Category: Ezra McClintock

He was a tall, thick-bodied black man with a mustache like a 70s porn star, bushier than Rob thought possible. He had a dour, no-nonsense look. He wore dickeys, in which he had tucked in a wrinkled black shirt, which seemed small for his broad shoulders. It was apparent that he kept the shirt around only to talk to people like Rob; he probably wore some sort of workshirt most days… Ezra McClintock gave off the vibe that he was in charge (even if Rob was his boss) and it was tough for Rob to focus on his words when he watched his upper-body stretch the confines of that shirt. He had a deep rumbly voice and a fantastically declarative way of speaking… He came to stand next to Rob, whose heart thumped. He was so close Rob could feel his pants rubbing against Rob’s arm. His crotch was right at Rob’s face-height, so he turned to see the large bulge pushing against the fabric of Mr. McClintock’s workpants. That bulge was huge, and Rob could tell the fabric was threadbare there around his fly — he must have had these pants for a long time and had zipped and unzipped them numerous times… He unzipped Mr. McClintock’s pants and his big black dick popped right out. It smelled of work and sawdust and extruded plastic, and it reeked of ball-sweat — which Rob loved. He inhaled deeply of the scent.

From Mr. McClintock the Foreman

Lee dreaded his Tuesday-night dinners with his mother nowadays. That was because of her “boyfriend”, Ezra McClintock. He was there every week, ruining everything, making Lee feel as small as a shrunken sponge. He wore khakhis and a polo shirt tonight, like a banker at a golf course, and his thick biceps strained the fabric.
He had tattoos. When Lee was a boy, Mom told him to never trust anybody with tattoos. Now she was dating one. A black man — not that Lee minded that part, of course — with tattoos, probably “gangland tats”. Lee had drawn the tattoos on Ezra’s arms and the side of his neck the best he could, and he looked them up on the Internet, reveling in a fantasy wherein he discovered that Ezra was an escaped serial killer based on his distinctive tattoos.
But none of what Lee saw was that distinctive. A Bible verse, a crucifix, a king of spades, a pair of crossed tools of a sort that Lee didn’t recognize and a woman’s name — Eleanor. None of them were apparent gangland tattoos. The crossed tools looked like a symbol of something, but all that came up on Google was a vaguely similar white-supremacist symbol. This was different, and Ezra was as dark-skinned as Professor Mbutu, so he was obviously not a white supremacist.
Ezra was so tall and so powerfully built, his big barrel chest radiating heat, that Lee found it difficult to think clearly around him. And he wore a zesty, musty deodorant, which combined with his menthol cigarettes and coppery hair to make him smell like a homeless mummy. The odor distracted Lee.

From The Factory Foreman