Category: Mr. Perry

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

Thumper churched every Sunday. He bin going to Ebenezer Baptist, but when his parole officer let slip which church he went to — a boring white church — Thumper decided he oughta go to that one. He could suck up to Mr. Perry there.
Sure enough, Mr. Perry sat in the front pew. Thumper got there too late to sit nearby. He was shunted into a rear pew with the mamas carrying babies and them teenagers in all black.. Pastor Steve was a chucklesome stringfellow who thought he got a sense of humor, and the congregation laughed along with his jokes. It made Thumper miss Reverend Cherrymore at Ebenezer Baptist. The good Reverend Cherrymore understood that church only mattered if it was serious and somber and purported potent positions, while Pastor Steve wish-washed and told his worshipers to follow they conscience. Who needs church if you can follow your own conscience? Pastor Steve replaced meaning with humor, and he weren’t funny.
More than half them pew-ploppers was sticky in they phones throughout.
But Thumper pretended to nod along with that sea of paltry honkies, listening still as spillt milk to ear-shattering Christian pop insteada singing they praises theyselfs.
After the service, he made sure Mr. Perry peeped his presence — Thumper was big and broad and baritone, so it was easy to draw attention when he got to. All them white fellahs craved photos of theyselfs shaking the hand of a nigga in a suit, so Thumper introducyfied hisself to ’em in a boom-big voice until he got Mr. Perry’s attention. They took pics with they ubiquitish phones, and Thumper smiled for ’em like a jolly-hogging nigga.
Mr. Perry nodded at Thumper and motioned to meet him outside amid the massive post-service crowd. Folks was gripping gladhands and grinning cheek to cheek, clogging up the aisles and exits like clumps of cheerful cholesterol. Thumper took a few minutes to make his way outside, on account of the crowd and the need to check out some the hip-mad mamas sending him desiraceous glances.
This church was boring as boogers, Thumper thunk, but it got gobs of white ladies with steamy slices of pecan pie between they legs. Thumper could get used to that. He might need to provide his own lube for they dry-bone snatches, but he had thirty-four years of creativity in that area, so he was well-equipped to get them white bitches slippery as shady otters.
“Wendell, I’m glad to see you here today,” Mr. Perry said, jowls wrinkling down at his phone, when he met Thumper in the parking lot. He looked Thumper up and down, taking in his too-small suit — he buyed it in Goodwill special for church, and Thumper was too staturous a man to find secondhand clothes that fit. Mr. Perry frowned at the sight of his tight-pants crotch. “You got a bulge, son. You sportin’ a stiffy at church? That ain’t right.”
“Ain’t a stiffy, suh,” Thumper said. “I just… These pants is small.” He ain’t realize how obvious his bulge was. That was likely why them lady-crackers was checking him out. They was eager to ride a rod with a real man attached and listen to music with a beat you can fuck to.
But Mr. Perry gripped his dick through his secondhand slacks, unconcerned by the churchgoers filing past them. He frowned even deeper. “May not be fully stiff, but you got that mandingo meat. Gonna scare the nice white ladies, son. Go’n see that black fellah over there, the one with the mustache. He’ll take care of it.”
Thumper ain’t know what that meant, but he goed to the nigga Perry pointed out. Ain’t but a handful of black folk at this church, so he was easy to see. They musta had some kinda arrangement, cuz Thumper ain’t say much — couldn’t hear nothing anyhow in the crowd of plain-suited honkies pushing politenesses — but that darkskin nigga with the push-broom on his lip motioned for Thumper to come with him. They got in his beat-up bucket of peely-brown Buick and made they way outta the crowded parking lot.
“Where you takin’ me? Mr. Perry ain’t say nothin’,” Thumper said.
“Hmm-hmm,” the mustachioed nigga said. He got a run-around face, circle-cheeked and round-jawed like he was made of stacked tires. It took Thumper till now to recognize he a cop for sure. That was a copstache if Thumper ever saw one, and he got authority dripping outta his midgety fingers. You could tell he lick lotta pussy, but he too good to eat a bitch’s butthole. “You one of his parolees, right?”
Thumper nodded.
“And you got a stiffy at church?”

Thumper shook his head. “He makin’ it seem I was doin’ somethin’ pervy. I got big meat, nigga, I ain’t always stiff just cuz you can see a bulge.”

“Uh-huh. How long was you in for?” the nigga driving said.
“Thirty-four years,” Thumper said. The pushbroom nigga whistled, and then Thumper asked, “Why you go to a white chu’ch?”
“Mayor and sheriff church there,” said that nigga behind the wheel. He straightened his suit and tie. “Gotta suck up to them honkies for my career ‘nd shit. Goddamn, white church is boring though.”
Thumper nodded. “I only went so Mistuh Perry see me do it. I bin goin’ to Ebenezuh Baptist.”
The policeman nodded, the bristles on his upper lip moving up and down. “You see that fine rosy-nose lady in the purple dress?” he said with a guilty grin on his face. “Golly darn do she stay lovin’ a nigga dick. I’s tryin’ to be holy upon my wife and that matrimony trip now…” He rearranged his cock in his slacks. “She do get me bothered though. I can enjoy myself a white female.” He whistled to hisself. “I is Officer Goober, by the way. Harrison Peanut, but most bodies call me Goober.”
Thumper nodded and introducyfied hisself. “You takin’ me to get down wit’ a white bitch?”
