Once he was settled in there, Desmond realized he was allowed to “attempt at” anyone he wanted in the showers — that meant ramming your cock at their asshole. No fighting. They could move away or push you off, but there was no fighting in the shower. Not enough room. Punishment was harsh if they were caught fighting. It was easy to break the showerhead, in which case nobody would be able to shower for probably weeks, maybe months. So fighting was strictly forbidden, which meant Desmond was allowed to attempt any guy in there aside from Tyrell, Rashid and Omar. Mostly they all stayed clenched enough he couldn’t actually get in them, but it was fun to try and to cum on whoever happened to be standing nearby when he blew a nut.
Rashid was a roundbody darkskin bullethead nigga with dappy eyes, gappy teeth and a fatty neck, steady slapping his belly and laughing with machine gun lungs. He was always thick as a dick, lifting mad weights with the big boys, but he ain’t never work out in a organized way. He ain’t never do no cardio, so he got that stout-nigga booty, and his belly ain’t never go away. Rashid sat at the bar, nursing a whiskey and a phone, after his niggas was gone. Lipsweet emptied into quietude, and the only sound in Thumper’s ear was the smell of hungry pussy. Rashid be staring at them remnant females on his lonesome but ain’t none them give Rashid no mind. He only got a lapdance earlier when his niggas paid for it — he was a ghetto-nigga’s nigga, and them strippers and whores could smell his dollar-poor dick. They stayed away. That was prison life sticking to him, Thumper reckoned. A free man can splurge on urges. A prison nigga hoards like a stingy dragon. He got prison-brain. He stuck in that cell, nigga, he be getting violent at the drop of a hat, talk too rough for the girls, even the ghetto bitches. That dancer Ebonette say he lick pussy like it was a lollipop that slapped his mama. That nigga was thick and soft like a mushy pillow, and he smelled like a crowded barbershop.
Rashid was a top-heavy nigga, squishy and dense like overstuffed pillows. Rashid was one them niggas who get chunky in prison — he ain’t got the will to work out on the regular or to stop scarfing down commissary honey buns. He do buy what the candy folk sell him on. Now that he was out though, he be dropping his donuts on calorie-free blunts and nibble-size sluts. Tale as old as time. Even slimmed down, he was still thick as alfredo though, and you know Thumper love a high-carb booty. He was mad on a reluctant front, all lifting hisself up and sucking on his teeth like he was too good to let a old head knock on his backdoor. He weren’t too good for nothing though, and under his gotta-fight shell, Rashid was cool as hot oatmeal.
Rashid was a thick-ass Blood, one of those guys who walked around prison without a shirt all the time like he wanted to show off his six-pack even though he wasn’t even close to having a six-pack. He had a small belly but a powerful chest, and he worked out with the “big men” — the muscle; enforcers for the gang — despite not being as strong as one. He had a loud mouth too and a big wide face like a football linebacker, not that he was ever coordinated enough to actually play football.
