Category: Michael Gregarian

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Thumper climbed into the rented pickup, and only on the way did Mr. Gregarian tell him about the mission.
They was extracting money outta some broke-ass deadteat who owed Mr. Gregarian oodles of doodles. Thumper ain’t mind that mission, but it was gangsterism for sure, and if Mr. Perry found out, he’d fury up on the quickabout. So Thumper gotta be discrete. Discretion ain’t easy driving a speckle-paint roaring-engine truck past Mr. Perry’s office on the way to the ritzy-ditzy neighborhood Oaken Grove in Baltimore County. Luckily they passed a recycling truck when going by the parole office, and it blocked Mr. Perry’s window from them.
On the way, Thumper ain’t play no music in the truck, and Mr. Gregarian was okay with that, or at least he ain’t complain. Thumper liked the sound of the engine and the wind cracking past like gusts of freedom. Thumper ain’t yet figure out how to listen to good, old music — every music-listening method required multiple steps he’d have to look up how to do. How did every part of music get worse while he was locked up?
Thumper considered asking Mr. Gregarian where to buy clothes. But he got the feeling Mr. Gregarian stopped buying new clothes around the time Thumper got arrested, so they just sat in silence as the white-lady robot directed them into Oaken Grove.
A few desperate-limb oaks remaindered from the trees that done got teared down to build Oaken Grove. Thereabout around, the houses was big and spread wide like grassy yawns. The nicest homes was built at odd angles to the road. Most them yards sported trim lawns and spartan scatters of elegant blossoms. Lotta sculpted hedges and little decorative evergreen jawns too. They was pretty yards, as perfectly plotted as a Jewish murder, but you could tell ain’t nobody ever play or cook out or jaw a spell there.
When they pulled into the driveway of a house with rundown grass and overgrowed flowerbeds, Mr. Gregarian told Thumper the plan: while Mr. Gregarian flapped his trap at the man, Frank Johnson, Thumper should empty the house of valuables. Anything that could be sold was fair game. Frank owed eleven grand, and Mr. Gregarian said he prolly done sold off anything truly valuable. But Thumper was eager to find something better than chumpy cheddar, so Mr. Gregarian’d call this a success.
First he carted out the teevee and the fridge with a hand-truck, while Mr. Gregarian spoke stern as stairs to the deadbeat. “Did you think you had gotten away with it? I don’t forget a debt, Mr. Johnson.”
Frank Johnson dropped to his knees. “Please, sir, Mr. Gregarian, just give me another month. Don’t break my knees. I still have a job, and once my divorce is final, I won’t have lawyer bills anymore. Please, sir-” He was a rosy-nosy honky-donkey pudgebutt in sweatpants and a trash tee shirt that advertised a boy scout popcorn fundraiser. He bin divorcifying the missus, that was what done consummate all his money. Thumper saw family photos with wifey’s face cut out. Looked like she got a okay body though, bony in the hips some, and tits small as Salvadoran fists — wouldn’a slowed Thumper down none. That limpwad Frank oughta never gived her up. He ain’t gonna get no shebody better now.
“We’re not breaking your knees, you moron,” Mr. Gregarian said with a hot sneer. He shoved Frank away. “I know perfectly well you’d never pay if you were crippled.”
Frank nodded and stood up from his knees like still got some pride. “That’s right, that’s right. Thank you! I’ll pay as soon as I can!”
Thumper hurried upstairs, but the upstairs done got strippt clean as a virgin dildo — Frank’s wife and kids absconded months ago, and they took all they jawns from the bedrooms. Frank still got his own bedroom, but it was fulla little more than a ratshit mattress, old McDonald’s crinkle-paper and unwashed duds. There weren’t even no teevee in there. Only valuemento was a stack of sticky porno, which Thumper took knowing Mr. Gregarian would call it a pervy waste. It was, he be right, but Thumper could sell it to his homies in state and make a pretty penny for his pocket.
Then Thumper looked behind all the framed photos for a safe, and he tapped his foot on the floorboards to listen for a hollow thud. Nothing. Basement got lotta rotting newspapers and a rusty, dusty furnace. He checked the crawlspace under the house too but found nothing ‘cept a dirty shovel and a nest of mice.
Getting a nigga who bin locked up for decades prolly weren’t a good idea on Mr. Gregarian’s part. Thumper dunno where a fellah might hide money nowadays, and he got no idea how valuable shit like a ironing board was — he put that in the truck, but Mr. Gregarian later made fun of him for it. Thumper ain’t even get the iron to go with it. Thumper picked up bunches of weird little electronic boxes with no clear purpose. One kept beeping like a cyborg with a stutter, and another got a light flashing inside.
Thumper put a serious flatness on when he came back to Mr. Gregarian. “Ain’t find much, suh,” he said. “There’s the fridge and the teevee out in the truck. I got some jawns that beep and boop too. Should we take his phone?”
“Please, don’t, Mr. Gregarian-“
“Shut up,” Mr. Gregarian snapped at Frank and slapped him across the face, making a loud ring like a whore’s diamond. He looked back at Thumper. “No, let him keep his phone. It’s too old to sell anyway. Mr. Johnson does need a punishment though, to be sure he finds a payment before next month.”
“Yes, suh,” Thumper said. He brandished a fist, then took off his shirt. This was the part that was easy for him. It felt right as rulers. His broad chest gleamed in the dim light. His prison-built muscles was firm, crudely tatted, the naked Statue of Liberty with the fat-girl vulva on his back dripping with sweat (Thumper done look up what a vulva was). He glowered down Frank, who turned pale as a drained-out klansman.
Thumper advanced to hit the cowering Frank, who crounched down by the front door like he might could skedaddle. But he was quaking and shaking like fry bacon, and he kept crawling his noggin into the bottom of the wall behind him. “Please, wait, no!”
“Just a tap for now, Wendell,” Mr. Gregarian said.
Thumper nodded and grinned, his fist colliding with Frank’s face with a satisfying thud and a cry of pain. Frank curled up into a mewling ball, which put Thumper down — he got a slim lip for beating a man who ain’t fight back or even beg. He just curled up like a deflated fetus. Blood sploded outta Frank’s nose and dripped down Thumper’s fingers.
His eyes on focus on Frank, Thumper let Mr. Gregarian reach from behind him and undo Thumper’s belt.
Thumper’s jeans thudded to the floor. He wished he done put on something classier than prison drawers, but that’s what he was wearing, cuz Mr. Gregarian ain’t tell him this part of the plan. His prison drawers was so fray-thin you could see Thumper’s dinkum and his fat old-nigga berries through the fabric. He ain’t wanna be a cast-iron nigga afront Frank and Mr. Gregarian, but he was wearing trashy drawers, and they was looking at him like a trashy-drawer nigga.
“Cornhole him hard,” Mr. Gregarian said with a sneer. “Make him contrite for his intransigence.”
Thumper nodded confidently. He both grimaced and grinned — seeing that pretty wifey with her face missing made his dick throb-a-lob-dob like a second heart.
But Thumper ain’t like the idea of being ordered to pluck a honky punk. All the niggas around knowed damn well that Thumper was a booty-puckering rump ranger. Most niggas denied it. Not Thumper. He bin got witnessed too much in the cell, and he long past abandoned his need for discretion. Every non-fool nigga with ears in Baltimore musta heard he got up in guts plenty in lockup.
This was the first time whitey indicated he knewed it too — Mr. Gregarian weren’t clued in to the Bloods, so he musta either heard a rumor at Lipsweet or simply deducted it like a savvy honky. Maybe Thumper looked so much like a booty bandit that a pinkie-ring whodat like Mr. Gregarian assumpted he was one.
What did Mistuh Gregarian tell Miriam by way of warning? Does every honky I see think that? What bin Miriam thinking about me?
That was a trashy way to be. Men was gonna be warning they sons when he passed. If you get locked up, don’t drop the soap afront a ramrod nigga like that.
But Thumper weren’t gonna let his compections get in the way of doing Mr. Gregarian’s bidding. He gonna hafta flap at Mr. Gregarian about it. He came forward to Frank and lowered his head down next to his. “Sup, Frank. Name’s Thumper. How you doin’?” Thumper sat next to Frank and bared his feetses. He kept his big-grin jive-and-dime nigga face on as he put one foot on Frank’s mouth.
“Uh… Whath co’nholin’?” Frank asked around the big toe on his tongue. He held back a raspy gag and made a face at the sour-band-aid taste of Thumper’s feet. His eyes opened wide as a cartoon whale.
“That’s a good question. I’s glad you axed, Frank. I ain’t gonna answer, cuz I wanna see the look on yo’ face when you find out-“
“No, Thumper,” Mr. Gregarian said, dreary-eyed and cheerless. He faced away, standing near the doorway. “We have to tell him what it is so he has a chance to pay to avoid it.”
A grimacey grunt of greement came outta Thumper. He patted Frank chummy-like on his pudgy-wudgy shoulder. “Well, Frank, cornholin’ is when I stick my dick in yo’ booty. I use yo’ butt to jack off wit’, then bust a nut in yo’ guts. Lemme warn you it hurt real bad, and-“
“Whaaat?! You can’t do that!”
“I ain’t surprise it sound impossible to you. The challengin’ part is that yo’ butthole is like this big-” Thumper made a small circle one two finger. Then he belabored his prison drawers down and flopped around his giant slab of limpness. He showed how much bigger it was than the circle like he was tryin’-a force it through the tiny hole. “My dick is that big. It’s a conundrummer, buddy.” Thumper rattatat-tapped Frank’s dummy-dumb dome like a drummer. “But we gonna figure it out togethuh. Put’cha head down.” He ain’t give Frank a chance to do it. He gripped the back of his neck and slammed his face to the floor hard enough to make Frank cry out in pain. “I said put’cha head down. If this is gonna work, you gotsta do e’rything I say, Frank. You could get real injuryed if you don’t do it right. You might never hold a dookie in again, if I wreck yo’ sphinctuh-ring. You rememberin’ where you got some dollahs saved for a rainy day? Cuz it’s ’bout to start pourin’ down puddles. It’s ark-buildin’ weather fo’ you, honky,” Thumper asked, stroking his pecker with one hand until it started firming up. He slipped his dicktip into Frank’s butthole, and a squeezy sensation ran through his spine. A smile slipped onto Thumper’s face — he stayed enjoying wrecking a roundbody. Frank gritted his teeth, his eyes bugging out.
Frank shook his head. “Hhhnnn! Hhhnnn! Hhhnnn! C’mon, man, man– I don’t have any — ow, shit, ow, shit, ow, ow!”
Thumper kept on forcing his dick in deeper and deeper, inch by inch, sending waves of pleasure through him. He exaggerated his reactions, even though Frank got his face down and Mr. Gregarian faced outta the room, so nobody saw Thumper making old-nigga faces with every thrust of his pecker into Frank’s reddening buttcheeks. Thumper smacked one asscheek, then the other, Frank squirmed beneath his grasp. Thumper dug his fingers in deeply, digging at Frank’s back. He felt resistance in Frank’s butthole, so he punched him hard in the side. “Quit fightin’ me-!”
“Ow, shit, c’mon, stop! Hhwwwn! Hhwwwn! Hhwwwn!”
He punched Frank in the side once more, and Frank panted. His hands clawed at the ground as though he could dig hisself away. Thumper wrapped one powerful arm around Frank’s neck, not quite choking him but making sure Frank knew he could.