“Nah, nigga,” Officer Goober said with a throaty chuckle. “Mistuh Perry ain’t that cool.” He pulled his car into the parking lot of Precinct 17. “We bein’ good boys today. No sex.” He sighed. “No females, ‘nless you got a godly wife hidden in yo’ pocket.”
He led Thumper into the police station. It felt weird enough to sit a spell next to a uniformed officer, and now he was hoofing it friendly-like into a precinct. Six months ago, Thumper’d slit a nigga on a rumor about sitting copioacetic alongside a cop.
But shit was different on the outside.
The police station was crowded with burly cops, prodding they eternal phones and shooting Thumper nasty looks like they knew he came outta the iron college recent-like. They could smell it on him. Or maybe they just looked at all black fellahs like that, or maybe, Thumper thunk, he was imagining it. Both he and Goober was in they Sunday best, but them cops knowed Goober. They all nodded they hellos, but ain’t nobody say boo to Thumper.
They mosey-butted into the jailhouse, where there was a cell at the back reserved for the station trustee. That was a prison lifer entrusted to work as a janitor here at the police station. It gave him lotta freedom, more than he’d get at the prison, and it put him nearby enough to visitation with his daughter every month.
His name was Hassle, and he be scribbling a letter to his daughter when Officer Goober and Thumper came to his cell. Hassle was a chowder-white Aryan — complete with swastikas visible on his back around the moth-nibble holes and raggedy edges of his wifebeater. He got a cueball head and a bald chin, a big noble jaw and a fist-shape nose.
He looked up and frowned. “Goober? You off today, whatchoo want?” His eyes flicked over to Thumper.
Goober made a little grunt and gestured Hassle up. “Get up, Hassle. This is Thumper. He need a nut.”
Hassle wrinkled his nose and resumated scribbling that epistle. He side-glanced at Thumper again with his square honky face. Thumper coulda applied to be a trustee too — prolly wouldn’t-a got it, but he had the option to apply. He ain’t do it on account of his self-respect. Thumper ain’t wanna be sitting right where Hassle was now.
“‘G’on, Wendell, take yo’ dong out. Hassle’ll do it,” Goober said.
Still in his Sunday best, Officer Goober came into Hassle’s cell and rubbed his shoulders through his wifebeater, kneading the big iron cross on his nape. That was a colorful, professional-done tattoo, not a prison tat. Most the rest his tats was crooked and simple-color, faded and sagging.
“You a Aryan Way brothah?” Thumper asked. He bin trucking against the Aryan Way since back in the day, and he recognized some them prison tats. He stood up close to Hassle a-bent over his writing desk.
“No,” Hassle said. He bristled his shoulders to push Goober’s hands off him. He went back to them words he be writing, putting out ignore about Thumper afronta his grill and Goober behind.
“Don’t be shitty, Hassle,” Goober said. “Tonight’s pork chops and mashed taters-“
Hassle turned to look at Goober. “Really? Ah shit, hell yeah. You bring me all them potatoes you can. They’re tasty as a angel’s asshole.”
Goober threw his hands in the air. “She gonna want leftovuhs, Hassle, you can’t have ’em all,” he said. “Wifey like leftovuh taters. She fry ’em up like pancakes.” He licked his teeth. “You can have my sprouts though.”
With a long pause outta his squareness, Hassle said, “I’mma tell Edna you ain’t eatin’ ya sprouts.”
“I’s a grown man, Hassle, I don’t gotta eat sprouts if I don’t want to,” Goober said. Hassle kept that stone upon his visage like he ain’t believe Goober would say that afront his wife. Goober looked down at his feet and said to Thumper, “Go’n, take yo’ meat out, nigga. Hassle’ll get’cha off.”
A smile creeped onto Thumper’s face. He ain’t got no stiffy, but something about caboosing in a jailhouse again made his pecker fit to pop. He kicked off his shoes and jacket, then loosened up his church tie. He ain’t drop his pants cuz he enjoyed making punks do that.
With a heavy-hearty sigh, Hassle undid Thumper’s belt and his suit pants plummeted. Thumper’s shirt dangled down his drawers, until Hassle tugged ’em to his ankles. He ain’t even look at Thumper’s dingdong swanging between his legs.
After a couple seconds, Thumper plopped his pecker on Hassle’s shoulder, beside the strap of his wifebeater. His skin was warm and soft, and Thumper’s shaft rested on some scrawly prison-tat symbols that he recognized — another Nazi once told Thumper some similar tats was “Nordic runes”. He asked what Nordic runes was but never got a answer, cuz some stabbings happened.
Thumper moved his body to make his dicktip smackify Hassle in the cheek. He got them high honky cheekbones and a blockish jaw, pale as could be and contrastsome with Thumper’s tawny cock. Hassle ignored the meat going slappity slap on his face. “Was writin’ a letter to my daughter, Goober-“
“She’ll still be yo’ daughter when yo’ guts is fulla dingaling,” Goober said. “It’s Sunday. Mailman ain’t comin’ till tomorruh anyhow.”
With a scowl, Hassle leaned back and took Thumper’s softy in one hand, still without looking at it. He was slow and desultory. Thumper ain’t mind. He pressed his thirteen-incher onto Hassle’s cauliflower ear like his piss-slit was whispering something Hassle gotta hear. Hassle put down his pen, as Thumper’s sweaty ballsac went plop-a-plop-a-poo on his shoulder.
“Quit it, I’m doin’ it,” Hassle said.