Doing decades inside for a gang gave Thumper lotta respect. He ain’t know none the niggas in the Baltimore Bloods these days. But Carson set Thumper up and kept him happy. Every single nigga in the organization was watching close. They all knew there was a good chance they’d be locked up at some point. Nobody wanna rely on they parole officer when they graduate outta the iron college. So Carson set Thumper up with employ as a bouncer at that strip club, Lipsweet. But Thumper ain’t allowed to work there cuz the club got a liquor license — the terms of his parole forbidded him to work anywhere they serve booze — so Carson arranged for Thumper to hire on at a private security agency. It was owned by Mr. Gregarian, the same man who own Lipsweet, so he was working at Lipsweet but for a different company, a company that ain’t got no liquor license. Thumper was glad to work a proper job. That road-crew nonsense trifled more than a overflown tub of nobody’s farts, and Thumper bin looking forward to something more his style. “You gotsta wear a clean shirt and pants e’ry day,” said Tyrell Brickley. He was another thick-through Blood who worked for Mr. Gregarian, and he showed Thumper the ropes around the club. “Mistuh Gregarian get a mad curl if you show up lookin’ trashy. He want you wearing clean shoes too. No boots, no sneakers. Jeans is okay. But don’t sag ’em too deep, if he see drawers he get steamy, and he do monologue about it.” Thumper nodded. He could do that. He done rub noses with Mr. Gregarian decades ago, when Thumper was a regular at Lipsweet. Thumper got respect for him. Mr. Gregarian was a long-finger pinkie-ring honky, not some slop-pie hickpile like most the white whombodies Thumper met in lockup. The bar was smoky and lush tonight. Bundles of blunted niggas mumbled luscious words on the underhush as womens juggled they abundant stuff on the stage. Thumper wanna watch too, but he gotsta man the front door, collecting cover charges and checking IDs. He couldn’t catch more than a glimpse of girlbits now and then. He was hoping to peep that Sherry girl again, but she weren’t dancing tonight. Midway through the evening, he got to crack slaps at a couple skulls, after some suited honkies stayed groping upon one of the females. That felt damn good. Thumper ain’t never get to punch a white man in a suit. He could get used to that. “You done good, you knocked them fellahs out cold,” Tyrell said when Thumper got back to the door. “Mistuh Gregarian know lotta cops. If a fellah need a punch, don’t worry, Mistuh Gregarian won’t let’chu get in no kinda trouble for it. He can make shit like that go away, so long as you keep the peace in his club right.” He paused. “And wear clean shoes. He real particular about shoes.” Thumper nodded. “Is my clothes okay, nigga? I know it’s old-fashion. I don’t own lotta options.” Thumper kept it to hisself that he ain’t know how to buy clothes no more. He ain’t find nothing in Baltimore that he considered a normal men’s clothes store. If he asked, Carson would tell him to google it. He did google it, and the only stores he could hoof it to was a place just for tee shirts with dirty jokes on ’em, a “antifascist surf and skater joint” and a store that sold nurses’ scrubs to plus-size ladies. He ended up in a thrift shop buying the kinda clothes he wore before, which was then retro but now was fossils. He might as well wear a dinosaur. Where did a normal nigga buy new rags nowadays? Tyrell waved him off. “Mistuh Gregarian is old-fashioned. I bet he likes yo’ clothes,” he said. “He prolly say you dress classy.” Once Thumper washed the blood off his knuckles in the sink behind the bar, Tyrell bade him back to the door. A line done develop as the nocturne progressed. Couple crackers scattered in alongside some Lay-Oceans and ashamey Arabs, but most the Lipsweet-goers was niggas, who sneaked looks through the doorway even before they paid they cover charge. But mostly all them leery lusters in line stayed nose-deep in they phones. One those sneaky-peekers caught Thumper’s eye. Rashid Somebutt. He couldn’t remember his last name, but he was Rashid. He was in prison, in 19C with Thumper, weren’t he? He was a roundbody darkskin bullethead nigga with dappy eyes, gappy teeth and a fatty neck, steady slapping his belly and laughing with machine gun lungs. But Rashid Somebutt ain’t notice Thumper, or if he did, he hid it good. He was drunk in line, wobbling his thicknesses like jello, talking with volume, deep on the slur. So maybe he really ain’t recognize Thumper. On the other hand, Thumper only bin out a couple months. He ain’t look no different. Rashid Somebutt looked the same too. He was always thick as a dick, lifting mad weights with the big boys, but he ain’t never work out in a organized way. He ain’t never do no cardio, so he got that stout-nigga booty, and his belly ain’t never go