“You fightin’ me, honky, stop it,” Thumper said, his voice grim as gravel. “Frankie-panky, c’mon, I don’t like it when a punk fights me-“
“I’m not!”
“Yes, you is, you clenchin’ yo’ butthole, like you still control it. You ain’t in charge of yo’ butthole no more, so make it go loose. Like you takin’ a shit-“
“No, ow, shit! Hhwwwn! Hhwwwn!”
Thumper flexed his arm, which choked Frank until he stopped making noises, aside from a hoarse wheeze. “Frankie-panky, you gotta listen to me. Remembuh what I said, you can get injuryed if you don’t do this right. You doin’ two things wrong. First of all, don’t make that noise, like you fartin’ out yo’ mouth. Tha’ss nasty as prison loaf, nigga, I know you don’t know what that is, but it ain’t nice.” He let Frank have a breath, and Frank gasped. Thumper’s voice broke, as Frank’s sudden focus on breathing meant his asshole relaxed, and Frank could slide his rod in another inch or two. “More than half in now, buddy,” he said, his voice breaking again in Frank’s ear. “You feel good as shit. Okay, now, the second thing you doin’ wrong is you clenchin’. You feel that, you clenchin’-“
“Ow, c’mon…” Frank was outta breath, unable to recover from being choked. Plus he was trying not to make that sound. Thumper appreciated the effort.
“Quit clenchin’,” Thumper said with a growl. “Pretend like you takin’ a shit, Frankie-panky.” His voice was hot and hard in Frank’s ear. He liked that Mr. Gregarian could hear him right now. This was just him and Frank, like best buds, sharing they own little secret. Ain’t nobody but the two them ever gonna experience this, Thumper thought. He was already feeling twinges of his upcoming orgasm, but Frank’s discooperativity was slowing Thumper down.
And Thumper liked that — it meant he could plow fast and still last.
“Ow!” Frank roared in pain, but when he twitched, his resistance disappeared for a second. Thumper forced his dick in to the root, until his balls slapped against Frank’s taint. Frank shouted, “Ow, stop! Wait! You gotta stop! Just gimme a sec!”
“Don’chu tell me what to do, Frank,” Thumper said. He smacked Frank hard on one buttcheek, and a thrill went up Thumper’s spine, while a chill of pain went up Frank’s. Thumper bin ramrodded plentya honkies in lockup. Nicer ones than Frank too, or at least perkier ones.
But there was something different about it now, plowing into a professional man — a accountant or some shit. Thumper liked that he got to disobey a white man in a nice house. Ain’t lotta opportunities for that in lockup. Mosta the honkies there was meth-goblins, crackheads, Nazis or dirty-hairy rednecks — white trash, basically.
But Frank was a real man, right up until Thumper turnt his behind into a pussy-hole. That made Thumper grin, plowing in and out until he heard his balls slap against Frank’s taint. A nigga’s knapsack made a good’n’grimy thwackuh-thwackuh-smack sound hitting a honky below the booty.
“Love that sound, Frankie-panky. Sounds sexy, don’t it? That’s the sound of you not bein’ a real man no more,” Thumper said. His muscles rippled when he moaned again, aiming the sound right into Frankie-panky’s ear. Thumper’s heavy body pressed down on him, as he smacked in and out. He even pulled all the way out for a second — Thumper liked hearing that sound of relief and then the stuff-a-plug grunt that came when he rammed it right back in that gapey hole.
Thumper ain’t quite feel this right since he left prison.
On the other hand, he was only doing this cuz a white man told him to. That made it less a satisfy. He was a free nigga now. He ain’t gotsta do what a white man say — ‘cept for Mr. Perry, and him only for another year, til his parole was up.
So Thumper ain’t gotta suppordate hisself to Mr. Gregarian. His pole weren’t a tool to get brung out at Mr. Gregarian’s discretion.
He oughta at least tell Mr. Gregarian he wanted a bigger cut. Any big-ass fool could punch Frank. Booty-banditing was a skill, and Thumper wanna get paid for it.
His stick still throbbing and leaking precum up Frank’s guts, Thumper lifted hisself off Frank’s back and grabbed Frank’s phone — the movement made him grunt with pleasure, leaning on Frank for support. He was surprised Mr. Gregarian let him keep it, but it was old, prolly obsolete, Thumper thunk. He saw an app called TuneBleed, which reminded him of Miriam, so Thumper poked it.
On came music, but it was some plastic-twang twinkie-fried country music that never seen a trailer park, so Thumper turned it right off. He typed in fatback, cuz that was what he was looking at, what his ears was craving, what his mouth was hungry for and and what his pecker was currently deep within.
Luckily, Frank Johnson’s honky phone got Fatback in it, and that was Thumper’s kinda funk, so he pumped up the volume. He daggered his dickmeat in time with the rhythm.
Finally, some proper music.
“Love this band, Frankie-panky,” Thumper said, rolling his muscles up and down, grinding his dick in a little circle in Frank’s tight butthole. Frank were past clenching now — he ain’t gonna clench for a month at least — so Thumper got free reign over his booty.
“Thumper, hit him more,” Mr. Gregarian said, like that shoulda been obvious, like he done this a million times and Thumper was the fool for not doing it right. “You gotta hit him-“
“You don’t gotta tell me how to do it, Mistuh Gregarian,” Thumper said with a throaty roar. “I know how to jack off in a man’s booty.”
Mr. Gregarian was took way back by that. He frowned at Thumper. “What?” Mr. Gregarian narrowed his eyebrows.
Thumper motioned for Mr. Gregarian to come closer. He hesitated but did so, still facing away from Frank’s ruint behind. He ain’t like looking at Thumper neither, and he specially avoided seeing Thumper’s thirteen-inch cock. Thumper leaned close enough to whisper into Mr. Gregarian’s ear. “We gonna hafta come to a ‘rrangement, Mistuh Gregarian. You ain’t tell me this was part of it, and I wanna get paid.”
“I’m not paying you extra to cornhole someone. That’s — you’re an ex-con, that was probably what you were gonna do anyway.” He crossed his arms over his chest.
With a grunt, Thumper stopped moving. He looked down his nose at Mr. Gregarian. “Well… I ain’t gonna blueball mahself this time, you called my bluff,” Thumper said. “But, uh… next time…” He leaned on Frank, who screamed through gritted teeth into his own arm, which he bit when Thumper’s dick rasped in and outta his butthole. Thumper let out a creaky-throat moan. His chest was getting steamy with sweat. He smacked Frank in the side. “Quit it, Frank, you silly wiggleworm. Keep still. Head down, ass up.”
“Look, I’m givin’ you fifteen percent of what we get-“
“But he ain’t got nothin’. Fifteen percent of fuck-all ain’t worth my time,” Thumper said. He crossed his arms over his chest, his dick deep in Frank, who writhed in pain impaled on Thumper’s rod. Thumper ain’t move, he just let Frank’s squirmy-wormy body rub his butthole on Thumper’s shaft. He looked at Mr. Gregarian. “I want the first eight hundred, then fifteen percent after that. And a free ride on any the Lipsweet bitches when we get back.”
“Bull-fucking-shit! Do I look like I eat pussy?” Mr. Gregarian said. He weren’t whispering anymore, but he still faced away, like he was too good to see a man receive a ramrod, as if it weren’t his idea in the first place. “Cuz you’re treating me like the kinda pervert who licks a woman’s pisshole.”
Thumper bugged at that. That did explain why Mrs. Gregarian was on the stepout on her man. She do be in need of a nigga tongue. Thumper made a mental note to lick her butthole next time. But Mr. Gregarian still ain’t knowledgeate hisself about his wife on the stepout, and Thumper ain’t wanna let on. So he said, “Yo, why ain’chu just bring that whiteboy Bud along on this trip?” Bud was the deejay at Lipsweet, and he was a short-sneering rumplesilkskin with fake gang tats on his neck. Thumper laughed at Mr. Gregarian a-fume.
“Him? He can’t — he’s never been to prison, for one thing-“
“You right, he can’t. He ain’t a booty bandit, he a white-trash nowhom,” Thumper said. He kept his weight on Frank, who whimpered and squirmed beneath Thumper’s body. Thumper wiggled his cock in Frank’s booty, which made him slither like a sexy snake. “Cuz Bud ain’t got the skill. I do. So I gotsta get more than-“
“Five hundred. I’ll give you the first five hundred, then fifteen percent,” Mr. Gregarian said. “You can fuck any the women, but now new girls, I don’t need you stretchin’ them out.” He paused. “And clean up real good before you fuck her tonight.” He paused again. “Like, real good. I can’t have a escort out with a infected pussy.”
Thumper pondered that for a moment, then he nodded. He gripped Frank by the hair, making Frank squeal like a piglet. “Hear that, Frankie-panky? We gots a ‘greement. I’mma be comin’ back here and doin’ you up ya dirt till you pay yo’ dutiful debt.”
“Yes, I will, I will, oh god…”
With a throb and another light slap on Frank’s cheek, Thumper stopped moving at the apex of his penetration. Frank squealed in agony. Thumper’s dick throbbed painfully inside him, followed by a burst of fresh hot jism. Thumper grunted like a rampaging boar.
Wave after wave of creamy cum flowed into Frank, who choked back a sob. He ain’t never experienced a sensation like this. He hid his face in his arms, as Thumper resumed pounding away at his sensitive asshole. With each thrust, Thumper shot another huge fist-sized wad deep in Frank. The heat seeped into his very bones, and he smelled his own assfunk in the air.
Frank couldn’t breathe. Thumper pressed his massive chest down on Frank’s back and whispered in Frank’s ear. “You my bitch now, you my punk. You hop to e’rything I say fo’ the rest of yo’ life, or you gonna get another mile of meat up yo’ backside. Now lemme finnish nuttin’ yo’ manhood away.” Thumper gyrated his hips, forcing his dick in to the root as he drained the last couple drups of nutjuice into Frank’s innards.
Frank crawled away when Thumper allowed him to wriggle his way free. Thumper ain’t pull off him, he just stopped holding Frank down, and Frank’s worming got him out from under Thumper. A final moan of pleasure came from Thumper’s throat, as his dick slid like a greasy turd outta Frank’s bootyhole. Frank sighed in relief.
Mr. Gregarian was still standing there in the doorway, facing away. He did clock the size of Thumper’s pecker though, Thumper saw that in the corner of Mr. Gregarian’s eye. Thumper let it drip there aimed in Mr. Gregarian’s direction, while he told Frank to get him some toilet paper. Frank thought to dawdle and clean his own butthole first, but Thumper corrected that with a fist and another order to get him toilet paper lickety-split.
“Here you go, sir,” Frank said when he returned with toilet paper. Thumper ain’t tell him to call him sir, but he liked it. He could get used to that. Thumper ain’t take the toilet paper, and soon enough Frank got the message. He gingerly dabbed at Thumper’s dick to get it clean of spit and cum and assfunk, while Frank’s own butthole emptied its mess onto the carpet. Mr. Gregarian still faced away so he ain’t gotta see Thumper’s mammoth.
When Thumper had enough that, he grabbed Frank’s shirt and wiped the resta his pecker off on it. He tossed the shirt on Frank’s head. “You find a way to make a payment, buddy. Or I be back.” He winked at Frank. “I hope I be back.”
“Which girl you want?” Mr. Gregarian asked, when Thumper got his clothes back on and joined him to walk outta the house. “Sherry?”
Thumper scoffed. “I’m off her. Gimme whoevuh use Facebook the least.”