“If you was doin’ it, my dick’d be hard and wet right now. Put’cha lips on it,” Thumper said, aiming his limpness for Hassle’s mouth. Hassle ain’t open it, so it just poked him in the upper lip. “Dang, I know you know how. Bet’choo slurped up plenty dingdong in prison, right? I know them Aryan Way honkies all do it — they all got a ‘olduh brothuh’, right? Thank you big brothuh, can I get anothuh?” Thumper laughed up-roaring.
“I ain’t Aryan Way,” Hassle said. He grunted. He took Thumper’s dick in one hand, but he ain’t stroke it, he just held it so as Thumper couldn’t mollywop him with it no more. His palm was thick with rough calluses. Thumper pumped hisself back and forth to lazy-hump his hand regardless, and he aimed it to again ram limp as a cripple onto Hassle’s face. Hassle’s squashy-fat nose wrinkled.
“Cuz they kicked you out,” Goober said with a chuckle. He took his own dick out through the fly of his church pants. He let his peanut-buttery flapper flop atop Hassle’s alabaster face alongside Thumper’s, while Hassle’s cheeks went from marble-white to blushing-virgin pink. Both them big-nigga dicks was coating his paleness in crotchsweat. Goober said, “He was Aryan Way, he snitched to get this trustee jawn-“
“Shuddup, Goober,” Hassle said, his voice swallowed up by the two black dicks upon his face. He stayed ignoring them soft nigga dicks til Goober got his’n to jab Hassle’s eye. Hassle blinked and sniffled. “You s’posed to keep my information private. Ain’t accurate any-” Goober got his dick in Hassle’s mouth, making Hassle sputter and spit it out. “Uehck — you spoutin’ falsehoods, Goober. I’mma tell Edna you eat french fries for lunch.” He opened his mouth and put Goober’s cocktip on his tongue. He kept stroking Thumper’s dick with one hand, while he slurped up some spit onto Goober’s cocktip. He was slow to get it going, but Hassle was experienced at this, and he slobbered tight on Goober’s knob. It rocketed right to full erection and pushed into his unresistant mouth.
“Fuck you, Hassle,” Goober said with a impish frown, watching his dick explore Hassle’s mouth. “Edna ain’t the boss of my lunch. You don’t gotta tell her nothin’.”
His voice crinkly-wet from mouthing Goober’s veiny brown meat, Hassle said, “She make you a salad e’ry day, and you throw it away.”
“She ain’t gonna believe yo’ nazi ass,” Goober said. “I don’t throw it all away, I eat the croutons.”
“Croutons don’t count, Goober!” Hassle snapped.
Thumper nodded at Goober.
Goober said, “Whatevuh. I eat the chickpeas too.” He gripped the back of Hassle’s head and plowed his half-hard meat down Hassle’s throat. Hassle smacked at Goober’s asscheeks, which was still clothed cuz Goober was just poking his pecker out his fly. Goober clucked his tongue, and Hassle’s throat visibly stretched to accommodate his cock then spat it back out. Goober’s moist brown shaft popped out to seep spit onto Hassle’s forehead. “C’mon, Hassle, lemme down that throat. I know you can swallow the whole thing. Lemme feel yo’ nose in my pubes.”
Still Thumper’s foot-long shaft flapped around in Hassle’s hand. He weren’t in no hurry, and he liked watching a Aryan Way honky slurp-a-durp a nigga. He slow-stroked Thumper’s rod with one lazy hand, but he focused on pushing Goober away so he could get a breath. Goober again forced his wingwang down Hassle’s throat, and again Hassle ain’t fight it. His lips and throat stretched. Thumper touched his neck so he could feel Goober’s dick throbbing beneath the skin.
“Aw, fuck yeah, go deeper, deeper-” Goober threw back his run-around face and moaned, a-holding Hassle’s cue ball. Hassle twitched and swallowed it ’til his nose was nuzzling Goober’s coppery pubes. “Shit yeah, there you go, hold it — fuck yeah, Hassle-“
Couple seconds in, Hassle punched Goober in the thigh and squiggled. His paleness turned red. He went twitchy, but Goober got a grip on his scalp.
Clucking his tongue against his teeth, Goober moaned again. He fought against Hassle’s cranberry noggin pulling from him. “Shit, c’mon, Hassle, hold it, hold it-“
With a loud choke, Hassle squirmed away. Goober’s cock slipped outta his mouth, and the Aryan took a hoarse breath as both Goober’s and Thumper’s big black cocks rubbed into each other atop Hassle’s face. Goober was hard as a trump card, but Thumper remained mostly limp.
“Fuck you, Goober, c’mon!” Hassle said, and he spat a ball of fluids into a washcloth. Then he went back to slurping up Goober’s cock, with one hand on Thumper’s meat and the other smacking Goober’s hand away so he couldn’t throat it down Hassle again.
“Hey, can I ramrod his poop chute?” Thumper asked. He took off his shirt and rubbed his dick on Hassle’s smooth cheek, which was wet with his own spit and maybe some policeman precum. Hassle kept a hand on Thumper’s shaft but weren’t doing nothing with it. “He just touchin’ it, lemme fill up his backside, Goober.”
Goober shrugged, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “Go ‘head.” He leaned like he wished there was a wall behind him, then put one hand on Hassle’s shaved scalp to support hisself. He ain’t throat Hassle down though, so Hassle kept stroking it with one hand and going slurp-a-spit on the tip — Hassle done learnt that trick prison bitches do where they stroke it mostly and spit up a little, with a tiny bit of lip. If a nigga don’t pay attention, he mightn’t realize his bitch is slipping tricks in. Thumper wouldn’t let no bitch get away with that, but Goober was a small-ball nigga, so he let Hassle take the lead.