away. Rashid sat at the bar, nursing a whiskey and a phone, after his niggas was gone. Lipsweet emptied into quietude, and the only sound in Thumper’s ear was the smell of hungry pussy. Rashid be staring at them remnant females on his lonesome but ain’t none them give Rashid no mind. He only got a lapdance earlier when his niggas paid for it — he was a ghetto-nigga’s nigga, and them strippers and whores could smell his dollar-poor dick. They stayed away. That was prison life sticking to him, Thumper reckoned. A free man can splurge on urges. A prison nigga hoards like a stingy dragon. “Yo, how was yo’ first night?” Tyrell Brickley asked when the bar was damn near dead, just a few minutes before close. They weren’t to let no one else in this late, so Thumper was done doormanning. They was giving the drunks and solos time to down they dregs — Teddy the bartender done last-call a minute ago. Thumper nodded. “Fine,” he said. He motioned to Rashid. “You recollect that nigga?” “Rashid Jenkins? Yeah, he was in 19C wit’ us,” Tyrell said. Thumper licked his teeth. “Hell yeah. I knew it was him. Rashid Jenkins! Couldn’t remembuh his name,” he said. He kept his salty eye on Rashid. “He come here a lot?” Tyrell shrugged. “Yeah, think so. He got prison-brain. He stuck in that cell, nigga, he be getting violent at the drop of a hat, talk too rough for the girls, even the ghetto bitches. That dancer Ebonette say he lick pussy like it was a lollipop that slapped his mama.” Tyrell laughed as he went to assist some drunken lugnuts in wobbling out the door. But Thumper’s brain wrinkled on Rashid, parked at the bar, a-poking at his phone like a lazy baby. Frowning his brown, Rashid phoned down and stood up to peace out, only to see he got no niggas about. “Yo, Rashid?” Thumper said, coming up close as clothes to that jiggity nigga’s crunk mug. He squinted at Thumper like he was far away. “Thumper?” His hips swayed, but he kept his head still. “Hell yeah, nigga!” Thumper said. He patted hisself on the chest and beamed brightly. “Rashid, you son of a bitch, c’m’ere, homeskillet!” He hugged Rashid tight. That nigga was thick and soft like a mushy pillow, and he smelled like a crowded barbershop. That reminded Thumper why Rashid stuck to his mind as fresh as yesterday’s tossed salad. For most his prison sentence, Rashid owed the Bloods big blocks of cheddar. Rashid ain’t never was good at resisting drink, smokes, and dice, and he stay mad underwriting checks his cabbage couldn’t cash — he owed dollars with a profusion. And in prison, there’s rules about that shit. If a nigga owe money, any other nigga is allowed to repay a part of that debt, and that nigga who owe gotsta do what that other nigga say. There was a mountain of rules about what was permissible. Ain’t none those rules suggest they stop applying when that nigga get outta prison. “C’mon, lemme show you this female in the back. She a real eager skeezer, no diggity,” Thumper said. He motioned for Rashid to follow him into the back, and then he headed back there without waiting to see if Rashid would follow. Thumper was glad to get away from the music, which was a threesome of sedated white girl rapping like dreary puppies. “Hell yeah,” Rashid said. “My friends all went home with that bitch Caitlin Smiles. She be chargin’ per head though, and I can’t afford even a handjob from her. Bitches be trippin’.” He followed Thumper into the back hallway and then into a tiny office. Rashid faced the desk, but Thumper stayed behind him to shut the door. Then Thumper grabbed Rashid’s pants and boxers and pulled them down before Rashid could respond. Then all that came out was a discomfitted grunt. He ain’t try to pull away from Thumper. His thick brown asscheeks was bare and soft, and Thumper groaned with desire. His thick fingers gripped Rashid’s buttcrack beneath his pants and drawers. He got one thick booty, enough to make Thumper whistle and smile. “Nah, no nigga, nah, nah, I ain’t locked up no more,” Rashid said. He moved away, towards the desk in the office, but Thumper followed and pushed him over the desktop. That swole booty aimed up, and Thumper bared it thoroughly. He kneaded the flesh of both buttcheeks. “Hmm-hmm, hush up. I’s allowed in you still. Ain’t I pay for booty buncha times on the upfront and you still owe me one?” “No! I done all that! I gave it up e’ry time you paid for, nigga!” Rashid said, squealing like a sweetened seal. “You on that booty bandit trip! We ain’t inside no mo’.” He turned around, but Thumper forcefully shoved him to face the back of the office. Rashid weren’t a weak man, but he ain’t work out on the reg like Thumper neither. Thumper was a semi-pro boxer before his arrest, and though his body got older, it ain’t get a lick weaker. And Rashid got his pants around his ankles, his flop-a-doodah flipping this way and that, so he ain’t got leverage to pull away.