Mr. Gregarian shrugged. “I saw Lacey reading a book once. An actual book. So maybe her. I’ll give you cash to give her. I don’t like them even thinking about freebies,” he said, like he forgot they already went through this — when Thumper came back from Ocean City with a boyfriendless Miriam, Mr. Gregarian paid for him to have a threesome with two girls. He gave Thumper cash to avoid setting a freebie precedent.
That was fine with Thumper. It was good, he thought, to do things the proper way. He was glad he negotiated a deal with Mr. Gregarian too. He got power that he ain’t never have in prison — he could always take his talents elsewhere. He felt like he was on the same level as Mr. Gregarian, as they both climbed into the truck and headed off to pawn the jawns they got from Thumper’s new buddy Frankie-pankie.
Mr. Gregarian sighed after a long silence, and he said, “Miriam has a new boyfriend. Rick something-or-other. I haven’t met him, but she said he was at spring break. Did you see him?”
Thumper nodded. “Yeah. He ain’t do nothin’, he made of blank pages, Mistuh Gregarian. Most of him is leg.”
“Good. I’ll hire you to escort them on dates,” he said. “So this Rick kid doesn’t get any bright ideas.”
“Yessuh, Mistuh Gregarian,” Thumper said with a smile. He ain’t turn the white-lady robot on, cuz he remembered the way home, but Mr. Gregarian put it on anyway. Thumper reckoned folk stopped learning new routes once they used they phones to do it. He ain’t want that to happen to him. So he turned it off. “Don’t need it, suh. I know the way.”

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Thumper the Booty Bandit: Chapter Five

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Thumper was surprise Mr. Gregarian picked him. When he was a young man, before he got locked up, no honky daddy would send him out with his pretty daughter to keep her safe — a nigga like Thumper, in his come-up, was exactly the kinda man her daddy need her kept safe from. Mr. Gregarian wouldn’t never have done let young-Thumper near his daughter.
Nowadays though, Thumper got long teeth and gray corn in his rows, and Mr. Gregarian knew that Thumper would go back in if he fucked up his parole — that was a mighty good incentive not to get fired. Plus Mr. Gregarian managed the club and all the hos who hoed there, and he promised Thumper a thousand bucks and a free ride on any them once he got back from the assignment.
As long as his daughter was still a virgin.
So Thumper got a car and a company credit card. This should be easy as slack pussy, Thumper thunk.
He was going on spring break.
Miriam was Mr. Gregarian’s daughter, and she was pushing past nineteen. She was a spray-on tangerine-cream white girl, pretty as a pumpkin despite the disaffected curls of hair blocking her face. She was going to spring break now, she said, because Ocean City was strictly 18+ this weekend.
The math suggested Miriam was the same age Thumper was when he got arrested, but Thumper couldn’t wrap his wrinkles around that, so he tried not to ponder it.
As Miriam settled into the backseat of the Jaguar while tapping and dapping at her phone, Thumper wondered if she was really still a virgin. Maybe. She ain’t look it, but you could tell she was trying-a look sluttier than she was. She was all dolled up with ruby lipstick, blooming blush and scarlet mascara, and she got a bare midriff and a bikini under that halter-top. She got a bitch-happy way of talking too.
“You better drive quick,” Miriam said, rolling her eyes already, as soon as the car rocked into motion. “We’re off to a late start. My friend Katie is like almost there.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Ugh, ‘ma’am’. Don’t call me that,” she said with a scoff. She blew one them hair-curls outta her face, but it drooped right back to dangle above her frown as though pointing to it. “You make me sound like a old maid.”
“Uh, yeah, okay, Miss Gregarian-“
“Just call me Miriam, okay? It’s humiliating enough having you as a babysitter.”
“Bodyguard,” Thumper said.
“Same thing.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “And don’t try to talk to my friends.” She rolled her eyes. “How old are you anyway?”
“Fifty-three.”
“That’s gross, that’s so ancient. I can’t believe Dad won’t let me go alone. Ocean City is not a ghetto, no offense — I can drive, you know, I have a driver’s license. I drove to Florida last year. I’m almost twenty years old.”
Thumper nodded. “I don’t think it’s the driving he do worry ’bout, miss… Miriam.” He cleared his throat. “He mention you gots a boyfriend gonna meet you there. He wanna make sure the young fellah treat you right. And other fellahs — there gonna be lotta fellahs at the beach. Lotta them fellahs only want one thing, and they got Roman hands-“
“I know! Do you go to church in the 50s?! You don’t have to explain sex to me. I know all the parts of the penis! God, my dad is the worst,” she said. “I know boys are assholes, and I hate them.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “My boyfriend is Caden. He’s very cool, you have to know that. He DJs at a club and has like a hundred thousand followers on Instagram. My dad doesn’t like him. He said he’s a smoothpecker. I don’t know what that means. I think it’s a translation of something Armenian.” She again blew that tendril of hair away from her face with a judgmental puff, but it went right back to the way it was. “I hate being Armenian.”
Thumper got distracted then by a slowdown on the highway, as traffic choked the road. He ain’t wanna admit that his driving skills was weak — Thumper only drove a few times on a highway in his life. He barely drove before, and Carson only helped him get his license back last week. Mr. Gregarian never asked. White folk do be assumptive that everywhom drive everyway everyday. Thumper narrowed his eyes to slits and gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles honkied up, as cars careened past like sleek elephants. Cars went faster nowadays, or maybe time itself was faster. The Jaguar was smooth as a lubed thumb, but lotta the other cars on the road rattled and roared like wraiths on a rampage, like they was finna collapse into a car-shaped pile of car parts. The sound of some squawky whiteboy on the radio pissed Thumper off like squawky whiteboys do, but he gotsta grope around on the dashboard to figure out how to turn it off.
“You drive so weird, old man! I’m putting TuneBleed on. You’re my driver, not my boss,” Miriam said. She stayed messing about on her phone as if she weren’t allowed to put it down.
He grunted. He was calmer now that he was steady in the slow lane, confident he was heading the right way. “TuneBleed, huh? Never heard of ’em. They a rock band?”
Miriam sneered. “A rock band? That’s not a thing anymore. It’s an app,” she said like it shoulda been obvious. Some awful music blared from the speakers. It got a beat like hip hop, a slow-kidney tinkle-piss beat, like if rain could cry, but no words, cuz every nigga in the world musta got too sleepy to rap over it.
Thumper glinted at Miriam in the rear-view mirror, still white-knuckling the steering wheel. “How do I get the lady back? The directions lady?”
“The what?” She stayed in her phone, tippy-tapping at it like she was finna finish her tippy-tapping but kept finding more tippy-tapping to do.
“The lady who know where to go.”
“You mean GPS? It’s on.”
“The directions thing? Yeah. the woman, like a white-lady robot,” Thumper said.
“The GPS lady is Siri. You know she’s not a real person, right?”
Thumper narrowed his eyes at her in the mirror. “I ain’t a retard. I know there ain’t a woman in the dashboard reading directions off,” he said.
She scoffed and blew strands of hair outta her bratty-brown eyes, only for them to flop right back once again like a bossy octopus. “Can’t you drive faster? You go so slow. I can’t be the last one there, I will absolutely die.”
“Yo’ pa said I gots to bring you back in one piece. It ain’t a race.”
“It is! If I’m the last one there, Caden will be hanging out with Donna Wiltshire, and she will suck off anything that moves, I swear, she is such a skank, and everybody knows it.”
Thumper roared into the rear-view mirror. “Get that white-lady robot back on. What’d you say her name was? Seeree?”
“Siri! You can’t talk to me like that! I’m your boss!” Miriam snapped.
“Yo’ daddy is my boss, and he said to tell you to quit being a ungrateful brat and you ain’t allowed to whine at Wendell like a mouthy hussy all weekend,” he said.
She screwed up her nose. “Okay, first of all, my dad did not say that. Second of all, did you just call me a ‘mouthy hussy’? Third of all, I can’t believe your name is Wendell. It’s like disgustingly uncool, I swear, every time anyone calls you Wendell a celebrity somewhere in the world gets fat-“
“Bring back Siri!” he said. “I dunno where to go! I-“
“You stay on this road, you crazy old moron! Siri is still there!” Miriam screeched like a whole flock of shattering bats. She slammed her hands on the seat and gritted her teeth. She snapped at him, “GPS will cut in over the music when it’s got something to say! You’re ridiculous, how can you be so lame?! Don’t you just, like, want to die? You know nobody likes you.”
“What? You dunno nothin’.”
“I know all the bouncers! All of them! Buck, Rocky, Poahi even, and he’s so dumb he’s nice. They all said you’re a humiliating old fool and they can’t believe you get out of bed in the morning,” she said. She sat back in her seat with a flounce and crossed her arms over her chest, phone still in her hand.
He chuckled. “Not a single one them evuh met me. Only bouncer I know is Tyrell,” Thumper said.
She looked out the window and wrinkled her cutey-tooty nose. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“You need a slap upside the face and a job where you work up a sweat,” Thumper said.
She looked at him with wide-eye shock in the rear-view mirror. “You can’t talk to me like that-“
They was both startled then by Siri cutting in over the music. Prepare to approach the Chess-a-peak Bay Bridge in one mile. Thumper’s fingers fumbled like fretful butterflies around the dashboard in search of a button to press to go back to TuneBleed, but then it did that automatterly.
“Be quiet when I go over the bridge,” Thumper said. He eyed the bridge, which extended over the horizon. It was wide but narrowed by lurching traffic squeezing in away from the sheer, unprotected sides. The sound of the bay’s waves, honking cars and cawing seagulls reverberated through the fog below.
“Why? Are you sneaking up on it?”
“I never drove on it before,” Thumper said softly. He ain’t like how the traffic was slowing down, and one of the that-way lanes was fulla cars going this-way, and the bridge rumbled like jagged rags under a trillion tons of too many cars, but he ain’t wanna let on to Miriam that he ain’t never drove outta Baltimore before and ain’t never even drove on no big-time bridge. The lanes narrowed as the cars seemed to grow wider, and a utility truck ahead looked too broad to fit.
Thumper sucked in his breath as if that’d make the car smaller or the lanes bigger.
The Bay Bridge stretched far into the distance. The water loomed low below, and there weren’t no shoulders or even a real guardrail, and the edge nipped at Thumper’s side. There weren’t barely nothing to stop the car from a icy plummet. Thumper could only go with the flow of trapped cars. He got a tight grip on the wheel like it was trying-a escape, or he was.
His heart raced. He ain’t realize how long this bridge was. Weren’t there islands in the Chesapeake?
It felt like a cage even though it was the exact opposite of one — it was wide open, no barriers to speak of ‘cept the bridge itself underneath. The Earth stretched to surround it, but the cars hemmed Thumper and Miriam in like shrunk tighty-whiteys. If Thumper got out, he couldn’t even fit between the trafficky cars. He was as trapped as a rat in a eagle’s talons seeing the openness and freedom it never knew it had on the ground.
Miriam stared out the window. Her legs were crossed, her lower-down foot tapping the upholstery like a drumless drummer, as she shot bosomy, judgemental sighs up to Thumper.
“It’s no big deal,” she said. “It’s just a bridge. I could drive it in my sleep.”
But Thumper’s honky-up knuckles was taking all his attention. His concentration went towards fitting the Jag through these tiny lanes and praying for the sight of land on the far side of the bridge.
“Can’t you go faster?”
“No!” he snapped at her. He looked at her in the mirror. “Ain’t nowhere to go!”