A prison punk was the only chance most homeboys had to get they whole meat swallowed up, so you best believe Thumper was gonna make a bitch go deep. But Thumper’s dick was bigger than Goober’s, and he’d rather make room in Hassle’s rump than his neck.
“Nah, nah — no way. I don’t gotta do that,” Hassle said when he pulled his lips off Goober’s eggplanty knob. Despite his words, he stood so Thumper could sit on his chair. Hassle grunted. “Edna makin’ dessert?”
Goober shrugged. His eyes was closed, his pecker jabbing Hassle in the nose and dripping prenut onto his upper lip. “Prolly ‘nana puddin’,” he said. “But I’s eatin’ all of it.” He laughed and patted his belly through the church suit he still wore. He did loosen the tie, but he ain’t take nothing else off. His pecker poked out the fly of his billowy slacks, which was getting wet spots where oozy prenut done drip. “Bare yo’ butt, Hassle, don’chu whine ’bout it, I know how loose yo’ guts is. I’ll bring you a apple pie from McDonald’s. Sheriff Terwiliger say-“
“Don’t buy it now though!” Hassle said, precum dripping from his lip. He scowled at Goober as he pulled down his denim trustee pants. He got a big pale-as-marble booty, and you could just tell it was well broke-in. His hole was winking like a flirty girl. “T’ain’t no good once it get cold, Goober! Can’t microwave it, shit, the crust get the texture of a demon’s butthole.”
“A’ight, I will, I’ll buy you it fresh as a prom queen’s cooter, if you don’t tell Edna ’bout my lunches,” Goober said. Hassle nodded dour-faced, and Goober muttered, “damn, shut up and do yo’ job…” He firmly shoved his dick into Hassle’s mouth. Hassle was still stooped over and dropping his trustee denims. He was a big boy, and he got big marble bootycheeks. Thumper sat in Hassle’s chair and grabbed ’em with both hands and a giant grin, while Hassle smeared a big wad of some kinda lube onto his buttcrack.
Thumper leaned back with his hand on his dick, which he stuck upwards. He was only half-hard yet, so he just rubbed the tip on Hassle’s butthole. It stretched right open and accepted Thumper’s cocktip. “Aw, shit, you is goddamn loose, Hassle. Yo’ butthole be invitin’ in this nigga dick-“
“Shuddup,” Hassle said. “I’m doin’ it, ain’t I? No whinin’.” He moved his ass down with a disgusted sneer on his face. He still got Goober’s knob knobbling up and down his lips and nose, prejissom dribbling out. A little wince of pain hit him when Thumper’s tip pushed in deeper.
Officer Goober chuckled throaty as could be. He thwacked his manhood onto Hassle’s face, but Hassle ignored it, focusing on sitting his dirt down onto Thumper’s dick. It slid up Hassle’s asshole. He gritted his teeth.
“Ah, shit, you got nice booty, despite the slack hole-“
“Shuddup!” Hassle said with a frustrated roar. “I can do it quicker if you shut up.” Goober slipped his cocktip into Hassle’s mouth. Hassle ain’t fight it, but he spat it out as he kept talking. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong wit’ my ass, you shithead-“
“Ain’t say nothin’ was wrong wit’ it,” Thumper said. He gripped Hassle by the shoulders and rammed upwards hard. A whinge of pleasure hit him, and he start thrusting his rod back and forth.
Hassle groaned in pain, but he ain’t whine or nothing. He was well broke-in. He managed to hold his mouth open too, so Goober could hump his tongue and throat. He spread his asscheeks with one hand, his other hand holdin’ Goober’s waist for support. His muscles was getting dappled in sweat, which made his wifebeater cling to his broadly-marble body. His pecs shifted up and down with his hips.
“Here I go, almost done, buddy,” Thumper said with a groan. He put his hands behind his head. That was a lie — he ain’t near done. Thumper just liked it when Hassle loosened up a bit. He moaned and smacked one of Hassle’s asscheeks, which was too firm to really jiggle. Hassle still kept ’em spread apart with one hand, while his other hand stroked Goober off into his mouth.
Being in a jailhouse reminded Thumper of prison. If you’d-a asked him yesterday, he’d-a said that was a bad thing. He ain’t wanna be reminded of it.
But Hassle’s cell was warm and comfortable, and so was his butthole. It was nice to have a simple, clean line of authority — Mr. Perry and Officer Goober, then Thumper, and Hassle at the bottom. The hierarchy made sense here. Shit was pell-mell out there — Carson was in charge of the Bloods of Baltimore, but Carson was doing everything Thumper wanted, even though Thumper ain’t even got a role in the organization, because Carson gotta prove to other niggas that the Bloods would take care of they own. Thumper was in charge of that punk-ass nigga Rico, though Rico ain’t wanna admit it, and that sly bitch Miriam was kinda like Thumper’s boss, even though he was kinda like her babysitter too. And then there was that batty old bint Vera — got not a lick of authority, but she still manage to boss niggas about.
In jail, life was simple and smooth like Hassle’s buttcrack. You stayed knoing who’s in charge behind bars.