In seconds, Thumper pulled his pud out too, and he be jabbing it into Rashid’s thigh and buttcheek. His skin was hot and soft, and it got Thumper’s limpen meat throbbing. Thumper kept on the stroke to get it hard, but he ain’t stop ramming it.
“Nah, Thump, you can’t-” Rashid tried to shove him off, but all he could do was shuffle forward with his pants around his ankles. There was a wall afront him. He bent his knees to lean over and pull his pants up. “Sssssh…” Thumper grunted and pistoned his hips. His dick rammed into Rashid’s asshole. In most men, Rashid’s clenching woulda kept Thumper from penetrating him. But Rashid done took it up the butt enough that Thumper could push the tip in. He was just barely firm enough to do that. Rashid gritted his teeth. “Ow, shit, nigga-“ “I’ll lube it up,” Thumper said. “If you co’op’rate, nigga.” He ain’t stop drilling it in, pushing Rashid head-first onto the desk. Rashid almost fell. He got a good inch and a half in before the pressure from Rashid’s sphincter, as he tried to repel Thumper’s cocktip, was enough to give him a full-on erection. “Ow, nigga, Thumper!” Rashid gritted his teeth. Thumper’s rod was stiff as sticks now, and it rubbed in harshly. “Fine, shit!” “You co’op’ratin’?” Thumper asked. He stopped thundering his shaft in, but he kept swaying it left and right, just teasing Rashid. He ain’t take none of it out neither. Just an inch or two was in his guts, but that was enough for Rashid to grimace and nod. “Yeah, nigga, I’ll — shit!” Rashid grunted. “Shit, Thump, c’mon, nigga!” The office was Haykh Gregarian’s — Mr. Gregarian’s son — who pimped the bitches out here, so Thumper was sure he had some lube in the desk. Sure enough, there was a big tub of some fancy-looking lube with French on the label. He smeared a fistful on his cock without taking it outta Rashid’s booty, then worked it into the hole by oozing his dick back and forth. He almost lost his hardon as he went, but then the lube got warm and made his ramrod easy to slip in deeper. Finally Rashid just gripped the desk, bent his knees a little and let Thumper at it. He’d learned it was best not to fight it. “C’mon, nigga, make some them noises, you was good at that,” Thumper said. “Nuh-uh-“ “Yeah, like moanin’ like a female. Don’t grunt like that, it’s nasty-“ “Wasn’t me! Shit, nigga!” Rashid gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. His hands snaked to his buttcheeks to spread ’em. He kept grunting and seething with each thrust of Thumper’s cock into him. “You thinkin’ of Banter.” “What? Who?” Thumper stopped moving and cocked his head to the side. “Banter. Remembuh that nigga Banter? Short skinny slimfire, he moaned like-“ “Aaaaaah, shit yeah, got you and him mixed up,” Thumper said. He laughed and rubbed Rashid’s back. “Still, don’t grunt like you takin’ a nasty dump. Make some sounds like a girl.” Thumper moaned like a female then, still laughing, as he resumed humping his cock in and out of Rashid’s ass. Ain’t no feminine sound come outta Rashid, who did try — he got a much deeper voice than Banter. Rashid’s attempt at a feminine moan sounded more like a dying loudspeaker than anything else, but it was better than his dirty-dump grunting. It was enough to get Thumper good and hard, sending shivers of pleasure through Thumper’s body. The muscles of Rashid’s backside clenched hard. Thumper groaned and leaned on Rashid’s shoulders, pinning him onto the desk. “Shit, nigga, you feel better ‘an I remembuh…” Thumper rammed at his asshole until it was fulla his dick, and he plowed him hard, making Rashid’s whole thickness jiggle and press against the desk. Haykh Gregarian’s papers was scattered all over, prolly soaked in Rashid’s painsweats now. Hopefully Haykh would think a dancer brung a john in here. “Here I go, nigga, just like old times,” Thumper said, lowering his head to whisper into Rashid’s ear. “Love you…” Cum spurted into him, a tight little load at first, then a big thick creamy one. Then more jissom flowed into Rashid’s guts. He hated this part. Rashid closed his eyes and tried not to think about the cum filling him up. It was hot and gooey, and some leaked out and ran down his thighs. He wished he done sprung for a handjob from Caitlin. But it was too late now. Just when he thought it was over, another multi-second long flow of jiss seeped into him, then another, and Thumper moaned like he was truly in love. Rashid cringed. He kept his teeth and his legs clenched the best he could, until at last Thumper’s cock softened inside him. Thumper pulled it out with a moist splattering sound. “Goddamn, fuck, nigga, c’mon…!” Rashid sputtered. “Shit!” “Hell yeah, nigga,” Thumper said. He smacked the sweat off his chest, then pinched Rashid’s plump asscheek. “I bet Caitlin Smiles don’t give it up that good.”
