too — a fateful mistake for Alain. Then he guffawed and slapped his knee and grabbed the ass of a woman walking by.
Another fateful mistake. Alain be piling up blunders like firewood.
“Hey, you honky shit!” Thumper punched him right across the face, knocking him to the ground amid sparks of blood from his nose. The other lumberjacks jumped back, but one leapt at Thumper. He was too drunk to do more than bump into him though, and Thumper shoved him to the ground alongside his buddy. Thumper mounted Alain and punched his dazed and bloody face again. “Don’chu grab a woman here!” He was really more pissed that Alain did it right afronta him, afronta Thumper, who was in charge here, like Alain got no idea he was just some fucking woodcutter like from a fairytale, he ain’t jack shit in Lipsweet. Thumper ran this jawn on point, and honkies got a role to fill like everywhom else. That role don’t include disrespecting Thumper.
Or pinching dancers without paying first.
Taking a step back, Thumper’s blood boiled. Every nobody in this bar stared at him, none them listening to the disappointing rock music that dribbled out the speakers like a pansy’s nut. Music was awful nowadays. Thumper’s hands balled into fists at his side, flurrying to fly.
But Thumper couldn’t get the police called on him, or his parole officer’d find out. If Alain went to the hospital, Thumper’d be charged, he’d get his parole revoked. He’d be like that young-nigga Wendell, fated for jail, destined to become old-ass Thumper with the wonky bladder neck.
So Thumper let his blood run cold, and he stone-faced the mean-mugging lumberjacks.
That ain’t mean he was gonna let Alain get away with it. A man shouldn’t go groping no female, that was wrong, and that was a lesson Thumper wanna teach. So he grabbed Alain by the nape and dragged him outta the bar. Ain’t nobody like him much or lumberjacks in general, so that was fine, and they all assumpted Thumper was gonna deposit Alain in the alley like a unwanted infant.
“Oh, you are gonna treat me like that, eh?” Alain said as he swaggered free. Thumper let him go in the corridor behind Lipsweet. Alain both stood aggressively at Thumper and inched back, finna go out the backdoor to the alley. He was too drunk to realize that weren’t the backdoor. Instead, he inched hisself to the door to the stairs that led up to Thumper’s apartment.
Thumper gave him a shove, and Alain toppled to his ass against the door, which opened, and he toppled his ass further, onto the floor by the stairs. He rollicked around, trying to get up, but he was drunk as a punk. Thumper pulled his pants down to his ankles.
“You intact, you honky shit?” Thumper asked, as his plan finally formed — all he was thinking up till now was to get Alain away from witnesses without committing a felony, then do something that ain’t murder.
Alain guffawed. “You never met a lumberjack before, huh?”
Was that a yes or a no? Prolly a no, Thumper thunk, but Alain was right, Thumper don’t know any lumberjacks.
Thumper separated Alain’s meaty sscheeks — he was definitely not intact, Thumper saw that clear as mud. He slipped his dicktip right in, couple inches making it before Alain twitched into a flexed stack of hairy muscle. Thumper leaned on him for support and to keep him in position.
His clenching turned his butthole into a stop sign, but Thumper weren’t taking no for a answer right now. He slapped Alain hard across the face, the sound ringing out like a angry church bell. Alain whimpered and sneered his nose, and the tension in the resta his body made his booty open up.
That was enough for Thumper to plump his dick up Alain’s guts. Alain twitched in pain, and he clawed at the ground under his back.
A burst of pleasure shivered up Thumper’s spine, as his cock got deep enough to stick. Alain’s booty gripped it tight, despite his grimaces and his clenching. Thumper kept a good hold on him. The angle was awkward, Thumper sorta draped over his muscley back at the bottom of the stairs, but at least Alain weren’t gonna escape. Thumper held his place until Alain’s breathing slowed and he relaxed.
“Who done wreck yo’ booty, honky?” Thumper asked. He ain’t really want a answer, but he wanna wait for Alain to relax enough to answer. Then Thumper was gonna plow him good.
“My boss, Mr. Chambreux, he-” Alain winced and clawed at the wall. “Owww! Shit! Get off me!” He fell limp again, as Thumper smacked him in the head. He began pumping his dick in and out, Alain’s tightly-muscled booty squeezing his shaft the whole time. It sent pangs of pleasure up Thumper’s body.
“Mistuh Chambreux?” Thumper frowned. “I rec’nize that name.” He stopped moving. Damn did Alain’s booty feel good. Thumper do enjoy a honky who ain’t intact but ain’t loose yet neither, a nice muscley honky who got tightness for days. But the name Chambreux got his wrinkles wrinkling. “You know Mistuh Chambreux?”
“He owns the lumber company I work for, eh! He owns a lot around here,” Alain said through his panting, seething jaws. He sucked on his teeth and again stiffened up, trying to crawl up the stairs. That made his butthole squeeze tight around Thumper’s dick, which he inched bit by bit deeper into Alain’s booty.
“Hey, is he a actor? He do plays?” Thumper’s voice broke cuz he was nearing his orgasm despite hisself — he wanna keep talking, to find out more about Mr. Chambreux — but if he pulled out, Alain would skedaddle for sure. Thumper’s lower half kept humping on its own accord, and Alain’s guts kept sending a wave of pre-orgasmic bliss through Thumper’s frame.
“What?” Alain wrinkled his nose.
“Does he do plays? Like a actor? Theater, not movie.”
Alan shook his head, then shrugged and nodded. “Kinda. Owww, shit!” He threw his head back, then down, making it bang on the stairs. “Goddamn-“
“I’ll finish quick if you answer my question. Is he a actor?”
“What, no — he — well,” Alain said, squinting and squirming. “He told me once he had an audition to get to.” He craned his head up and whispered to Thumper. “He said it like it was a secret.” He laughed but he sounded serious too, and he groaned as he felt Thumper orgasm inside him.
“Huh…” Thumper’s voice wavered — he both considered what Alain said and orgasmed at the same time, unable to resist hisself any longer. His muscles spasmed and rippled, as he grunted up a sound that echoed in the cozy stairwell.
Thumper rammed his dick in and out, moaning into the muscled meat of Alain’s back. He got that hairy-honky back that Thumper found both disgusting and hilarious, but it took more than some furry shoulderblades to hold him back. He grunted and shot a thick jizzwad deep into him, then another, then another, and he filled Alain’s guts with creamy cum.
A long sigh came outta his lungs as a spurting flow of jizz came outta his cock. Thumper felt a potent release, all the tension of the day draining away. Ramrodding a man, he thunk, was less pleasurable but more relaxing than fucking a woman. He ain’t even gotta hold Alain down as his last couple cumdrops drained up his guts.
As he finished, Alain ain’t resist no more. He knew better than to blueball a nigga, or at least this nigga. He let Thumper spew nut up into him, and Alain fell limp until Thumper’s cock finally plopped out.
Wiping his dingdong clean with Alain’s flannel shirt, Thumper screwed up his eyes. “Shit…”
Alain stayed soft, both too drunk and in too much pain to move. He groaned. “I dunno if he got the part from the audition though, he never said that. He said earning an audition was hard enough. He had to sell his soul just to get an audition.” Alain laughed like he believed it but wanted Thumper to think he didn’t. “I’m sure he was pullin’ my leg. He musta been.”

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