You could tell Hassle done took miles of dick up that poop-chute, Thumper thunk, watching Hassle’s heft slide up and down. He gripped the bright red swastika on Hassle’s back. Hassle was muscle like a oxe — he musta kept up his prison-training regiment even after trusteeing out. Thumper ain’t even gotta do nothing, Hassle was slipping his butt back and forth on it, squeezing tight like he was eager to feel a nut inside him.
“Hey, you a real Nazi?” Thumper asked. He knew about a thousand “Nazis” in prison, and he always asked if they really believe in it.
He still got Goober’s pecker in his mouth, so Hassle ain’t answer. He soured on precum and fluttered his arms behind hisself in a way that maybe suggested “no”. His back muscles flexed hard against his too-tight wifebeater.
“Why you got swastikas all over?”
Hassle pulled off Goober, his mouth fulla pre-nut. “Shut the fuck up, we ain’t gettin’ to know each other,” he said with a grunt as he lowered hisself as low as he could on Thumper’s shaft, precum dribbling onto his face. “Just finish jacking off.”
That was exactly what Thumper did, a-grumbling that Hassle ain’t answer. He shrugged it off though, as he grabbed Hassle’s buttcheeks. He smacked Hassle’s hand away and pulled him down until Hassle’s heft fell onto Thumper’s meat.
A loud groan of pain came from Hassle’s throat, the sound coming around the policeman meat still jabbing down his throat. Goober’s church shirt dangled on Hassle’s face, and his balls went smackity-smack on Hassle’s chin. They left a sheen of ballsweat there.
“Ah, shit, humdinger-” Thumper moan-laughed. His orgasm wracked his body. He kept a tight grip on Hassle so he couldn’t get up off Thumper’s lap. Thumper’s dick was all the way in him, his bushy pubes rubbing on Hassle’s pair of porcelains. Hassle wiggled mighty hard, but Thumper kept a grip on him. Bitches stayed trying-a not get they guts full of goo. Thumper’s other hand fingered Hassle’s cock.
“Ow, fuck! You ain’t gotta stick the whole thing in there!” Hassle shouted. He was gonna say more, but Goober put his sticky dick back in there. Hassle’s asshole split open — he was well broke-in, but Thumper got damn big meat, so he stretched him good.
Grinding his dick in Hassle’s booty, Thumper moaned into the meat of his back, and he watched Hassle’s slurp-and-burp on Goober’s fat cock. With one hand still on Hassle’s limp cock, Thumper also stroked Goober’s meat at the root to jack it off down Hassle’s gullet, as a climax wracked Thumper’s frame. He pulled up Hassle’s wifebeater so he could kiss him right on the bottom of that red swastika on his back, and he moaned into the meat of Hassle’s body. Cum brayed into Hassle’s asshole, a great thick flow that seeped through his body. His first cumload went on for a good ten seconds, while Thumper sighed and groped Hassle’s body.
A second wad spurted into his guts, and Hassle tried to slap Thumper’s hand away. He ain’t able to get enough leverage to lift off Thumper’s old-head crotch, so he gotta let his booty swallow up all them spermies. Thumper’s hands roamed up and down Hassle’s chest as he shot wad after creamy wad up Hassle’s booty.
It dripped down his taint and into Thumper’s crotch. Thumper shot great big gobs of creamy jizz that flowed into Hassle’s guts. Since Hassle was upright, it all gooed right down outta Hassle as soon as Thumper could fill him up, while Hassle wrinkled on the sour taste of Officer Goober’s precum filling his mouth.
He did feel an intense relief though, when Thumper let his limp pecker slip out. All that jissom leaked down Hassle’s cabled booty, making his porcelain cheeks gleam. He still wore his denims and his wifebeater, so his tighty-whiteys was soaked with Thumper’s cockjuice.
Grabbing a wad of toilet paper, Hassle tried to pull off Goober’s meat, as he mumbled incomprehensible-like through all that free-flowing precum. It dripped down his lips. Goober was fitting to nut too, so he gripped ahold of Hassle’s mouth and forced his cock deep down his throat.
Once again, Hassle’s neck and lips stretched and quivered, but he again accepted every inch of Goober’s dick, down to the root, until Hassle’s crooked blotch of a nose rammed into Goober’s coarse pubes.
Hassle couldn’t pull off, though he smacked Goober in the meat of his buttcheeks. Goober gripped the back of his skull and shot his salty wad deep down Hassle’s throat. “Aw, fuck yeah…” Goober murmured, riding Hassle’s twitchy throat.
The scent of jiss bloomed wild in the cell, while Goober’s rod throbbed betwee his lips. Hassle gagged so violent-like Goober couldn’t keep him in place. Buncha that nutjuice leaked out Hassle’s mouth and plopped onto Thumper’s face, as Hassle was still sat on Thumper’s lap. Thumper ain’t care. He wiped up that goop with one hand and smeared it on Hassle’s drippy face.
Goober clucked his tongue, still spewing a long flow of cum onto Hassle’s cheeks and nose. “Lemme see, lemme see,” Goober said with a crooning moan. He tried to put his dick back in Hassle’s mouth, but Hassle smacked his lips shut. A jissom spurted onto Hassle’s crooked nose and stuck there for a few before it rolled down his upper lip. Goober again rammed his dick at Hassle’s mouth and said, “Lemme see, Hassle-” His voice broke, desperate and plaintive, as more cum dribbled onto Hassle’s lower lip. “Two apple pies then,” Goober said desperately. Hassle cringed but opened his mouth, holding back a gag as one last big jazz flowed in. It filled then overflowed past his lips. Hassle closed his eyes and gagged couple times, wincing, but he ain’t spit none of it up — that was rare, Thumper knew that, most bitches couldn’t gag without spitting, but Hassle did. He kept that mouth open while Goober’s piss-slit dribbled jiss in.