Thumper recognized the humpty-dumpty nigga who came into Lipsweet late on Thursday night. It was only a half-hour till close. The sky done gone dark like it might rain, but it never did. The stars hid like shy cockroaches. “Yo, Thumper? That you?! Aw, hell!” said that nod-happy nigga who approached the door. His name was Rashid Jenkins. He was cold-shouldering the couple niggas he lined up with, and he gave Thumper a pip and a dap when they gazes met. “Oh, shit nigga!” Thumper’s eyes opened wide, as him and Rashid hugged it out. Thumper stacked lips at them other niggas waiting in line. Back inside, couple years ago, him and Rashid was in the same cell for awhile. Rashid was a top-heavy nigga, squishy and dense like overstuffed pillows. Thumper ain’t see him in years, and he recollected hard with his arms around Rashid. His fingers gripped that nigga’s thickness. “Goddamn, I ain’t know you was still kickin’ around Bangor. What’choo bin up to, Rashid?” Rashid scoffed and sucked on his teeth. “J’st keepin’ it real, holdin’ it down, Thumper. You know how a nigga do.” He sucked on his teeth again. “That’s all. You ain’t go back to Baltimore?” Thumper shook his head. “Parole officer won’t lemme leave the state.” A harsh air spilled between Rashid and his niggas, plus the dozen or so lippy whiteboys and one Asian impatient-waiting in line behind Rashid. They all finna see some dancers in the club, and they dim-eyed Rashid and Thumper chopping it up. They mumbled on the underhush that Rashid shouldn’t be slowing the line down and that Thumper was a doddery old nigga who dresses like a fossil. Thumper woulda told them to spit and sit, and he’da flurried up a couplea fisty cuffs if they ain’t show the proper respect with a quickness. If Thumper was in prison still and some young cats fussed at him to hurry, he’d correct them kittens sans mercy. Sans mercy as hell. But the owner Mr. Gregarian was in the club tonight. He was at the bar drinking something tasteful and tasteless. He want Thumper to behave, and Thumper gotta do what he say. So Thumper gave Rashid a hug and a shrug and said he’d talk to him later. Rashid got entranced by a tangerine-cream bitch with tits like sharks. He floated after her like a tasty surfer, and Thumper proceeded to check the idees of them dour niggas, whiteboys and that one sunnyskin in line. When the tide of hungry horndogs dwindled well into the early morn, Thumper took a break and let Davon watch the door, while he rushed off to piss. He went up to the floor his apartment was on though, rather than use the club’s bathroom. He was self-conscious of how long it took to get a flow going. The prison doctor said he got that old-nigga bladder. His “bladder neck” be bugging. He don’t want Davon to know it took him awhile. But he ain’t dawdle in the bathroom. He wanna get back down there so Davon don’t fuss. Thumper ain’t trust hisself to react like a outside nigga if that young-body pretty-face jive-white smile-hard nigga Davon tried to correct him. Davon wore a lor band-aid on his cheekbones. Nigga musta got a rainbow of band-aids cuz he steady wore one to match the drawers he displayed under his sagging jeans — Mr. Gregarian was mad on the “trousers” trip and curled his lip at sagging, but Davon could smile through any of Mr. Gregarian’s tut-tuts. So Davon rumped pink drawers tonight and a pink band-aid to match. Thumper ain’t even got the words to call that out. When his old-nigga bladder done empty, Thumper hustled to the stairwell. A glossy piece of paper was on the floor on the stairs. It caught Thumper’s eye cuz it couldn’t-a been there when he went up the stairs. He woulda noticed it for sure. He prolly woulda done slip on it. He picked it up. It was a playbill for a show called “The Invocation”, and the picture on it featured a familiar woman wearing a barn owl mask. It was that woman, Delsinerr. That woman he dreamed of, with the dress of screams and beaming tresses of horrid hair. He was gonna recognize her forever.