“It’s just a bridge. Grr,” she said with a roar like a bored tiger. “Honk your horn or something! Go faster-“
“That won’t make nobody go faster.”
“I can’t be there last! You have to go like a hundred miles an hour the rest of the way!”
“You ain’t in charge of speed,” Thumper said, eyeing her in the rear-view mirror.
Miriam fumed like a flirty volcano and called her girlfriends one by one to tell ’em the traffic on the bridge was “mega-bad”. She said it like ain’t none her friends ever heard of traffic, so she gotta explain it to ’em.
Finally, the Eastern Shore did appear ahead, rising over the horizon and beckoning the line of cars. Thumper held his breath until the cars’ wheels switched from echoic thrumming on steel to dull solidity atop the ground.
He prayed his thanks to the Lord in Heaven. Miriam gabbed on her phone with a friend about another friend, Kylie Jenner. Miriam gossipped with her friend that this Kylie Jenner was a “butt-slut” who was into black guys. Thumper wondered if Kylie Jenner was gonna be at the beach this weekend. Miriam whispered that part about Kylie Jenner liking black guys. Thumper ain’t let on that he heard.
If she thunked Thumper couldn’t hear, she was more likely to talk to her friend out loud. That was good, cuz Thumper wanted to know her plans.
“Yeah, I’ll get so drunk tonight. Me and Caden. Ew, no, I’m not gonna — that is so gross, you don’t even know,” she said. “What’d he buy? Uh-huh. I don’t know what that is. Is it cool? It sounds manly, like something a coal miner would drink.” Then she grunted like a macho man. “Steel Reserve.” She giggled. “Prolly has a lotta calories. I don’t care, I’m not eating this weekend. I’m so fat. Oh don’t say that, I wish I had your thighs. I am! I’m so fat, I’m like groundhog-shaped.”
Thumper locked his eyes askew at her in the mirror, but she ain’t clock his mug. Steel Reserve was a malt liquor. Hobos drank that.
At least, long time ago, before, hobos drank it. God only knows what people did with it nowadays. Enemas, prolly, Thumper thunk with a chuckle, until Miriam saw him laughing his foolish ass at nothing.
Was she allowed to get drunk? Mr. Gregarian ain’t said Thumper should stop it. But Mr. Gregarian wouldn’t want her puking streetside like a trash-high ho.
By the time they made it to Ocean City, Miriam done made it very clear she intended to get drunk as a cup tonight. Her boyfriend Caden wanted to drink — he was who bought the malt liquor.
Him and her was the last of her friend-group to arrive, but ain’t nobody but Miriam seemed to notice that.
Caden was already drinking a forty of malt liquor from a brown paper bag, sitting on a brick wall by a bank of rented beach-houses and staring at the sea beyond like a poet, a image that was undercut every time he halted his handsomeness to hop on his phone with fingers like bony breadsticks. Thumper disliked him right away. He was a necky sumbitch, a shoulderless chowder-white honky with shiny teeth. He got this foppish mess of blond hair like a limp mop, and he be bitsy-sipping at his brown-bag forty.
“Yo, babe, wuddup?” Caden said with no chalance when Miriam came close-up. He glanced at Thumper, then looked away, then glanced back at him with flurries of worry on his mug. Nearby, waves in batches bashed the beach and crashed against the craggy shore, where rowdy crowds shouted out loud and brohed down like broken clowns. Thumper hung around Miriam with a bare, uncaring stare at Caden until he looked away again. Miriam was gobbling on about some girlish shit and ain’t clock the men mean-mugging.
The bounce in Miriam’s step vanished when she turned from her gal-pals to Caden, and her excited eagerness gave way to the same slow tone as his cracker ass. “Hey,” she said with a shrug. She arranged her hair tendrils outta her eyes only for them to slip back afronta her gaze, and she ain’t fix ’em again.
He leaned in to kiss her, but his eyes fluttered once more upon Thumper looming down on Caden like a slimy bug he was finna smash. Thumper ain’t blink once since Caden thought he was man enough to make eye contact with him, which was likely not the first time Caden misestimated his manhood. Caden whispered to Miriam, who whispered back as they kissy-kissed, and they both laughed like giddy guppies. His hands roamed over Miriam’s back.
“Oh, that’s Wendell. He’s my driver. Ignore him,” Miriam said, both to Caden and to her other assembled friends, as Miriam, Caden and them other multiracial whobodies gathered up and headed on to the beachhouse they was doing a “airbee inbee” weekend in.
The crowded streets was bustling out loud and packed as canned sardines. Thumper ain’t realize it was gonna be asses to elbows here. Ain’t no way even a dozen bodyguards could keep track of the dimwits ambling down the ave, so Thumper kept his eye eagling on Miriam.
He also kept a surly eye on Caden, who be running his fingers through his hair and walking with a uptight butt like a prison therapist. He showed off his flatty-flat chest cuz of a tattoo he just got — the word liberation writted in a “hardcore punk font”. Thumper disliked him more with every passing moment. Mr. Gregarian was right: Caden was a smoothpecker. Thumper ain’t even know what that meant, and he was sure it applied.
Somebody oughta slap that boy’s daddy in the balls.
The beachhouse was as sad, small and plain as a half a packetless ramen. You could tell nobody actually lived there — it was like a overgrowed hotel room. Everything was too clean and too polished, and it smelled like a lemon got the hershey squirts in there. The floppy-cheap furniture inside was uncomfortable and awkward. Nobody would choose this furniture if they hadta use it every day. That was what Thumper decided when he plopped down into a awkward rattan chair, while Miriam and the other girls changed into and outta each other’s bikinis in the bedroom. They stayed reassuring each other that they all looked better than they did in they own bikinis.
The beachhouse living room was silent as a dead man’s shoes until Caden spoke — except for the next-room-over giggling-atop-each-other girls changing they clothes and hair and makeup. Thumper scowled at Caden, who said, “Yo, dawg, I think it’s great you’re protecting Miriam this weekend,” Caden gave Thumper a chinless nod. “Men can be such pigs. Somebody could easily take advantage of her this weekend, y’know, if I’m not around or whatever.”
“Uh-huh.” Thumper grunted.
Caden still got his forty of Steel Reserve. “Yo, homeboy, you want some malt liquor? I got more forties in the fridge. This is a sweet pad, isn’t it?”
“Hmmm… Why you drink malt liquor, boy?” Thumper narrowed his eyes to slits.
“It’s badass, my homie.” Then he did a little singsong imitation of some cheesy nigga. “Sittin’ on the stoop, drinkin’ forties wit’ my homies…” He grinned like he thought Thumper was gonna sing along with him. “Steel Reserve is good drink.”
“No, it ain’t,” Thumper said, a-beating his feet on the floor. He got a curl lip for that Caden.
Eventually, the girls emerged in they final bikinis, which was the same as they first bikinis but a hour later. Caden went right up to Miriam — Thumper couldn’t hear what he said, on account of those girlfolk being loud as lightbulbs. They came herding into the living room giggling like drunken donkeys and braying like bitches and exuding hormones like a pack of wild glands.
And Thumper couldn’t deny that his dick twitched in his pants at seeing them in they bikinis. They was pretty young things fresh outta high school — all legal age, but Thumper was old enough they felt too young to look at. Did girls get younger while he was locked up? He was them girls’ age when he got arrested, but they looked younger than he ever felt. Girls before ain’t look like girls now, he thunk. Most ’em was spilling bits of tits outta those stringy things. Mr. Gregarian musta ain’t never seen Miriam’s bikini or he’d-a blowed up.
Thumper got no bathing trunks. But he did strip down to basketball shorts and his clean sneakers. His bare chest scared off Caden and displayed his tats. He was glad to wear the basketball shorts cuz they was the only article of clothing he took with him to prison thirty-four years ago and still had, plus basketball shorts looked the same now as they did before. It was the only thing he got that ain’t look old-fashion.
“You look ridiculous,” Miriam said to Thumper as they all left the beachhouse and headed to the boardwalk and beach. “You’re like a thousand times older than anyone else here. What even are those shorts? What century did they make them in?”
“What?” Thumper’s heart sagged like a stuck balloon. “Basketball shorts ain’t change-“
“The stitching on the elastic is all wrong, they’re like a half-inch too short, the material is thin like a whore’s lingerie, oh my god, and they’re like fraying, look at those loose threads. Do you live in a mouse nest? And your tattoos look like crap, those aren’t even cool tattoos! You have a naked woman tattooed on your back, that’s disgusting and probably misogynist!”
“It’s the Statue of Liberty,” Thumper said, looking down at his shorts. Now that she pointed out all the differences, he could tell that his was old-style and the ones Caden and them wore was new.
“Gross. She has a vulva like a fat girl.”
Thumper got no response to that. He couldn’t see his back, and he weren’t sure what a vulva was.
The town of Ocean City swarmed with late teens and twenty-whatevers on spring break — thousands them flocked here, outnumbering the beleagured locals like lambs in a slaughterhouse. Miriam, Caden, Thumper and the rest struggled to remain in a tight group, as they filtered through the thronging streets. The smell of beery vomit and sea-spray filled the air, and Thumper felt sand in his shoes, though he ain’t goed on the beach yet.
“Didn’t you bring swim trunks?”
Thumper shook his head. “I ain’t goin’ in the ocean, Miriam.”
“You’re going to make us look like freaks on the beach!” Miriam said in a quiet hiss. They group of young’uns done combine up with another group of identical young’uns, and Caden was hububbing with some boistery boys, all them porting forties in brown bags.
One whiteboy whooped, “Drinkin’ forties like a shorty, dawg! Fuck yeah!” They all whooped and chugged they forties, clutching phones in they other hands.
Thumper wrinkled his nose. It felt good to be shirtless. His tats gleamed in the sun. The rambuncting whiteboys sang through that song about drinking forties, and Thumper was ready to strangle them and then whichever shit-snack wrote that song.
“Yo, you some kinda gangsta?” Caden asked, his words starting to slur, when he saw the prison tats adornmenting Thumper. “Bet you pop a cap in countless niggas, huh, broh?” He whooped and yelped like he made a joke, and the other paleface pusses scattered around all whooped like they was in on it. Caden finger-gunned at his brohs.
But before Thumper could say nothing, Caden and the other boys was moving on, roughhousing and playing down afront the girls. Some commandy light-hawk whiteboy was organizing up a volleyball game, but the beach was crowded like a Brazilian prison and nobody got a volleyball or a net and everywhom was tipsy as drippy drains. So the volleyball plan seemed unrealistic. They just drank.
By the time the sun setted and the moon rised and the star and open sky spreaded over the horizon, Thumper guided them on they way back to the rented home, and Thumper held Miriam’s hair back as she puked into the toilet. Her bony body undulated like a slender manatee with every vomit.
And them tits bounced in her bikini, not that Thumper watched ’em go.
“Malt liquor is strong, guhl,” Thumper said. “It tastes like beer, but it get you drunk like liquor.”
“Oh god, ssshut up… I hate you,” she gasped. She wiped a few tears off her cheek. “Where’s Caaaayden?”
Thumper shrugged. “He and his boys rumored off to buy shrooms,” he said.
She nodded. “Oh god, I can’t do mushrooms.”
Thumper frowned. “No, you can’t. Yo’ daddy wouldn’t approve that, reckon,” he said. “Betcha big beans they get ripped off anyhow.”
Half-standing on her wobbly legs, Miriam almost fell. Thumper supported her and gave her another glass of water. She gulped from it. “He’sss gonna fuck that biiiiiiiitch Caroline, I just know it.”