With Hassle’s mouth still open, Goober grunted, and his whole body buckled. He jacked his dick like a hose, getting the last couple drops out, even as his shaft was already limpifying. He dropped his cocktip into the cummy soup in Hassle’s mouth. He was still wearing all his church clothes, his manhood coming out the fly, so he kept hisself leaning back to keep the dribbling cum off his smooth slacks.
Goober sneered and laughed. “Okay, you can swallow it,” he said.
With a painful-looking cringe, Hassle swallowed the cumload in his mouth, cradled his belly and waddled, pants around his ankles, to the toilet to spit up what remained in his mouth, finally using a wad of toilet paper he bin clutching to wipe his asshole off at the same time. Thumper’s cum still dripped down his legs into the cup of his briefs and denims, which was still around his ankle. He tried to speak but only gagged again. Thumper came up behind him and rubbed his limp, sensitive dick between Hassle’s buttcheeks, smearing all his assjuices right where he just wiped hisself clean. Hassle was spitting up into the toilet, so he ain’t stop Thumper at first, then he shoved him back and pulled his pants up.
With a stern, cum-dripping frown, he managed to choke out, “You two are done. You can get the fuck outta my cell.” He spat again, forceful enough to make jizz bubble out his butthole. “And bring me plenty of mashed taters with them hot apple pies.”

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

Thumper the Booty Bandit: Chapter Three

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

Thumper sat with an ice-pack on his face and puffed a fug. A short-mouth nigga named Cheeky done talk tall, and Thumper planked Cheeky out.
He sat in the parole office, looking across the clutter-top desk at Mr. Perry. Mr. Perry done give him the ice-pack for his swole upper lip. Thumper ain’t need the ice-pack, but he took it anyway. Cheeky was a softnutting nigga who threw fists with weak wrists, and he barely whiffed Thumper. Thumper weren’t shook up, but the beatdown got Mr. Perry eyeing him like a broke-down repair-kit.
“You can’t behave this way, Wendell,” Mr. Perry said. “You ain’t in the big house no more. Now, I don’t gotta tell the police, since you ain’t hurt that boy too bad. But you gonna have to find a new job. You got-“
Thumper scoffed. “That pissant Jerry fired me fo’ that? He buggin’.”
Mr. Perry frowned. “You’re not in prison anymore, Wendell. Out here, fighting is taken very seriously. Jerry is required to fire you for an act of workplace violence.”
Thumper crossed his arms over his chest. Did every nigga who throw fists get fired nowadays? Did they back then too and Thumper ain’t know it? He ain’t know if he was being a cast-iron nigga or if Mr. Perry was a pansyfied pussy.
Or maybe both was viable hypothotamuses.
Silence hung between them both. Thumper ain’t wanna sorry out. Mr. Perry was hankering for a teary apology, but Thumper ain’t got a lick of regret, and he weren’t gonna promise it won’t happen again. If some other short-mouth nigga notate improper observations, Thumper would gonna hafta deliver a fist-based correction. A nigga need a line that’s easy to cross, so every eyeball can see him enforce it.
The world outside was different than prison. Thumper knewed that, and he ain’t need Mr. Perry to point it out. A nut-tapping nobody like Cheeky out here ain’t the same as a no-good nowhom in prison. Inside, a thousand niggas like Cheeky be merking niggas like Thumper to carve out a name for theyself. But plentya them thousand was on that road crew too, witnessing Thumper either showing that prison ain’t weak him down or showing that it did.
So Thumper just crossed his arms over his chest and nodded for Mr. Perry to go on.
“Lotta guys want road-crew work, so I had to pull in favors to get you that job. You got something to say for yaself?”
Thumper licked his teeth. He shrugged. “A white lady on my phone screen said that roads was racist.”
“Fine, don’t take this seriously if you don’t want to. You got a week to find a new job,” Mr. Perry said with a snap-down. His plump nose wiggled. “Or you go back inside. That’s a condition of your parole, you have to be gainfully employed.”
Thumper stood and snorted. “Fine.” His giant dick bulged against the fabric of his workpants. He angled it to be less obvious. It was because he bin spying on a photograph of Mr. Perry’s wife on the shelf behind the desk. She was so-so beautiful, but she was moreso than Mr. Perry, and when Thumper’s eyes took her in, his pecker responded as peckers do.
“Stop. I didn’t say you could go,” Mr. Perry said. He sighed and rubbed his temples. He was a lipless roundbody workface chowder-white lump on a log with a bald head and weary eyes, and you could just tell his wife don’t put out no more. “You got a hardon, Wendell?”
“No.”
Mr. Perry shot him a disbelievous look and said, “You gotta get that took care of.” He sighed and stood. “Guess you don’t know where to go, huh? C’mon.”
Thumper followed him outta the office and into the parking lot. “I know how to jack my nut off, suh.”
Mr. Perry winced. “Don’t be crass. You thinkin’ wit’ ya dick, that’s the problem. Ya dick wanna punch a sucker for lookin’ at you. That ain’t ya brain thinkin’, it’s ya dick. You ain’t in prison, Wendell. Ya old patterns was a key that unlock a door you ain’t stuck behind any more. Now them same patterns lock the door instead.”