He ain’t know how long he stood there, eyes agogging that playbill. He was roused only when he heard some hubbubery in Lipsweet. He hustled hisself down and stalked into the backa the bar. He hushed up a heap of honkies, and he made sure to do it loud so Davon would hear. That way it looked like he be working, not shirking.
But before Thumper made it back to the front door, a storm of shouting kicked up. Couple clumps of niggas was standing off at each other, and Rashid was involved. Rashid done step to some slimfire kitkat, and both him and he got posses at they back. Both niggas and both they posses was fronting and saying all the shit niggas and they posses do say. “Fuck this shit, nigguh!” “You wanna step?” “Come at me then-“ “Shit, nigga, I will end you-“ “Fuck that, fuck — fuck — fuck this shit, nigga-“ “I’ll go backta prison, I don’t care-“ “Who the bitch now?!” Classic nigga shit. Ain’t even much point in saying it out loud. Might as well skip straight to holding a gun sideways and firing into a crowd. Thumper was glad he was a nigga with class. If everybody knows your lines, you might as well leave ’em unsaid. “C’mon at me, nigguh!” “Step to me then!” “You best come correct-!” Thumper put the fight down before it began. He slipped between them chin-to-chin niggas, finna slap the belligerence off they faces. “Simmuh down, you two-“ Before Thumper could finish, Rashid threw a fist at the slimfire kitkat, knocking him down like a disrespectful domino. Gravity hit him hard too, and the kitkat staggered around on the floor doing his best impression of a spreading piss-stain. “Settle yaselfs, niggas, why you gotta act like that?!” Davon said, smiling handsomely into the club, laughing all along like he was a joke-a-day nigga and ain’t nothing in the world really matter. He ain’t risk his precious mug by getting between Rashid and the kitkat though. “You can’t be like that,” Thumper said, pulling Rashid away with his shankin’ hands on Rashid’s jelly. Rashid do be like that though, always was. Thumper hugged Rashid close and talked straight into his ear. Rashid stiffed up like he ain’t notice Thumper, but he ain’t fight against him neither. He kept eye contact with that slimfire nigga and his posse until Thumper had him out the backdoor and into the corridor behind the club proper. “Nigga, slow yo’ roll!” He pulled down Rashid’s pants and drawers in one quick motion. Rashid got a big pair of juicy brown orbs. Thumper recollected slamming into them on the regular while inside — Rashid got self-control troubles, and he put hisself in big-time debt throwing dice, drinking hooch and smoking cigarettes he couldn’t afford. Thumper ain’t mind forgiving that debt in exchange for breaking a nut off. “Ah, shit, Thump, you into that booty bandit trip, we ain’t inside no mo’. E’rrybody alway knew you was gonna stay a ramrod, old head. That ain’t how a modern nigga act-“ “Shut up, nigga,” Thumper said. His hands ran up Rashid’s back and front, underneath his shirt. Rashid was one them niggas who get chunky in prison — he ain’t got the will to work out on the regular or to stop scarfing down commissary honey buns. He do buy what the candy folk sell him on. Now that he was out though, he be dropping his dollars on calorie-free blunts and nibble-size sluts. Tale as old as time. Even slimmed down, he was still thick as alfredo though, and you know Thumper love a high-carb booty. Now that they stood in the cool and the still of the corridor, Rashid stayed calm. He was mad on a reluctant front, all lifting hisself up and sucking on his teeth like he was too good to let a old head knock on his backdoor. He weren’t too good for nothing though, and under his gotta-fight shell, Rashid was cool as hot oatmeal. “Shit, Thump, shit…” “Why you gotta go after that slimfire nigga in there?” Thumper asked with a cluck of his tongue. “Mistuh Gregarian curl lip at niggas who start fights. City council expect him to keep peace.” He scoffed. “Mistuh Gregarian — that that cracker who own this place? He a damn fool, Thump, he was steppin’ to me couple weeks back. I was ’bout to lay him out like Thanksgiving dinner, somebody gotta do it, shit…” “You bettuh not, nigga. He keep it real,” Thumper said. “He will dig you a very shallow hole to lay down in, and he won’t think twice about it. Might make me dig it, and I dunno if my back can take that, nigga.” Thumper weren’t sure