Shaking his head, Thumper said, “Nah, nah, no way,” he said. Thumper ain’t know which of the identical girls Caroline was. “Caroline’s fatter than you, and she got that messed-up hairdo. Caden ain’t goin’ aftuh her.”
“Thank you!” she said. “She can’t pull off bangs, I knew it!” She touched her ears. “She doeshn’t have the right ears for bangs.”
Thumper nodded like the kinda nigga who got opinions on bangs. “C’mon, guhl, you best sleep it off.” He put another glass of water beside the bed, then helped her to it. “You sleep late, guhl.”
“Ssssshut up, Wendell,” she said, but she plopped onto the bed and closed her eyes. “You sssshuck.”
Thumper stood over her until he was sure she was asleep. Once she was thoroughly conk-a-zonk, Thumper was glad to have some time to hisself. He could wander out to find a slut to bang. There was plentya women hot to trot in this town. Maybe that Kylie Jenner was hopping about.
But could he leave the house with Miriam slumbering? How many other men were on the wander looking for a ho to poke?
He went to his own room and took a shower. He rinsed Miriam’s vomit off. He went lookie-loo around the beachhouse, dressed only in his boxers, to make sure the doors and windows was all locked — even at close to two o’clock in the morning, the phone-lit streets of Ocean City was choked with drunken revellers.
One of those drunken revellers was outside Thumper’s bedroom when he returned to it. The shadowy figure fumbled with Thumper’s window, making a loud racket as he worked it unstuck from outside. The light was off in the room, so Thumper stood there by the window with his arms crisscrossing his chest.
Finally, the window was forced open, and the familiar blond tousle upon Caden’s dome appeared. He was so drunk he ain’t notice Thumper standing there. Caden crawled in and toppled onto the floor.
“Baaaby…” Caden said when he got up and checked that his phone weren’t smasht. He saw Thumper and the empty bed. “Oh. Sssshit. Thissssh ain’t Mere-yum’sssh room. Ssshorry, homie.”
“I ain’t yo’ homie, Caden,” Thumper said. “‘d you buy shrooms?”
Caden shook his head with a slowness, like his whole body was made of honky-flavor jello. “Was a ripoff. Where’s Mirre… Mirre… Where’s she at, dawg?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Thumper said. “If you think I’mma let you go in there and plunder that female like she a bag of doritos, you are even dumber ‘an you look, and you look dumb as dogshit, Caden.” He said his name with a sneer.
“I-“
But Thumper grabbed Caden by the cheek and turned him around. He shoved him face-first into the wall, and he spread Caden’s legs before lowering his pants. Caden wiggled to get away, but he was so drunk and so slow that Thumper ignored his efforts.
Then he pulled down his boxers — plain white but thick and weirdly nice — Thumper ain’t never in his life seen high-fashion-brand men’s underwear before — and revealed a plump white ass. Thumper loved smashing a pair of porcelains.
He rubbed his dick on Caden’s buttcrack until it was good and hard. Caden’s whole body undulated as he tried not to vomit. “What’rrrre you doin’?” Caden asked. He was sobered up a little by the surprise and the pain from Thumper holding his hands behind his back.
“This is called ramroddin’ in prison,” Thumper said. His dick was hot and hard now. Caden felt it in his buttcheeks but couldn’t figure out what it was. Every time he tried to move his head, his world swam and his belly swayed inside, so he stopped, and Thumper wouldn’t let him look all the way behind hisself anyway. Thumper said, “Whiteboys call it cornholin’. Black fellahs call it ramroddin’.”
“Hmm… I heard of that,” Caden said softly. He tried to remember the rapper who says he was “ramroddin’ bigger niggas with a quicker trigger finger”. He always thought the line was “ham-waddin’ bigger niggas”, but he looked it up a couple weeks ago cuz he ain’t know what “ham-waddin'” was. He also ain’t know what “ramrodding” was.
Then a fiery ball of pain erupted in his backside. He bit back a howl, while Thumper placed his dirty drawers in Caden’s mouth as a gag. Caden ain’t know he shoulda bin clenching, but once Thumper’s manhood pushed into his hole, Caden couldn’t expel it no more.
His cock forced its way deeper into Caden’s backside, as a firestorm of pleasure ran up Thumper’s spine. Thumper howled along with Caden, licking his lips. Caden cringed and grunted, and he bit his tongue so hard it bled. Thumper kneaded his buttcheeks like rising dough. Every motion Caden made sent another frisson up Thumper’s spine. He ain’t plowed down a whiteboy since prison, and it felt good to plunder his hip little guts.
“Hmm, whiteboy, yo’ booty feels damn good…” Thumper moaned and his voice broke in Caden’s ear. Caden shivered and bit back a cry of agony. Thumper nibbled on his earlobe.
With a whine and a whimper, Caden felt a throb in his ass. Thumper grunted. A spurt of hot liquid washed into Caden’s flesh, and the heat of Thumper’s load suffused throughout his body. Cum flowed into him, great creamy wads of it that filled him up.
“Don’chu mess wit’ Miriam this weekend,” Thumper said with a growl, still nutting inside Caden. He thrust into Caden’s ass and shot jiss deep into his guts. His moist voice echoed in Caden’s ear. “Or I’ll get a dozen niggas to split you in two, and I’ll make you call yo’ mama so she can hear her son stop bein’ a real man.”
“Yes! Okay! Yes, sir!” Caden said, shouting the best he could without taking a deep breath. More jissom flowed into him, more than he thought possible. It dripped down his thighs. Thumper’s heavy body pressed against his back still, and Thumper’s hot breath condensed on Caden’s ear. Finally, there was one last spurt, then only a few drops leaking into him.
Thumper’s dick limpened slow in Caden’s ass, while Caden whimpered and stamped his feet. Thumper smacked his buttcheek one more time.
That made Caden tense and grit his teeth. His whole body wiggled like an agonized snake. “Hhnnnnnnn!”
“That was some nice booty, Caden,” Thumper said with a grin that grew as he watched his big black pecker ooze out, along with rivulets of pearly nut. “Hope you don’t gotsta walk straight anytime soon.”
His cocktip emerged with a moist plop, and Caden sighed. Jiss flowed down his thighs. “Ow, shit!” Caden groaned out loud. He tried to stand up too quick, and dizziness struck him.
“Don’t forget, whiteboy: leave Miriam’s virtue alone,” Thumper said before he tucked his dirty dinky away. He shoved Caden back out the window he done crawl in through, and Caden collapsed with his pants down outside. Thumper threw his phone after him.
Then he locked the window. That, he thunk, was one problem solved.

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Buck the Dumbass: Chapter One

Buck Sampson steered the Jaguar into a parking spot. He done squash his hillbilly ass into the driver’s seat, his giant frame not fitting without lotta effort on his part. Mistah Gregarian slid graceful as a weasel out from the backseat b’fore’n Buck could heft hisself outta the front.
Putting on his sunglasses, Mistah Gregarian scowled at Buck. He preferred Buck to open the door fer him. Classier. But he ain’t wanna sit in the backseat and wait fer the galoot to get in gear. “C’mon, you moron, hurry up,” Mistah Gregarian said. “You could be less oafish, Buck. I have an image to maintain.”
“I’s tryin’, Mistah Gregarian,” Buck said. He lowered his bass-booming voice. Buck was a chambery hulk of a man, damn near seven feet tall and as broadly muscled as a ox. He got a thick, unkempt mullet the color of a new moon at midnight. Buck’s scruff covered up his ruddy cheeks.
Wrinkling his nose, Mistah Gregarian said, “You might have to threaten him. If I give you a signal, give him what-for.” He motioned fer Buck to go ahead — t’was classier fer the lackey to go in front. Buck was more concerned ’bout an attack from behind though. This was a rough-side homeboy neighborhood, and the locals was more dangerous than the Koreans they was here to visit.
But Mistah Gregarian wanted his bodyguard in front, so’n Buck hopped to position. He ain’t know where they was going though, to the front of the shop or the back or maybe the Kims’ apartment. Buck walked a few feet then hesitated. “Suh?”
“It’s down there!” Mistah Gregarian spat. He glanced at Buck’s hillbilly mullet. “Come on!” Mistah Gregarian weren’t a hillbilly ‘t all. He was not the kinda man who’d ever set foot in the trailer park where’n Buck lived. He’d curl his lip driving past it. He done do precisely that on numerable occasions.
But Buck was strong and tough and loyal, and he was a rely-able bouncer at the strip club Mistah Gregarian owned. Sometimes, he accompanied Mistah Gregarian on missions like this one, collecting a debt.
They went into the Korean drycleaner’s, and the chemical smell made Buck wrinkle his crooked-cartilage fist-shape nose. He breathed loud cuz he was a amateur boxer and his nose done got broke buncha times a couple years back, in the early 90s. He tried to breathe normal, cuz Mistah Gregarian scumbled on another one his looks. Buck straightened his tie, which looked too short. Buck was so big most clothes ain’t fit. How far down was a tie sposedta go anyways? Buck ain’t know, and Mistah Gregarian’d scold him silly if’n Buck axed, so’n he ain’t ax.
Inside the drycleaner’s, Buck stood up on a somber face. Mistah Gregarian do admire Buck to look good — tie, shirt buttoned up, slacks, whole nine yards. He wanted Buck looking like a goon, cuz Mistah Gregarian fancied hisself a mobster. If’n Ann Arbor had more Armenians, he prolly woulda made up a mafia.
“Mister Kim, Mister Kim, so good to see you.” Mistah Gregarian cleared his throat when the spindly Korean man came out and bowed o’er and o’er. “I haven’t seen you this month.”
“Yes, sih, yes, sih, I sowwy, I sowwy,” Mistah Kim said. He got a politely nervous way of talking.
Buck zoned out. He got confidence Mistah Kim weren’t gonna stab nobody. The two mistahs slapped noses, but they both bowed and apologized and got respect in they voices. Ain’t no blowup like when they did deals with Señor Delgado the Cuban, he a fiery sort. Mistah Kim was calm as a pickled peach.
And his missus was purdy and petite, Buck peeped her in the backa the shop.
“Buck?” Mistah Gregarian elbowed him.
“Oh. Uh-huh. Yeah,” Buck said. He ain’t know what Mistah Gregarian was signaling.
He raised his eyebrows at Buck. “Do your thing,” he whispered.
Buck cleared his throat. “You, uh… You admire me to heeit him?” Buck ain’t been paying attention, but he thought the tone of the conversation was cordial. Mistah Kim done agreed to sump’in, Buck was sho’re of that. They shook hands.
The face that Mistah Gregarian put on suggested Buck was indeed sposedta hit him, was sposedta have done hit him, was a goddamn gorilla-brain goombah fer not knowing it, was in trouble fer making it look like Mistah Gregarian be hiring retards as muscle and was gonna be on the sorry end of a long monologue after this.
But how hard to hit? Buck advanced upon Mistah Kim, who was a whimpery old Korean feller. Buck could knock his head clean off if’n he admired to.
That’d likeish reduce his debt repayments though. Who redds a drycleaner’s when it gets gommed up?
“Prease, sih, sih, sih-“
Buck smacked him, closed-fist but hard enough to knock him down. Blood spurted from Mistah Kim’s nose. He shouted and squirmed and collapsed ‘gainst the wall of the dry cleaner.
“Don’t try my patience, Mister Kim,” Mistah Gregarian said. “You- — … Buck? Did you knock him out?”
“I ain’t know how hard to heeit him!” Buck threw his hands up.