Thumper wanted to explain again, to make Mr. Perry understand. He ain’t just whale out on Cheeky for “lookin’ at him”. That’s how Jerry summed it up to Mr. Perry. But Cheeky bin sneaking disrespect and talking squirrelous shit about Thumper all morning. Then he started mean-mugging on the flagrant. He was escalating, and Thumper do be nipping escalations in the butt.
“Folks out here expect civilized behavior,” Mr. Perry said. He got behind the steering wheel of his splatter-paint truck and motioned for Thumper to get in. “I expect a big-time homeboy like you prolly need to get ya nut off e’ery morning. There’s ways. Ain’t expensive neither.”
“I can find a hoochie mama to ram, suh,” Thumper said.
“Don’t lemme hear that. That’s disrespectful to women,” Mr. Perry said. “Jesus don’t like hearin’ that kinda talk. You a Christian man, right?”
“Yessuh.”
“Then you best act like it. You got twenty bucks?”
“Yessuh,” Thumper said.
Mr. Perry said, “Give it to the man by the door. I’ll tell you when.”
He continued lecturing Thumper about proper Christian behavior and peppered him with questions about the church he went to — to verify that he was really going to the black church, Ebenezer Baptist. Mr. Perry knew Pastor Cherrymore there and said he was gonna check that Thumper bin attendatory.
They parked at a mechanic shop near a sprawling mess of a industrial area. A bus-repair yard lay in the back, and a hodgepodge of small factories and workshops sprawled around like free weights, separated by gravel parking lots and chain-link fences. They parked at the mechanic shop, but that wasn’t where they went.
Mr. Perry’s lumpy legs led Thumper to the back of the mechanic shop, where there was a high fence. On the other side was the parking area for the bus-repair workshop — it was chock-fulla buses, about half school buses, the others city buses and greyhounds.
But there was a strange little back area, behind the mechanic shop and afronta the fence. A small garage interrupted the fence, so it was accessible both on this side and in the bus-repair yard.

Thumper was confused. It was too tiny to be any kinda business, but there was a humpy-dumpty nigga with a ugly mug at the garage door like a bouncer. He ignored Mr. Perry and Thumper until they was right afront him.

“Twenty bucks,” said that broad-body nigga like he was already bored of this conversation. He glanced at Thumper but spoke to Mr. Perry.
Mr. Perry motioned for Thumper to hand the money over, and Mr. Perry did likewise. That ovaltine nigga took the money, unlocked the garage door and opened it to let them in.
It was a tiny garage lit up with one bare bulb. The whole space was barely big enough for a car. But there weren’t no mechanic’s tools or nothing in there. The far wall was covered in a sheet.
And there was a hole in it, couple feet high off the floor.
“This is called the gloryhole,” Mr. Perry said. “When you get a hardon, you come here. Real cheap way to get ya nut off. There’s a female purty as pink on the other side of the sheet.” He murmured into the cloth sheet. “How you doin’, baby?”
“She” ain’t say nothing, but Mr. Perry unzipped his fly and plugged his knob in the hole anyway. Then he sighed, and his knees went weak. You could tell from the look on his face when “she” put his honky whodinky in “her” mouth.
Thumper stayed disbelieving there was any female involved here, not for a second. They got gloryholes in prison. He knowed how it worked.
There was a man on the other side of that wall. Well, not a real man, but a punk anyway.
What Thumper ain’t get was how this more Christian than finding a slut to ram, but he ain’t wanna up Mr. Perry’s ire, so he just nodded along like a know-nothing nigga.
“Ah, shit, she got mouth like silk, Wendell,” Mr. Perry said. He be thrusting his hips now, making sweet love to that hole like it was the wife who got no affection for him no more.
Thumper ain’t wanna stick his dick in a hole in a sheet. The nigga on the outfront would know the real score, so Thumper swaggered towards the garage threshold. The dumptster-shape nigga at the door was tap-a-lapping at his phone screen like it was bothering him.
“Yo, nigga, can I go in the back and pop open that punk’s booty? I just got outta prison, and-“
“Extra thirty bucks. Don’t tell yo’ honky what you see back there. White folk isn’t allowed. Can’t handle it.”
Thumper whistled. “It cost fifty? Damn…” But he shrugged and passed it over. He ain’t got much to spend money on these days anyhow.
That was prolly a good price on the outside for plowing down a punk’s butthole. Thumper hoped it wasn’t some nasty-ass -crack-a-doodle.
When he got the money, the girthy nigga led Thumper in and to the sheet, next to which was a door. He unlocked it, and Thumper slipped in. He heard the plumpy nigga say to Mr. Perry, “Only black folk allowed in the back. She love black dick.”
Whatever Mr. Perry said, Thumper couldn’t hear it. He was viewing a slimfire nigga with a wild wiggle of hair sticking up. He got slick jittery legs, skittering eyes and drippy spittle. Sitting on the floor beside him was a crack pipe.
He got Mr. Perry’s fat honky dingaling resting on his tongue, spewing out slime. Thumper groaned at the sight of the trashy hole he just paid to ramrod. He came up close to that cracky-dappy nigga and spoke into the hole. “Mistuh Perry, suh, I’s in here to make love to this female. She a dime, she fine as a candy fox, ooh-wee, Mistuh Perry! She got me illin’ like a villain! And she got booty like you wouldn’t believe, suh.”
“Is she white?” Mr. Perry whispered like he got shame to ask.