how much he was exaggerating that honky’s proclivities, but he ain’t want Rashid testing his ire. Mr. Gregarian got a gangster in his mind to live up to, and he seen some violent gangster movies. “Don’t go ruckusin’ in his club.” “Aw, shit, Thump, shit…” Rashid bristled, as Thumper’s hands spread his buttcheeks. Thumper kissed his meaty shoulders too, over the shirt and then under it when he took Rashid’s shirt off. Rashid stood there with a glumness, pants around his ankles, his jelly browns jiggling beneath Thumper’s firm fingers. “You ain’t in prison no mo’, you can’t be actin’ like a cast-iron nigga,” Thumper said. “How long you been out?” “Like six months,” Rashid said. His head hung weary on them shoulders. Rashid stay submitory when he got to. He know how to say ‘yes, nigga’ when the proper kind of nigga was behind him. “You havin’ trouble cividatin’?” Rashid shrugged. “Don’t go up my backdoor, Thumper. Be cool,” he said. “C’mon, nigga. You can just stick it ‘tween my thighs. Do that, feels damn good. That’s what-“ Thumper chuckled. “Nah, nah, nigga. I’ll use buncha spit. You know I got good spit. Know that!” He spat on the palm of his hand, then resumed stroking hisself off. One finger on his other hand jammed into Rashid’s asshole. “You done tighten, nigga. I like that.” “Ain’t nobody do that booty bandit shit on the outside, Thumper,” Rashid said. “You on the ramrod trip, that’s whack, that’s crackerjack-“, then he sucked his breath in as he felt Thumper’s knob touch his asshole. Rashid bent forward and leaned against the wall. Thumper rammed his cock into that paira roundnesses behind Rashid. His buttcheeks dimpled bright despite the dim light of the back hall. Rashid threw his head back and looked this way and that, his hands fluttering fast behind hisself. Rashid winced and grimaced, but he ain’t struggle. Even when Thumper’s cock slipped outta Rashid’s hole, he ain’t try to get away. He let Thumper jam it right back in. “Sssh, take yo’ dickload, nigga,” Thumper said. “Don’t play wit’ me.” He pushed it in deeper, and Rashid’s butthole spread open like a wedding invitation. It sucked Thumper’s shaft right back in, like his booty and Thumper’s manhood was best friends. “Ow, shit, Thump, c’mon, go gentle…” Rashid gulped. “Relax, I’mma nut real quick, relax, nigga.” Thumper clucked his tongue and plowed hard. His orgasm was coming on swift — something about the smell of Rashid’s backsweat gave him fond memories of prison, and it got his motor going good, like Thumper made a turn and was now driving on a road he recognized. Rashid was a well-trodded road, with little resistance left in his butthole, so Thumper could drive in and out with powerful thrusts. “Aaah, shit, see, already done…” A fat load of cum sprayed into Rashid’s booty. He hung his head low but took every bit, wincing only when Thumper rammed his meat in deep. A long hot flow of jizz filled Rashid up, while Thumper’s moans echoed in his ear. “C’mon, Thump…” Rashid muttered. He leaned his face against the wall. He shuddered and shimmied like a shameful snake. When Thumper was done, he ain’t pull out right away. He let his wang marinate in the warmth of Rashid’s guts. His breath condensed on the backa Rashid’s neck. Finally, his dick plopped out like a greasy sausage. Thumper swang it between his legs and rubbed the goo off in Rashid’s buttcrack. The last couple drops of cum dripped there between his cheeks. “Hmm, lemme see ya gape, nigga,” Thumper murmured. Rashid’s asshole did gape, whether that was cuz Thumper told him to or if it just happened, Thumper ain’t know. It was a satisfying sight regardless. When Rashid pulled his jeans up, Thumper was still playing with them buttcheeks. Then he wiped his dick off with paper towels from the janitor’s closet, and they both went back out to the club. Davon was shooing niggas out the door, so Rashid went out to the parking lot too. Thumper helped Teddy shut down the bar and watched Davon get in one the dancer’s cars, then Thumper went up to his apartment on the second floor. He got a shower and a snack. Thumper microwaved a brick of frozen broccoli and cheese, cuz he was pretending to like broccoli, cuz the world was like that these days, cuz Obama ain’t do nothing! Then he laid his weary head down on his bed. Moonlight shined through the window, and Thumper was glad to bask in the nighttime’s rays without trying to slumber.