“Not that hard!”
They both peered down at Mistah Kim, who was curled up by his counter. Buck looked round to see if’n anyone done witness that. The good lady Missus Kim weren’t visible, and the drycleaning shop weren’t open yet, so’s the curtains was drawn and ain’t nobody could see in.
After just a second, Mistah Kim gasped hisself wakeful, and both Buck and Mistah Gregarian brightened up. Mistah Gregarian looked at Buck like a cockroach, and Buck threw his hands up again. Mistah Kim groaned and moaned, while Mistah Gregarian gave him another minute to recover.
Finally, Mistah Kim stammered, “I — I — I can not- I haff no mon-ee!”
“I’s sawry, Mistah Kim, fer knockin’ you out-” Buck said.
“Don’t apologize!” Mistah Gregarian hissed. He shoved Buck, who was mountainous as a unmoving wall. Mistah Gregarian shoved him harder, and Buck obliging-like stepped back as though he got shoved.
“Prease, I have no mon-ee-” Mistah Kim said.
Mistah Gregarian looked down at him. “You had better be grateful I don’t take your store. We’ll be back in one month, and we’ll have paperwork to transfer ownership. If you don’t pay in full, I’m exercising the possession clause.”
“Yes, prease, sih, prease,” Mistah Kim stammered, holding his bloody nose.
Mistah Gregarian stalked out, and Buck followed. Once they got onto the street, Buck hurried to walk afronta him and open the Jag door fer Mistah Gregarian, then scurried to the front seat and hefted hisself in with as much as grace as a barrel of a man could muster sliding into a car made fer the diminutive hunchbacks of inbred British dukes. He gotta crane his head to the side.
“You made me look like a moron in there. You threw me off my game. I had him eatin’ outta the palm of my hand,” Mistah Gregarian said. “Weren’t you paying attention?”
“Yessuh,” Buck said. He nodded ‘long as Mistah Gregarian ramped up a monologue. As always, he ain’t stick to the pertinous subject. He lectured Buck on focus, men’s fashion, finesse versus tact, class and etiquette, diction and articulation, Korean cultural appreciation, comparative advantage, the looseness of women these days, state taxes, Aztec prophecies related to the upcoming millenium shift, the environmental consequences of the drycleaning industry and considerations on how far down “yo’ boys” sag they trouser-pants.
Buck nodded and apologized and promised to do better on all those topics as he drove the Jag back to Lipsweet — that was the nightclub Mistah Gregarian owned. T’was only noon, so’s nary the girls done arrive, just the janitor Ernie mopping the floor. Teddy’d be here soon to open the bar. Buck followed Mistah Gregarian into the backoffice, cuz his monologue was ongoing and Buck knewed better’an to walk away till t’was done.
“Get outta here,” Mistah Gregarian eventually said, when he sat down at his desk. He done pause amid his monologue like he forgot what started it all. He waved Buck off. “You’re working tonight, right? Wear a clean shirt. There’s blood and pitstains on that one. And get ridda that stiffy before you come in.”
He stayed casting aspersions upon Buck and t’other bouncers, claiming they got stiffies that made ’em dumb and gropesome. He discottoned to bouncers getting freebies with his girls, and if’n he let ’em have stiffies, that’d prolly be what happened, Mistah Gregarian do say.
Buck couldn’t argue with the logic. But he ain’t have no stiffy at the moment. He knewed better’an to try and convince Mistah Gregarian that that was true. Buck got a hefty slab of foot-long meat, and as far as Mistah Gregarian was concerned, t’was always hard. He’d grab it thru them slacks and declare it a stiffy.
T’wasn’t fair. Buck’s dick was big, and Buck’s body was big, so’s he ain’t fit in his slacks, his dingdong don’t fit in his tight-whites, and Mistah Gregarian be frowning at Buck’s bulges.
Couldn’t argue ’bout the blood and pitstains though.
B’fore’n Buck headed to his pickemup in the parking lot, he went thru the bar and caught that janitor Ernie sniffing ’round the rail liquor. He was looking demure as a daisy, moving a mop round and putting on a thirsty face.
“You sneakin’ drinks, Ernie?” Buck axed.
“No, Buck!” Ernie said. He was a helter-skelter kinda homeboy, all ropy limbs and taut muscles. He was skinny as diet pie though. “I’s moppin’, whiteboy!”
“Why you moppin’? Bar ain’t even open yet, reckon,” Buck said. “You mopped it aftuh close last night, and ain’t nuttin’ happen since then.”
“Floor’s sticky. Mistuh Gregarian get hot about it-“
“Shuddup,” Buck said, clucking his tongue. “You sneakin’ drinks. Mistah Gregarian’d het up ’bout that fer sh’ore. He’d blame me. He be sayin’ I gotta watch you.” He put one hand upon the back of Ernie’s neck and pushed him towards the backdoor. “There’s a mess in the back you gotta redd up.”
“Done did the back, Buck, nuh-uh,” Ernie said. But he ain’t fight back. “I don’t steal drinks. It’s just rail liquor. I don’t steal it.”
Buck pushed Ernie into the back hallway, past the waitresses’ changing room. It smelled like women in there. The stink of they lingery perfume and fragrant ladyparts got Buck’s cock throbbing good. Ernie scampered afronta Buck, who said, “Don’chu even try and run, Ernie.”
“Shuddup, Buck!” Ernie was looking round fer a chance to run. Buck got him blocked from the backdoor though. “You is dumb as a goat, hillbilly!”
“You gotst to redd up the mess-“
“Ain’t no mess! And ‘redd up’ don’t mean nothin’-“
“Yes, the’uh is, and yes, it do!” Buck said. He opened the door to one the storage closets, where’n the stink of spillt wine was overwhelming. “Teddy dropped a bottle of wine in he’uh. You gotst to mop. It done bring in ants.” The walk-in closet was mostly tablecloths, cups and couplea cooking implements Buck’s hillbilly ass ain’t reckonize, like a French press. A line of ants crawled o’er the floor. “See? Li’l black ants.”
“All ants is li’l and black,” Ernie said.
Buck sucked upon his teeth. “No they ain’t! You gotsta mop to get ridda ’em!”
“Make Teddy mop! He spilt the wine!”
“Teddy ain’t he’uh yet, and when he get he’uh, he gonna be busy openin’ the bar,” Buck said. “Tha’ss why Mistah Gregarian hired a janitor. His name is ya hobo ass, Ernie.” He grabbed Ernie by the nape. “Now bend ovuh. I got sump’in else fer you to do fuhst.”
Ernie’s bony spine bristled ‘neath Buck’s burly fingers. “Nah, whiteboy, get off me! Quit playin’! You retard!”
Buck shoved Ernie ‘gainst the wall by the door to the hall, where’n bunchesa waitresses was coming thru to start they shift. Lipsweet was due to open in fifteen minutes. They gabbed on in tight tee shirts in the breakroom across’t the hall, and Buck could smell they hungry pussies o’er Ernie’s knappy ass.
The door was shut tight, and Buck could hear ’em giggling and going on, and he could smell they perfume. He could hear ’em hum along with a TLC song, but they couldn’t hear him.
Now, Buck did got a stiffy. T’was Caitlin’s voice that did it — she was purdy as peace, and she got a voice that was nice and soft like a ripe melon. It got Buck’s cock throbbing even b’fore’n he freed it from his overly tight slacks.
But first, he ripped down Ernie’s trouser-pants, exposing his firm asscheeks. Ernie was taut as tight rope. He got a wiry old-head body, and he ain’t eat much food — Ernie preferred a liquid diet, supplemented maybe with occasional crack. He done swan he quit the rock, but Buck got low expectations. His callused fingers spread Ernie’s cheeks.
Buck knewed that booty well. Him and Ernie done share a crowded prison cell couple years back. Ernie was a cell girlfriend — that meant he gave up his ass fer hootch and smoke money — he let men use his hole as a makeshift pussy. Ernie claimed he done quit rock when he left prison, but he still drank like a fish. He worked fer Mistah Gregarian in exchange fer minimum wage, a closet to sleep in and plentya cheap booze.
Plus skimpy girls to peep at. Lipsweet was mostly a college-student bar. The GHU campus was o’er on down the street. Aside from the loose women, Lipsweet’s only attraction was that they didn’t check idees at the bar — they only let eighteen-year-olds in, and they marked the hands of them under twenty-one, but neither Teddy nor the waitresses refrained from serving folks too young to order alcohol. The lights was dimmed such that they could plausibly claim they ain’t seed the marked hands, if’n the police ever got involved. But Mistah Gregarian got connections in the city council, and Lipsweet was ne’er cited.
“Nah, Buck, no way,” Ernie said, but he ain’t fight back much. Buck done overpower him plenty in the past. He knewed better’an to make it difficult fer hisself. He closed his eyes, gripped the wall, lifted his ass and his head but lowered his back. He sucked in his breath when he felt Buck’s meat poke at his buttcrack.
With a powerful heave, Buck rammed his erect cock into Ernie’s asshole, watching the waitresses check they makeup in the breakroom across’t the hall. Ernie grunted and clenched his teeth. Buck cut the lights off, so’s it felt just like prison again — Ernie mainly did his cell-girlfriending after lights-out.
“Shit, Buck, c’mon! Spit on it!” Ernie muttered. His neck got taut, and his back arched. His asshole clenched the best it could — not much, cuz he got run up by plentya homeboys and more’an a few whiteboys in prison.
“Fine, fine, shuddup,” Buck said. He spat upon the palm of his hand and smeared it upon his dick. Then he spread Ernie’s cheeks with that hand, his other arm wrapping ’round Ernie’s neck.
“Don’t choke me, whiteboy! I’m doin’ it-“
“Shush, I won’t choke you,” Buck said. But he did tighten his arm muscles, just enough to make Ernie work fer air. That helped him unclench his asshole, and that let Buck ram his foot-plus dickshaft into Ernie’s reluctant booty. A warm melting sensation enveloped Buck, who sighed.
A narsty, knappy ass like Ernie’s stayed gross till he got into it, then Buck forgot what turned him off. Even a shattered prison-ass like Ernie’s got enough friction and grip to get Buck’s blood flowing, and goddamn did those girlies giggling help too. Ain’t have sounds like that in Cell 19C.
Ernie squirmed like a worm, but he was swallowed up by Buck’s giant body. “Gimme a bottle. You owe me a bottle!” he hissed.
Buck scoffed, his breathing growing heavy as he rammed at Ernie’s ass. He pounded good now, back and forth, each time sending a heightened wave of pleasure thru his body. “Fine. Not a full bottle. Like a half-bottle.” He knewed Ernie was expecing like whiskey or sump’in, but Buck was gonna give him a half a five-dollar bottle of wine.
“Fine, fine, fine,” Ernie said tautly. After a few seconds silence, he said, “Them girls in the dressin’ room is fine indeed. Is that Caitlin?”
Buck nodded. “Think so. Love her booty.” He rammed his meat deep and held hisself in there. “Why you call it a dressin’ room, Ernie?”
Ernie furrowed his gravely eyebrows. “What? That’s what it is, retard. Says it right there.” He grunted and twitched, a spasm of pain hitting his rangy limbs.
Each room back here got a li’l placard beside it naming it. That “breakroom”‘s placard called it the dressing room, cuz this place usedta be a strip club. City council was full of finger-wagging bible-thumpers nowadays.