“Hell yeah, she chowder-white, Mistuh Perry. Chunky clam,” Thumper said with a low whistle. He was gonna describe the ideal white man’s white woman, but all he recalled was the way white women was before — big hair and long skirts and headbands. What was white women even like nowadays, aside from phony-face phone freaks?
The punk looked up at Thumper and frowned. He shook his head, but then he shifted his ass towards Thumper. He dropped his basketball shorts, revealing boxers with the assflap torn out.
Thumper growled. That was one helluva signal. In prison, a tore-out assflap meant that booty was open for business. He was already hard in anticipation, rapidly forgetting his reluctance to plow up a hobo.
The gap-tooth crackhead winced when he saw Thumper’s big-league meat, but he ain’t resist. Thumper rammed his dick in that crackhead’s booty without no lube, no warning and no mercy.
“Ah, shit, nigga,” Thumper murmured softly. The one nice thing about a crackhead booty was that it was basically a toy. It ain’t like that boy Rico’s booty from a couple weeks ago — clean and tight, waiting for a nigga to open it up and howl wild as walnuts up his guts. A crackhead booty was loose and dry. You could add yo’ own spit — course you gotsta look at it to spit on it, and that ain’t never a pleasant sight — but you ain’t gotsta worry about ripping him open. This crackhead was well broke-in. He winced a little when Thumper slid in him, but then he ain’t move a muscle. Thumper ain’t gotsta think about him as a human at all, he just a toy, little better than them fleshlights the Latin Kings made on Cell Block G.
His butthole rubbed on Thumper’s shaft, and Thumper got in him so deep his balls slapped loudly on the crackhead’s taint. He got coarse knappy hairs running down his buttcrack and between his legs, and the hairs rubbed frictiony against Thumper’s manhood.
Thumper was watching real close as the crackhead slurped off Mr. Perry’s withery white knob. It was veiny and pale, throbbing. Thumper gripped it with one hand, stroking it past the crackhead’s lips.
Holding back a laugh so Mr. Perry wouldn’t hear, Thumper stroked it hard and strong. He got a pretty big dick for a cracker, but it was skinny like a stick of pepperoni. That nasty-knappy crackhead was trying-a avoid tasting it — he was just slobbering on the sides when Thumper got involved. Thumper ain’t let punks get away with that.
“Go deep on it, baby, swallow that-” Thumper said, interrupted by the crackhead gagging on Mr. Perry’s honky-donky-doodah ramming into his throat. His asshole was squeezing painfully on Thumper’s rod too, and the crackhead kept wriggling like a scribble, wincing like he wanna get up but that tub-of-ass nigga outside would mollywhomp him if he tried. Mr. Perry’s prejiss leaked onto Thumper’s hand, while Mr. Perry’s fat-honky huffling orgasm came through the sheet.
Mr. Perry blew a nut then, shooting jissom that flowed into the crackhead’s mouth. The crackhead winced like he ain’t expecting that — he normally pulled off so he ain’t gotsta take a mouthful of nut. Most it sprayed over his face mosta the time, which was why he got dry and wet cum dripping up and down his grizzled face and unshaved cheeks. But Thumper wanna watch his mouth fill with that spermy soup.
A whimpery gag escaped from his guts, as the crackhead tried to take his mouth off Mr. Perry’s rod. Thumper held him in place until the last second, while Mr. Perry moaned on the other side of the sheet. He shot one final wad that spurted onto both Thumper’s cheek and the crackhead’s face, and Thumper held back a baritone guffaw.
As the crackhead bucked, Thumper gripped him tight and threw his head back. He moaned and laughed at the crackhead’s shake, like a jittery version of that Sherry girl’s shimmying dance. His cock spewed that crackhead’s booty fulla creamy seed.
When it went into him, wave after wave of old-head nut, the crackhead simmered down and laid his head on the ground, his ass still up high and cringing. He closed his eyes. Jizz spurted into him, more and more seeping into his flesh. Lotta it dripped out his butt and pooled in the flatness of his battered buttcrack. He whimpered and eyed his crackpipe.
But Thumper ain’t let him grab it until he was done, until he done drain every drop of jism into that crackhead’s grimy guts. His rod popped outta the crackhead’s ropy ass, and cum dribbled into the dried-white crust in his crack. His knappy black hairs were both soaked with fresh stuff and coated in flakes of old nut.
Then he walked outta there, leaving the crackhead heaving for air and cradling his sore buttcheeks. Already the next customer was slipping his winky wiggleworm into the hole.
“You gonna love her lips, whiteboy,” Thumper said to the portly dirty-pearl college lug lining up at the sheet. He winked at him and patted him on the back. He nabbed the whiteboy’s wallet as his pants fell to his ankles, pulled a couple dollars outta it and then dropped the wallet back on the pants. Whiteboy focused on digging his nub into the gloryhole, so he ain’t notice his wallet in Thumper’s mitts. “She wanna drink yo’ pee too.” Thumper laughed and wished he could stay and watch that.
But Mr. Perry was already waiting at his crackerjack truck and poking at his phone like he was doing surgery on his only baby. Before Thumper got to the truck, he made sure his satisfied pecker was packed tight in his pants. He got in the truck, and Mr. Perry ain’t look up. Both them was silent, the only sound the universal rhythm of finger on phone.
“You feel better, Wendell?” Mr. Perry asked when he finally found a way outta his phone. He started the truck engine.
“Sho’ do, suh!” Thumper said like a shucksy nigga. “That lady fixed my boner just right. You got this nigga’s numbuh fo’ real!”

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