The door to his apartment opened with a slow creak, and Thumper rose to stand upon his old feet. He wanna take a shank and shiv whichever nitwit just did strid into his crib unbid.
But no more sound was to be found, and Thumper done dumbfound, dumb as a mute tongue or a brainless hound in a pound of sin. With thin skin, his breath sucked in and ceaselessly spinned, cuz the air did unfold, as dead and cold as a mortician’s walk-in. That Bitch in White Delsinerr, it must be, cuz of the grim air and his mind behampering, she do be doing that to a nigga. His pot of cheese got the unfriendly gollygees. “I wholeheartedly offer the sincerest of apologies, Mister White,” she said at her best, looking unlined in a new right-fright dress. She took Thumper’s find, the glossy flier, from his pants pocket. Her dashing socket then faced his dismay like a twist of fate. “This got mislaid, I’m afraid.” Her words clotted and clogged her wave, hobbling wakes and gobbling up meaning. Thumper nodded, agoggling at that fiend steaming, his noggin beboggling by notions dropped in, misbegotten, stuck in a war he forgot to have foughten in. Layers of bog, his thoughts was tucked in, like befuddled puddles fog goggles — shit! — he was too rotten-hot fried to toggle his hide-or-fight side or even to think and blink when she pried and whitened his wrinkles, too lightened to abide. She did ride astride his brain a-sprinkling pain, and she tightened her ugly head. “You ain’t frightened of me,” she said. Thumper again slightened a nod. “I… I… can’t think when you’s around.” “My words finely decline, making humankind ruint like by fumes, by the tombs of time, by the climb of crime, by a broken rhyme, by plumes of foul weather. Y’all’s cries is all mine.” The gray owl feathers that lined her scowl splayed out like a rainspout, as she peered fears and doubt into him deep as a well. “I hope to see you in hell when you die. Or before, for I like a bride will wait forevermore in store.” “Why do you talk like that?” he asked like a unironed sheet. “I don’t speak,” she spoke like a freak. Her mask’s beetley bug scuttled sleek as a sulfury lugnut in the sea of time. “I hammer seeds into yo’ mind. The grammar is your’n that you cling to like a daft raft in a slammer of slime.” The leathery feathers of her mask then did retract, unfit, and drift together into a rift. “I wish to give you a gift, He Who Thumps, a token of hope unsunk.” Thumper was stumped as oaks. What kinda gift would a goat like this rhyme a nigga like him? “The gift I chime is time. You had thirty-four years to deplore, but now, with the price of gore, you can go back to before. Be a young nigga again,” she said, her words singing bigger than laws or figures. A long pause came up like the claws of riffing wiggers rilling open flaws upon prison lawns. Thumper narrowed his paws and stiffened ’em into fists like kisses by his side. “What?” Looking snide, she unsheathed mist for miles beneath that mask of denial. “Just a fact to flout and file, Mister White. I do offer to undo yo’ last bout in style. You can tout thirty-four vile years of bother and clout. Fear not a rout.” She slipped out like a fatherless shout, leaving Thumper aloner than ever to ramble and pout and fail at draining the heeby-jeebies all the way out.