Buck grunted his acknowledgement, but he ain’t say nuttin’, both cuz he was fitting to cum and cuz anythang he might say was gonna make him seem more like a retard to Ernie. Ernie closed his eyes and clenched his teeth again anyways, as Buck got deep in his guts and shot a thick wave of jizz inside him.
The heat of his cum seeped into Ernie, who usually complained ’bout fellers cumming inside him. He do tell ’em to pull out. Only milkweed fools listened to Ernie’s demands though, so Ernie ain’t bother saying nuttin’ to Buck. He just grimaced and ignored the rolling moans emanating from Buck’s equine chest.
Anoter fat load of cum spurted into Ernie, a long flow of it that kept on coming and coming. His whole body clenched ’round Buck’s shaft, and he sucked in his breath.
“Ewhhhh-” Ernie bit his lip. Buck’s ramming at his ass got too hard to take, and Ernie clawed at the wall. His forehead banged into it, and he growled. “Dammit, Buck!”
An orgasm ran thru Buck, whose meaty hands pawed at Ernie like he was hoping to find tits somewhere. Ernie twitched, and Buck did too but fer opposite reasons. If’n Ernie’s trouser-pants weren’t ’round his ankles, he’d-a scampered off, but he’d just trip over hisself. All he could do was cringe and take it.
Cum ran down Ernie’s legs. A long stinking flow of it that turned to a flood when Buck finally let his cock plop out. Ernie danced back and forth, then wiped his ass off with a paper towel he found in the closet.
Gobs of jizz bubbled outta his ass. Ernie done race to get the paper towel into his buttcrack in time, but he couldn’t clench enough to keep it in. All Buck’s nut ran out in big bubbling wads. The cloying smell of it filled the storage closet.
“Nasty ass ign’ant hillbilly,” Ernie muttered. He wiped his ass off the best he could, while Buck simply tucked his shaft back in his Korean-blood-splattered slacks. Ernie was still muttering when Buck walked out. “You a dumb shit, Buck.”
Buck said, “Shut the fuck up, Ernie,” as he left the room. “Get this floor mopped.”

Buck the Dumbass: Chapter Four

Buck left Lucy’s house just after dawn, that way nary the neighbors would see. Lucy was his long-time girlfriend. Unfortunately, she been shacked up with another man fer awhile. She was still seeing Buck on the side, so’s he gotta sneak out pre-dawn. He ain’t have enough time fer a morning quickie, which meant he gotta run the whole way with a hardon.
Another reason to leave early was that Buck gotta go in to work — not bouncering at Lipsweet, he also got that part-time job as a exterminator with Central Pest Control. Buck discottoned to the early-morning work, but he gotta have that “gainful” job to keep his parole officer calm.
He undressed in the locker room, last one there, so’s he gotta race to get his uniform on. He hoped Mistah Taggart seed that he weren’t late to arrive, cuz he was late by the time he got his job clipboard from the box by the office. Mistah Taggart was in there scowling.
“I was he’uh on time, suh,” Buck said. Technically, he walked in the door one minute late, and he was leaving the workshop late. He picked up the clipboard fer his pickemup. The clipboard got a long list of addresses, but more importantly it came with a printed-out map of the county. The addresses was labeled upon it. Buck knewed this county like a hound-dog knows its dish-bowl, so’s he could find the locations easy as ice cream.
“Fine, go,” Mistah Taggart said like he ain’t entirely believe Buck. But he shrugged him off anyways.
Buck stopped and showed Mistah Taggart the clipboard. “This one got two addresses, suh. Which one do I go to?”
Mistah Taggart raised his eyebrows. “Go to the first address to get the key. Second address is where you gonna spray.” He paused. “That’s a broke-down building, Sampson. Be careful. Kick the hobos out before you spray. That’s why I gave you that one, you’s a big feller, you can handle a rough situation. That building was abandoned two years ago, and some squatters moved in. If’n they give you too much trouble, call the police.”
“Yes, suh,” Buck said.
Buck nodded as he walked out. The clipboard listed the pesticide to use. Buck don’t know them sciencey words, but he could match ’em up with the labels, and he got a good memory fer the details of how to use each one.
Still waking off his nods, Buck headed to the nearby gas station fer a breakfast sandwich, a cuppa coffee and a full tank. Then he went out to his first couple stops, which all went swift as a breeze. He set down some rat traps and bait stations, put a one-way flap in a lady’s bat-filled attic and picked up a raccoon in a cage.
After letting the raccoon go free in a state park, he went to get the key to the abandoned building, and he drove to it. The building looked fine from a distance, but when he got close, he seed all the shattered windows and the untended grass.
He went in the old apartment building — ain’t need the key, it turned out, as the front door was ripped off its hinges. He smacked a stick upon a rustbucket icebox near the door, which made a loud ringing sound.
“Hey! All y’all! Anybody in this buildin’ best get out!” Buck shouted. His deep-chested baritone echoed. “I’mma fill it wit’ poison! Central Pest Control he’uh, ’bout to kill lit’ally e’erythang he’uh’! You gotto skedaddle!”
A shambly black man glanced at him, then hobble-footed out the door. He was followed by two more fellers, and then a woman with blue hair and safety-pin piercings lurched out. She was smacking two fingers upon her elbow like she was fitting to shoot up. Buck ain’t say nuttin’ to nary the squatters, as they was leaving peaceable-like, and he ain’t wanna interrupt that.
When he was satisfied there weren’t no hobos left on the first floor, he went up the creaky step-staircase on the lookout fer more. He kept repeating hisself and making buncha noise. He imitated a siren’s squeal too, hoping that might rouse some lazy hobos. “Gonna fill this place wit’ poison gas, y’all! Best skedaddle!”
Nobody on the second floor. Buck went up to the top floor, the third, and looked round there. Seemed quiet, but he kept calling out regardless-like.
Gonna cost a purdy penny to fix this place up, he thought. It musta been got abandoned to the squatters a long time ago. The grime was caked in. Plumbing and wiring gonna hafta be redone entirely. Roof too, likeishly.
“Hey!” Buck snapped when he seed some mohawky whiteboy, who be lingering like a rash. “You gotsta get out.” The whiteboy got a blanket and some clothes spread out in the least rubble-filled room upon the third floor. A boombox and a heroin kit was the only furniture. Sunlight streamed in from the shattered windows upon one wall, illuminating the cloud of dust and drug smoke that filled the room.
The mohawky whiteboy looked at Buck like one them two was a idiot, but he weren’t sho’re which. “I’m stayin’ here, I claimed this place in the name of freedom. You can’t institute your system of oppression here, you fascist!”
“Ain’t no fashist, you fashist,” Buck said. He got no inkling what a fascist was. “I’mma fill this place wit’ poison, mothahfuckah. Fashist! You fash e’erybody-“
“No! You can’t!”
“It’s fulla cockroaches, hoss. Rats too, fer sho’re. It’s bad, they’s fixin’ it up-“
“No!” The mohawky thang tottered left and right. He was on sump’in fer sho’re, or maybe he was off it at the moment and jonesing fer more. Buck seed his heroin kit but ain’t see no heroin. The mohawk on a needle frowned and eyebrowed hard upon Buck. “Nothin’ wrong, nothin’ wrong, nothin’ wrong with cockroaches, you’re a — they’re my friend. You’re a fascist! You’re a fascist, man. You’re imposing your… whatever, and… All life is sacred anyway.”
“A’ight, dawg, you gots to go,” Buck said. He took him by the arm, which was muscled but shrunk, with track marks abundant.
“Nah, nah, no, you gonna get outta here, gotta go, gotta go, I’ll kick ya hillbilly fascist ass redneck motherfucker-“
“Hey! Don’t test me! You is vexin’ mah ire now,” Buck said and wagged his finger at the mohawky whiteboy, who jerked away from him. He feinted hard at Buck, but Buck do stoneface.
The two squared up, Buck big and burly, the squatter dim-eyed, ripple-muscled and padding-less. Anarchy symbols and a portrait of Che Guevara covered his muscle-limbed body. His name was Jenner, and he snarled at Buck like he wanna fight, like he ain’t notice Buck was so much bigger’an him.
“Come at me then, fascist!” Jenner patted his own chest like a skinny Hulk Hogan — like Hulk Hogan had a baby with a rake. Then he punched Buck right in the belly, and Buck shrugged it off like a meow. He was too addled to punch effectively, and he got wiry arms, strong but withered. Buck shoved him away.
“Quit it, I ain’t playin’, hoss, you best step off,” Buck said.
“Shuddup, I’ll fuck you up, you think you’re hot shit!” the mohawked punk said. “C’mon! You work fer the police, huh? You a piggie?”
“No! I’s a ext’minatuh, son, slow ya toe! C’mon, I’s j’st killin’ the cockroaches. You cain take ya shit wit’cha,” he said. “You cain even come back in four hours, I don’t care. If’n you come back early, you gonna die.”
But the mohawky Jenner punched him again, his fist colliding with the meat of Buck’s belly. Flinchless, Buck gritted his teeth. He shoved the mohawked stack of string down like a disrespectful tombstone.
“Lay off!”
“Fascist!” Jenner bounced back onto his feet, and Buck shoved him to the wall. His pants dropped to his ankles, baring a ratty pair of boxers. Buck ain’t mean to do that, but it got the mohawk stumbling. He ain’t seem to grasp that his pants was ’round his ankles, and he steady tripped on ’em.
Buck grabbed Jenner by the mohawk and pulled his boxers down. “See what you makin’ me do?” Buck wrapped one arm ’round him to squeeze his neck. Buck’s free hand undid the fly of his workpants and fished out his cock, which he rubbed limply upon the mohawked man’s buttcheeks.
Still unaware, Jenner stumbled in place and shouted. He stopped only when Buck rammed his cock in the man’s ass, the knob slipping in, followed by just an inch or so of shaft b’fore’n he hit resistance.
But Buck weren’t in the mood to honor resistance. He squeezed the man’s neck till his body tensed, then he leggo and the mohawked man took a deep breath. The relaxation opened his butthole too, and Buck’s cock rammed in deep as a ditch.
“Oh god!”
“Sssshush, I done gave you a chance, motherfucker,” Buck said. He shuddered as pleasure coursed thru him. “Now this is happenin’.”
He spat upon his hand and smeared that on his shaft to give a li’l lube. But not much, cuz Buck ain’t intend this to go easy. His cock cornholed in and out till the mohawked man’s knees went weak, l’il deeper each time, and Buck followed him to the ground.
His asshole was well-worked and not intact in the least. Buck weren’t surprised. He prolly give it up fer heroin and whatever, you ne’er can tell with the ones with mohawks and anarchy shit. His ropy asscheeks squeezed ’round Buck’s manhood and sent more shivers of sensations thru Buck’s nerves.
“Ow, fu-uuuuuck…!” Jenner panted and wriggled. Buck slammed down on him with all his might, and Jenner’s bony ass got no resistance left. Buck moaned into his ear.
“You gonna get the fuck out?” Buck murmured. Jenner opened his mouth to say sump’in, but Buck bit his earlobe, and Jenner wriggled again. Buck grunted as his orgasm came nigh. Jenner shuddered. Buck said again, “You gonna leave, fashist?”
“Yeah!” Jenner said thru gritted teeth.
Buck’s heavy chest pinned Jenner to the ground, so’s he could scream into the ratty floor as much as he want, he ain’t make much noise. The hairy meat of Buck’s chest pressed ‘gainst Jenner’s bony back. Buck pistoned his hips, forcing the final couple inches into his guts as a climax wracked him. He spat upon the side of the man’s face.
A vast wave of cum seeped into Jenner, who closed his eyes and cringed. Buck moaned again and again, as he jerked his hips, pumping a fat flow of goo into Jenner’s guts.
Buck was right: Jenner done went thru this b’fore. Don’t make it no easier though. He heaved fer breath as his ass struggled to accommodate Buck’s cockshaft and his river of jizz. Jenner felt it flowing thru his body and puddling up under him.
His grunts condensed hotly upon Jenner’s cheek. One final cumwad spurted into him. Buck growled, and his muscles twitched ‘gainst Jenner’s back. Jenner twitched too.
When he done drain his dong, Buck slowly lifted his still-clothed body off the mohawked man’s bareness. Buck raised up till his cock plopped out. Jenner lay like he wanna crawl away, but when Buck got off him, Jenner plopped and sprawled out his lanky limbs in the puddle of Buck’s jizz. He lay there like a sleepy earwig.
“You best run, hoss,” Buck said. “Or I’mma redd up mah dick wit’cha tongue.”
“I’m outta here, you better not spray anything before I leave! You’re a fuckin’ fascist asshole piece of shit moron!” Jenner spat into the ground as he struggled to his feet. “You talk like a retard!”

Buck the Dumbass: Chapter Five

Buck got outta the Jag, which he done park in a lawny neighborhood with bunchesa young homeboys riding round on bicycles. He snorted and rubbed his nose, then opened the door fer Mistah Gregarian in the backseat. Mistah Gregarian took it that Buck delayed opening the door cuz he forgot, whereas in fact Buck remembered, he admired to keep eye upon them homeboys. Security was his job, after all.
But Mistah Gregarian sucked on his teeth when he got outta the Jag, and he said, “Can’t you remember anything, you ape?”
All Buck said was, “Sawry, suh.” Seemed easier to go ‘long with it. If’n Buck said anythang about homeboys or tried to pronounce s’cuh’ty, Mistah Gregarian’d have words to say.
He followed Mistah Gregarian o’er on up to the run-down house. Buck hadta step ’round a bucket of children’s toys and generic-brand cabbage-patch dolls that musta sat there fer a coon’s age, judging from the moss growing upon ’em. The paint on the house was fading.
The man hisself opened the door — James Macklevan was his name. He was sump’in called a “pullman-ologist”. It seemed to be a doctor, but Macklevan ain’t got no money. So’s maybe he was like a charity doctor or some shit, or maybe Macklevan weren’t very good at it.
“Mr. Gregarian! I was going to call you,” Macklevan said.
“Hmm-hmm.” Mistah Gregarian waited, then motioned fer Buck to go in as though Buck shoulda knewed that. Buck walked past him and barreled into the house.
“Please, wait-“
But Buck knocked him out with a fist to the side of the head-noggin. Macklevan crumpled to the ground like a snotty tissue.
“Goddamnit, Buck,” Mistah Gregarian said with a sigh. He checked Macklevan. “He’s unconscious!”
“Oh. Sawry, suh,” Buck said. “I thought I was sposedta heeit ‘im.”
“You were!” Mistah Gregarian said.
“Sawry.” Buck looked down at his feet. “H’ain’t mean to heeit him that hard.” Mistah Gregarian scowled. T’was unfair — Mistah Gregarian thought Buck oughta know what he wanted without saying so. That’s how it worked in the movies. The boss clucks his tongue or sump’in, and his lackeys know whether that means ‘kill this dude’ or ‘close the door’ or ‘punch him hard enough to hurt but not knock him out’ or whatever.
Outside the movies though, Buck got no way of knowing what Mistah Gregarian wanted unless’n Mistah Gregarian say so. T’ain’t classy to give direct orders.
How does the mafia do it? Buck don’t know — as a general rule, Buck don’t know thangs — and Mistah Gregarian was too small-potatoes to find out.
With a light slap upon his face, Macklevan roused. He stumbled to his feet. He was only unconscious fer a minute. Not really a big deal, Buck thought, not that Mistah Gregarian would treat it that way.
“You owe me money, Dr. Macklevan,” Mistah Gregarian said. He had to repeat it a couple times. Finally Macklevan nodded his understanding.
“I… I do,” Macklevan said. “I owe you money. I’ll pay, I really will. I’ve got a divorce lawyer, you see. It’s expensive. I-“
“So you’re paying your lawyer and not me? Is he more important than me?”
“Well, well, Mr. Gregarian, it’s complicated. If he can get my payments down, I’ll have more money to pay you,” Macklevan said. “Almost all my income goes to my wife right now.”
“You got anything you can sell?” Mistah Gregarian said. He motioned fer Buck to do sump’in — Buck woulda assumpted that meant ‘punch him again’, but he done got that wrong once, and he ain’t wanna do it again. Mistah Gregarian turned to him and scowled. “Go look for stuff to sell.”
“Yessuh,” Buck said. He went off to the kitchen first. Mistah Gregarian musta forgot Buck done scour this house fer pawnable items couple months back. Buck weren’t gonna point that out though, or Mistah Gregarian’d snap at him.
He ain’t find nuttin’. Last time they was here, he even took the icebox. Macklevan done found or maybe bought a mini-fridge, but Buck figgered t’weren’t worth much. He ate a cooked sausage outta it though, real quick so’s Mistah Gregarian wouldn’t see. He ain’t like Buck eating during missions, or even ‘tween missions.
When he came back to the front hall, Mistah Gregarian scowled in Buck’s direction. “Where have you been?”
“Lookin’ fer shit to sell,” Buck said. “He got nuttin’ in the kitchen.”
Mistah Gregarian shook his head like he was ashamed. He shoved Macklevan ‘gainst the wall. “Do it, Buck.”
Again, Buck hesitated. He ain’t know what it was. He got the notion Mistah Gregarian been threatening the doctor, but Buck ain’t know what the threat was. Mistah Gregarian done aim Macklevan at the wall, so’s t’ain’t seem like hitting him was the goal. Buck raised his eyebrows at Mistah Gregarian.
“Ramrod him, Buck,” Mistah Gregarian said with a vituperative slit to his eyelids.
That made Buck frown. He admired not to get a reputation as a booty bandit. As a man who done went to prison, which e’erybody knewed, and a man who done bandit buncha booties behind bars, which lotta fellers knewed, Buck was sensitive to a reputation. He done told Mistah Gregarian b’fore not to plan on him cornholing men to get ’em to pay back they debt.
Fer one thang, it don’t work. Don’t nobody keep money up they butthole.
At least there wasn’t no witnesses this time, and Buck done got on Mistah Gregarian’s bad side, so’n he ain’t complain. But he side-eyed Mistah Gregarian as he grabbed Macklevan by the pants, and the doctor’s cloudy eyes ain’t realize what was happening. Macklevan squirmed and squealed. He got no clear words to say though, he just looked at Buck like a lost puppy.
He pulled Macklevan’s sweatpants down and bared his ass. He squeezed Macklevan’s cheeks. They was plump, strong fer a middle-aged doctor — maybe pullman-ologists was like… the gym teachers of medical school, Buck thought. Or maybe he been living rough since he was on the feud with wifey.
In a’ry case, Buck lowered his own workpants just enough to get his dick out, and he thwacked it upon Macklevan’s buttcheeks. They rippled, and Buck chuckled. He stroked hisself hard. Macklevan weren’t even trying-a run away.
Do doctors know ’bout cornholing? Prison doctors do. But prisons don’t got pullmanologists. Macklevan grunted and stayed stoic like he thought the punishment was getting thwacked on the buttcheek by a hillbilly dingdong. That was just Buck getting hard. So maybe doctors don’t know about cornholing, or at least pullmanologists don’t.
Regardless-like, Buck rammed his hardon into Macklevan’s butthole. Macklevan cramped and cried out, cringing and whinging. “Hey, hey…! Hey, shit, what’re you doin’?!”
“Shuddup,” Buck murmured. He rammed a li’l harder. His cock slipped into Macklevan’s ass, and Macklevan’s eyes bugged out.
He was intact, so’n Buck hit resistance right away. Mistah Gregarian done left the room — he don’t wanna watch — and he ain’t see Buck struggling to get his dick in b’fore’n he lost his hardon. Macklevan’s booty was too tight, and Buck got no lube but his own spit, plus he was too tall, so’s he gotta bend his knees.
And Macklevan be making all these pained noises and panting and wordless begging, all of which Mistah Gregarian could prolly hear. Buck kinda wanna stop, as he weren’t ‘specially horny. Macklevan even done took all the photo-pitchers off the wall, so’s Buck got no females to look at it. The rectangles of faded paint showed where’n they usedta be.
“Ow, shit, c’mon, c’mon, Buck, c’mon…” Macklevan panted. Despite not wanting to go thru with it, Buck weren’t gonna stop. He got a hardon. A man gotta blow a nut, or the stuffed-up juices in his balls gonna get him in trouble.
And with a l’il spit, Buck got his shaft working back and forth in Macklevan’s grippy butthole.
T’ain’t feel good. It felt fine, Buck could get thru it, but this ain’t like t’was in prison. Ramrodding don’t feel the same out in the real world. He wouldn’t ne’er-a did it if’n Mistah Gregarian ain’t tell him he had to. Coulda drug it out fer hours too — Buck gotta close his eyes and concentrate to blow a nut. He was going back and forth fer a couple minutes b’fore’n he realized he gotta work at finishing up. By then, Macklevan was wincing, weak-kneed, panting and clawing at the wall of his own unkempt house.
Buck closed his eyes and remembered the last time he was with a beautiful woman, one the waitresses who spread her legs fer him couple nights ago. That got his manhood throbbing, and it got him pumping his hips powerful enough to make Macklevan cry out again and again. Buck’s neck and face ruddened, and his cheeks grew taut. The vein upon his forehead throbbed.
It took all his concentration to send him o’er the edge. Then, like a dam was burst, he let out a long moan and thrust his meat deep into Macklevan’s guts.
“Ow, fuuuuuuuuuuck-“
“Goddamn, doc…” Buck’s voice broke and his knees buckled, but he stayed upright and slamming. A massive flow of jizz spurted outta his cock and spread thru Macklevan’s guts. A long wave of it kept on coming. The fact that Buck hadta work at it meant he shot a big load, big even fer Buck, who’s muscles all tensed up like it took e’ery ounce of strength he got to shoot his jizz. “Daaaamn…”
He filled his ass with cum, a great creamy wave that flowed thru Macklevan’s body. He grunted, and Buck did too. Another spurt of jizz seeped into Macklevan’s ass. Finally, Macklevan sensed Buck was done, and he winced. He wriggled, only fer the motion to make the pain worse.
He stayed still, letting Buck grind his sensitive cock in the soup of Macklevan’s booty. Spasms of pain ran up Macklevan’s spine, while Buck shuddered with spasms of pleasure.
Now that he’d done it, Buck was glad Mistah Gregarian made him do it. He’d needed that. But he was still gonna hafta remind Mistah Gregarian that he wasn’t a booty bandit.
“Ewwh, uhcckk-” Macklevan grunted. He wriggled the best he could in Buck’s grip.
“You bettuh pay ya debt,” Buck said as his cock slipped out to dangle ‘tween the good doctor’s cheeks. “Or Mistah Gregarian gonna make me do that again.”
Macklevan darted away. Cum dribbled down his legs. He sneered at Buck. “That was gross,” He winced, wiping cum off his thighs. “And unsanitary. You’re a barbarian.”
Buck shrugged. “I is what I is, mothahfuckah, and you is a deadbeat.”